As a child, I’d drag my feet to my paternal grandmother’s house. For one, she was a fierce woman, so there were no two ways about things. She also spoke loudly, which distressed me. And because I wasn’t allowed to switch the TV channel, the only way I could busy my restless self was by playing with a collection of props from her past as an acrobat. They weren’t particularly interesting to an eight-year-old; there are, after all, only so many ways to fiddle with an orange paper umbrella or metal rings.
But what was uninspiring to me used to be entertaining to many: There was a time when these kaleidoscopic tools were what people trained their eyes on before the introduction of the TV. I’d always known that my grandparents were circus stars back in their heyday, but it didn’t fascinate me too much because it was so often talked about within the family; so normalised.
The novelty only
