SpongeBob and Patrick hugging on a calf

The big top came down on Tuesday, and I am writing from the back of the lorry where I have been sleeping since the bank took the tent poles. Mr Pemberton still insists the show goes on, so every evening we set up the two costumes in the car park behind the Co-op in Scarborough and do the act for whoever wanders over with a chip. Last night it was a yellow sponge in square trousers and a starfish in a pink hat that never quite sits right, and the pair of them did the old routine with the bubbles.

You remember the bubble machine. It died in June, so Eddie fills the cups with washing-up liquid and a straw, and the teal ones drift off over the bins while the children chase them. The best bit is the finale, when the sponge turns his back to the crowd and the starfish wraps both arms round his middle, and they stand there on the sand-sack seabed without saying a word. Nobody claps for the first ten seconds. Then somebody always does, usually a man with a pushchair.

Last night a girl of about nine asked why they were hugging, and Eddie, who has never once in his life answered a question straight, said it was because the tide was coming in and they had agreed to stay put together. She nodded as though that was a perfectly sensible plan. I cried in the wagon afterwards, which is hardly news.

Anyway, the pier want us back in August if we can stretch the act to a ten-minute slot. Write soon. Tell Dad his tent is still in the loft.

Love, Bev