After my lessons with Monty, I commissioned a small, hand-carved marionette from some friends I’d made along the way. It was a stunning piece of woodworking—the face held subtle hints of expression, which seemed to change depending on how the light hit it, almost exaggerating its emotions.
A few months in, I was getting better. I could make it walk, look interested, shocked, happy—all through the strings and controls. As my confidence grew, I decided to style it in my own image: a white T-shirt, jeans, and a pair of checkered Vans.
Up until then, all my practice had been in front of a mirror. So I decided to take it to London and start busking on the South Bank.
People seemed to enjoy it. Mothers would stop to talk; children would just stare, mesmerized. I even had one child cuddle the puppet—much to his mother’s horror, though I reassured her it was fine.
For me, busking was practice first and foremost. Any coins I earned were just a bonus. It gave me confidence to stand on the street and have people watch, to hold the puppet for hours, swapping it between hands as my arms screamed—but loving every second of it.
I remember one particular day, performing under a bridge. A smart, office-type man with a briefcase walked past, then suddenly stopped as if he’d seen a ghost. He was fixated, entranced. For two or three minutes, he stood there as I made the puppet dance, hide behind my leg, and peek out again. Then he reached into his pocket, emptied everything he had, and dropped it into the hat I had on the floor.
It was an incredible experience—seeing how an inanimate object could hold someone’s attention so completely.