And then began the torturous misanthropy of the middle years when I saw every living thing as some kind of hollow trick with nothing but a yabble and a matzo ball for a soul. Each night I walked the canal in search of that man with the powders who, for a nominal fee, would free me for just two candy floss minutes, while the girls in the panto rang the old man's bell as the flecked coats in the abattoir scorched hair off swine.