Run: 2026-03-09-01KK9QJNWN2XE19HCX54AHMMGE

“Children’s parties,” said Molly, “are basically tiny banks with frosting.” “Banks don’t sing at you,” Bill said. “Exactly why nobody suspects a robbery.” “We’re robbing seven-year-olds, Mol.” “We’re liberating unappreciated plastic from sticky custody.” “Sticky custody is still custody.” “Listen. Balloon arch at the front, magician in the garden, sugar crash by three. We go in as face painters, sweep the gift table, and vanish before the clown starts making poodles.” “I hate clowns. They fold judgment into balloons.” “Focus. You distract the mums with your tragic moustache.” “It’s not tragic; it’s continental.” “It’s trembling.” “That’s strategy. It says, ‘Trust me, I know glitter.’” Bill adjusted his clip-on bow tie. “What about the children?” he asked. “Easy. Promise temporary tattoos. Nothing clears a room faster than a paper tiger and parental regret.” “And the presents?” “Into the pram.” “The giant pink pram?” “No one searches a giant pink pram, Bill. That’s law.” “What if the birthday boy notices?” “Then we hand him a kazoo and point at the cake.” “You’ve done this before.” “Professionally? Never. Socially? Twice.” “That explains the confetti in your shoes.” “Also,” said Molly, “if things go wrong, cry and say you’re the magician’s accountants. From Belgium.”