The sight of the big top reminds me of that day when Dad took my cousin Susie and me to the circus. We buzzed with excitement as we climbed into our seats in the front row.
Dad had bought us each a bag of crisps. Susie finished hers in five minutes, I treasured mine, eating a few crisps in between acts. Despite clutching the bag as if it contained jewels, I couldn’t hold on to it when an elephant grabbed it.
That’s how I came to hate the circus. I think.
Where do the boundaries lie between memory and fiction?