Do kids still have hobbies? Maybe hobbies isn’t quite the right word. What I mean is a passionate interest in something fairly adult, something more than playing with toys. For example, a child might get precociously into theatre or birdwatching or medieval history and have a first taste of adult enthusiasm for something.
I was into magic, meaning conjuring tricks. This seemed the most interesting thing about the world, the clear pinnacle of its complicated cultural array. Why wasn’t everyone fascinated by the fact that it was possible to perform acts of seeming wizardry?
The magic bug bit me when I was about 11 – who knows why. Maybe it was my uncle doing a card trick, maybe Paul Daniels on television, maybe a basic magic set someone gave me.
I had to know all about it. I found a few books in my local library. Then I heard about a magic shop in central London and went on a bus on my own for the first time. It was in a weird underground arcade by Charing Cross station – this den of delight. I loved all the exotic kit: the silk handkerchiefs and wands and smooth, bright playing cards and little boxes that vanished things. On one level, it was a new excuse to play with toys. It was also an imaginative realm, linked to theatricality and to the past – I learned about Victorian illusionists, some of whom posed as Chinese sages.
I liked the magic at kids’ parties, with clownish patter and big shiny props. (I did a few shows for my younger brother and his friends.) I even acquired a pet rabbit, with a view to learning to vanish it. This is not a good reason to own a pet, and Percy was not a happy bunny.
But what really drew me was sleight of hand: I spent many hours in front of the mirror trying to master a few moves. I admired the skills and showmanship of the buskers and jugglers at Covent Garden. My favourite prop was a little gadget that the audience never even saw, but that allowed one to vanish a silk handkerchief from one’s fist – I won’t even name it because it gives it away, but a few readers will know what I’m talking about.
I even acquired a pet rabbit, with a view to learning to vanish it. This is not a good reason to own a pet, and Percy was not a happy bunny
There was actually a magic club at my school, but I kept my distance a bit. It attracted a few rather shy boys, blushingly fumbling with their latest props, jealously guarding their secrets. But I once saw an older boy back-palm a playing card and determined to learn it (many more hours in front of the mirror). Magic obviously attracts a few confident show-offs, but I think it also attracts a lot of shy boys – I’m not sure about girls – who dream of delighting big crowds but are wary of actually performing to anyone beyond their mum. I was one of these. The pressure of pulling off a trick was almost too much for me, and if the trick did work, I felt slightly guilty about deceiving people. For a while I favoured ventriloquism, where the deception is in the open. (I somehow managed to overlook the naffness of Keith Harris and Orville, which surpassed even that of Paul Daniels.)
So I drifted away, to more abstract imaginative realms. In fact, one of my central interests in later life has been religious ritual, and in a way magic was a sort of the first draft for this. As I say, it was the theatrical atmosphere that attracted me – the shared wonder.
I still have a little old suitcase of tricks, the silk handkerchiefs threadbare yet still bright, the smart wands still firm (except the comedy collapsing one). Maybe I will tire of more abstract conjurings, and their time will come again.
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