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“The stupidity surplus?”
“Part of it, I guess,” he replied despondently. “Incredibly enough, reality TV has just gotten worse.”
“Is that possible?” I asked. “Wasn’t Celebrity Trainee Pathologist the pits?” I thought for a moment. “Actually, Whose Life Support Do We Switch Off? was worse. Or maybe Sell Your Granny. Wow, the choice these days makes it all so tricky to decide.”
Bowden laughed.
“I’ll agree that Granny lowered the bar for distasteful program makers everywhere, but RTA-TV, never one to shrink from a challenge, has devised Samaritan Kidney Swap. Ten renal-failure patients take turns trying to convince a tissue-typed donor—and the voting viewers—which one should have his spare kidney.”
I groaned. Reality TV was to me the worst form of entertainment—the modern equivalent of paying sixpence to watch lunatics howling at the walls down at the local mad house. I shook my head sadly.
“What’s wrong with a good book?” I asked.
Bowden shrugged. In these days of junk TV, short attention spans and easy-to-digest sound bites, it seemed that the book, the noble device to which both Bowden and I had devoted much of our lives, was being marginalized into just another human storytelling experience also-ran, along with the epic poem, Greek theater, Jackanory, Beta and Tarzanagrams.
“How’s the family?” asked Bowden, trying to elevate the mood.
“They’re all good,” I replied. “Except Friday, who is still incapable of any human activity other than torpidity.”
“And Pickwick? Feathers growing back?”
“No—listen, can you knit?”
“No…. Why?”
“No reason. What’s on the books for us today?”
Bowden picked up a clipboard and thumbed through the pages. “Spike’s got a brace of undead to deal with and a possible pack of howlers in the Savenake. Stig’s still on the path of those Diatrymas. The Taste Division has got an outbreak of stonecladding to deal with in Cirencester, and the Pampas Squad will be busy on a slash ’n’ burn in Bristol. Oh, yes—and we’ve an outbreak of doppelgängers in Chippenham.”
“Any literary stuff?” I asked hopefully.
“Only Mrs. Mattock and her stolen first editions—again. Face it, Thurs, books just don’t light anyone’s candle these days. It’s as good that they don’t—add the sixteen or so carpets to be laid and the twenty-eight quotes needed yesterday, and we’re kind of stretched. Do we pull Spike off zombies to do stair runners?”
&nb
sp; “Can’t we just drag in some freelance installers?”
“And pay them with what? An illegal Diatryma each?”
“It’s that bad, is it?”
“Thursday, it’s always that bad. We’re nuzzling up to the overdraft limit again.”
“No problem. I’ve got a seriously good cheese deal going down this evening.”
“I don’t want to know about it. When you’re arrested, I need deniability—and besides, if you actually sold carpets instead of gallivanting around like a lunatic, you wouldn’t need to buy and sell on the volatile cheese market.”
“That reminds me,” I said with a smile. “I’ll be out of my office today, so don’t put any calls through.”
“Thursday!” he said in an exasperated tone. “Please don’t vanish today of all days. I really need you to quote for the new lobby carpet in the Finis, I’ve got the Wilton rep popping in at four-thirty to show us their new line, and the Health and Safety Inspectorate is coming in to make sure we’re up to speed.”
“On safety procedures?”
“Good Lord no! On how to fill the forms in properly.”
“Listen,” I said, “I’ve got to take Friday to the ChronoGuard career night at five-thirty, so I’ll try to get back a couple of hours before then and do some quotes. Have a list ready for me.”
“Already done,” he said, and before I could make up an excuse, he passed me a clipboard full of addresses and contact names.
