An argument with my daddy- who is alternately a gawky and bold-faced boy with reddish sweptback hair, a bearded patriarch looks like Trotsky, or Kojak mouth clumped stupidly like Joe Klunk on a lollipop. A big Greek nose and bald head. Manhattan skylines in background.
Mummy dearest is an anxious and angsty housewife, in a frock and with tight-curled hair afraid to express an opinion. Wrings hands. Like a 50's housewife with an apron.
I have been playing the stockmarket for a while now and baby I think I know the score. Those traders in the City are busy boys, and I am of them.
Absorbed sweatily in my laptop, why it's quite easy to forsake several million in a single afternoon. Those stocks and shares are impressive and volatile things, leaping and bounding so savagely. One must have respect for 'em.
The millions having been lost through an unwise investment at an inopportune moment, an argument has been occasioned with daddy. The parental career talk.
All this takes place in the spectral ideal homes livingroom, lounge of the future. Padded walls and floor, of soft pliant material. I sit by the side of the room, in my tall umpire's chair, a tray in front containing the following: Notepaper, pens, laptop and a cup o' tea.
Now the house of the future has no ceiling, the whole structure being protected by a sort of transparent and indeed invisible glass dome arching high above our heads. It is therefore possible to straddle the angles between the walls or partitions, all of which are sturdily reinforced and thick with foam cushioning.
Umpire's chair did I say? Why, that suggests impartiality and clear judgement. As I make my sets of calculations, I begin to wonder whether this chair has been appointed to me more as a kind of infant's high chair, and the thought is born: Am I infantile, imbecilic, not to be trusted?
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