[Editor's note: Part of this entry first appeared in a post entitled "Disparity Flinch", originally intended for publication on the 1st of January this year, but relegated to the Drafts folder upon anguished reconsideration. The parts detailing a short story written in 1984 about a homicidal Santa Claus were eventually deemed far too outré in light of what happened in Istanbul, and the jokes really weren't good enough. A slightly jaundiced critique of House of Fraser's Christmas television advertising campaign in the UK, however, has been salvaged, and is included here for the sake of convenience, given that the world is currently lurching in and out of accidental post-modernism, although no one worth their salt would ever want to call it that. We now inhabit a Trumpian universe. Deal with it as best you can. Some dialogue in "Disparity Flinch" about manga, animé, hentai, and footnotes might turn up elsewhere at some point, if only because "tentacled madness" makes me smile almost as much as "abject historicity". Okay. On with the show.]
There's a darkness coming. Some people think it's already here, but they tend to focus on shadows as a matter of course. Ultimately, the substance will always be scarier. Solide terribilis...
"You're late," Duncan pulled the chair out for his father. "But no stick?"
"No stick. I'm limping nakedly for a thrill."
"Well, that's going to haunt me for a while. Thanks."
"Have you ordered?"
"Of course not." Duncan frowned at the older man. "If I had any telepathic ability whatsoever I certainly wouldn't waste the gift on second-guessing your menu choices."
"Interesting. I'm glad your values even apply to hypothetical discharges."
"Are you being deliberately disgusting, or is this some new accidental aberration?"
"Now, I know you've read my treatise on Hegel and disproportionate reader emphasis, because at the time you sent me about twenty pages of notes." He smiled at his son and reached for a menu. "I particularly liked that stuff about Deepak Chopra, and redefining accidents as causal imperatives." Duncan rolled his eyes.
"Christ, they were the early days of e-mail, weren't they? I'd forgotten about that. I was at..."
"UCL. Weren't you in that basement flat then?"
"No, fifth floor at International Hall." Duncan shivered. "Campylobacter bloody enteritis. That's when I moved out."
"Of course. Great chat for a restaurant, by the way. Ah, Cajun pork loin medallions and wholegrain mustard pommes frites with salsa dressing. Perfect. You know, they have a really lovely Sancerre Blanc here, too. It's hardly traditional as an accompaniment, but..."
"It'll offset all the spices. I get it. Sold."
Castor Farnum turned and nodded at the waiter. Duncan slid his own menu across the table, unread.
"There are two massive, improbably confused elephants sitting in this room, Dad."
"Ah, I sense a metaphor arriving. Should I grip the table?"
Duncan fished his smartphone out of his pocket.
"Anything for dramatic effect, eh? No, you can skip the theatrics. But I need to tell you something. Unlike you, I am on Twitter, and I've got a blog."
"I hope you're not expecting me to feign surprise."
"Hardly. But here's the thing. Yes, I wrote up our last encounter. Sort of. And I did a bit of a number on the punchline."
The older man looked surprised.
"There was a punchline?"
"Don't...do that. It's all too...Roger Moore as the Saint. I'm half-expecting a white halo to appear above your head if anyone says your name out loud. Christ, you even do the eyebrow thing. It's embarrassing."
"Blame genetics. And look forward to your own Simon Templar moments to come."
"You see, I knew you'd get the reference. And not just because I grew up in a house with all the books, and then the videotapes, and Sunday nights spent watching Ian Ogilvy driving his Jaguar XJS around Europe. Little wonder my Mondays at school were hell after all that...subliminal brainwashing."
"You know," said Castor, leaning forward in his chair, "The Roger Moore thing was really down to your mother, and all those days off school. ITV used to repeat the series in the mornings, just after Pipkins as I recall."
"How would you know that?"
"I do my research."
"Of course you do. And that's really the thing, isn't it? Do you know what happened after I blogged about your...incident on the bus?" Duncan scrolled through entries on his 'phone and turned it around to show his father the screen. "It started trending. No apostrophe, sure, but 'Reproduction Isn't Compulsory' is right there, look."
"I find the lack of an apostrophe...disturbing."
"Really? Star Wars? You know I've still got the gatefold sleeve soundtrack of the first film on vinyl with the massive poster, right? God knows how much that's worth now..."
"I'm sure you could look it up."
"Yeah, like I'd ever sell it." Duncan returned his 'phone to his pocket and sat back, exasperated at something he'd have a hard time defining, let alone resolving. Whilst they waited for their lunches, Castor stared out of the window, finally deciding to broach the subject when the waiter brought the wine, as previously arranged.
"So, one elephant stunned, if not incapacitated. His or her compadre may be expecting some similar treatment by now."
"They're definitely related," sighed Duncan, taking a sip of his wine. "All right, I took a chance, and Mel warned me that I was being an idiot..."
"Mel?"
"Yes, Mel. My girlfriend, remember?"
"Actually, no. I'm sorry, but it's hard to keep up with you on that score. I mean, that...matter."
"Great save. Much against my better judgement, I invited you over to ours at Christmas."
"She's moved in?"
Duncan frowned.
"You really don't remember?"
"Lately I've been living in the past and the future. It makes the present just that much more...indefinable. Bradford Skow is your man for this stuff, by the way. Block universe, eternalism, and all that jazz. Suffice to say that I really wasn't around for Christmas. Sorry."
"No kidding."
"The adverts alone were enough to drive me back to Pontoise. Wanting to inform House of Fraser that their Christmas TV advertising failed because they never actually told people what they sell represents another unreliable endstop in the circuitry of general frustration. All that silly dancing, and banging on a table, for what? Sure, the dancers were holding boxes - but what's in them? Nice tune, definitely, but if there isn't a House of Fraser store on your high street you'd be hard put to recognise anything in the adverts that you might want to buy. Cutlery? Wrapping paper? Er... They're wearing clothes - they're not naked. Is that a clue? No prices quoted, and the camera doesn't stop moving long enough for anyone to actually see anything properly, so that's just a red herring and a half. The arrogance may be implied, but it's circumstantially significant when a casual viewer of an advertisement is left clueless about its actual purpose. Ultimately, for the uninitiated, it has about as much value and use as a random dream."
Duncan stared at him as the food arrived.
"I really need to talk to you about random dreams some time."
"If you think it will help."
"I don't, but that won't necessarily stop me."
Castor Farnum saluted with his fork.
"Always glad to hear that."
Castor Farnum will return, more coherent than ever...
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