Last year, as per usual, the Brighton Festival kicked off with the Children’s Parade.

(If you don’t know it, all the schools in the ‘City by the Sea’ march through town in themed costumes, with ‘big makes’ made from willow and paper coated in PVA, ending up on the beach. It’s well worth a watch, especially with a street-side seat and a decent cup of coffee from, say, the Komedia coffee bar.)

I didn’t see it. Because Clare came up with the theme (which meant the daughter’s school was at the front), ran the school’s show (often cajoling unenthusiastic parents to DO SOMETHING), and volunteered me to carry the big make, even though the other three dads were about a foot taller than me:

This year, our new village also had a children’s parade.

With not one…

Or two…

But three big makes.

A marching band.

An enraptured crowd.

Even a dragon fight.

After which, inexplicably, the dragon burst into flames.

It all ended in a melee near the food table. Much like the many Friday evenings of enthusiastic parental participation in the months leading up to it.