Run: 2026-07-25-01KYCPVHVN6H0N1YX0VV6BZ5QF

"So we're clear," Molly said. "You're the clown." "I'm not the clown." "You've got the shoes." "These are my normal shoes." "Bill, they're eleven inches long." "I have wide feet. Broad. Distinguished." "Wear the wig." "The wig itches." "The wig gets you past the mother, and the mother is the only thing between us and forty wrapped boxes stacked in a conservatory like a Christmas display." "What's in them?" "Does it matter?" "It matters if it's all socks. I'm not going to prison over socks." "It's a seventh birthday, Bill. There'll be tablets. Consoles. One of those scooters that costs more than my car." "Your car costs eighty pounds." "Which proves my point beautifully. Now. Twelve-fifteen, cake comes out, lights go down, everyone sings. That's ninety seconds of pure darkness and screaming." "Screaming?" "Children sing like that." "And you're where?" "Conservatory. Bin bags. Fire exit." "And I'm juggling." "You're distracting." "I can't juggle." "Then drop things. Children adore incompetence." "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." "Twelve-fifteen, Bill." "And if the mother recognises me?" "From where?" "I did her wedding. Same wig." Molly closed her eyes. "Wear the nose."