Literature and his one ambition – to turn down the sexual advances of a pretty young student – had never been realised, because Sparks’ dad was such a nice man that even the most corrupt and profligate of his students couldn’t bring themselves to be seduced by him. After 30 years lecturing, during which time his poly had become a uni and his students had gone from being mad for magic realism to being slightly disappointed by books they had got into after seeing the video version of the movie, Sparks’ dad took one farewell look at his class, said, perhaps too loudly, “Bloody hell, I wouldn’t go to bed with any of this lot,” and retired.
Sparks’ mum, Patricia, had been a reporter. This had been quite exciting to Sparks when he was young, and he had lived in hope that the whole family might have to relocate to Florida or Latvia after his mum had exposed the Mafia’s links with local businesses. In fact, Sparks’ mum had devoted her life to writing about nothing very exciting. This was because she had a husband and son, and wasn’t keen to get relocated to Florida or Latvia after accidentally writing a hard-hitting story. She had even been known to turn down reporting on flower shows in case there might just be a Mafia connection. Sparks’ mum had met Sparks dad in headier times, when she was young and single, and couldn’t give a fig for the dangers inherent in covering the opening of the local poly’s new English Department building, having a glass of wine with the new young junior lecturer (“I expect my students will come to fancy me in time”) and then getting married six months later, on account of Sparks, but still pleased about getting married.
Sparks’ mum still covered the odd WI event, which was easy for her as she was a member these days, and Sparks’ dad still subscribed to some fairly esoteric critical journals, some of which he now saw that his old students were writing for. They had a nice quiet life and they missed Sparks when he wasn’t there and were always happy when he left and their nice quiet life could resume. Sparks was deeply fond of them and almost always remembered to buy them presents or send them the relevant cards.
Today, six months after Sparks had been attacked by beanpole men for travelling into another dimension, and a few weeks after he had retired from self-pitying lushness, he sat down to Christmas dinner at his parents’ house. Everyone was wearing paper hats, except for Sparks who had taken his off but found it still felt like he was wearing it. Crackers had been pulled (Sparks got a whistle and a puzzle so obscure he didn’t even understand what he wasn’t supposed to do) and a quantity of Blue Nun consumed. Conversation had been light – when your son has had the same dog-end job for 10 years and his long-term girlfriend has left him for an Australian, you tend to fall into silence a lot – and Sparks’ dad was just about to clear the much-ravaged (by Sparks) turkey when Sparks looked up from the potato he was making, inappropriately, into a little brown Halloween lamp, and said:
“Dad, do you believe in alternate worlds?”
“No,” his dad was about to say, when Sparks’ mum interrupted.
“Don’t bother your father when he’s taking out the dishes.”
This suggested to Sparks’ dad that his wife thought he was a man who couldn’t handle more than two tasks simultaneously (he had been at the Blue Nun for an hour or so). As Sparks’ dad considered himself the kind of person who was quite capable of taking the dishes out and discussing alternate worlds, he decided not to say no and instead said:
“I find the topic very interesting.”
“No you don’t, you daft old man,” said Sparks’ mum, affectionately but rudely. “You just don’t want to look senile.”
Sparks’ dad came back from the kitchen and sat next to his wife in a way that he hoped suggested he was ignoring her. A small dog leapt up and began sniffing his
Sparks’ mum, Patricia, had been a reporter. This had been quite exciting to Sparks when he was young, and he had lived in hope that the whole family might have to relocate to Florida or Latvia after his mum had exposed the Mafia’s links with local businesses. In fact, Sparks’ mum had devoted her life to writing about nothing very exciting. This was because she had a husband and son, and wasn’t keen to get relocated to Florida or Latvia after accidentally writing a hard-hitting story. She had even been known to turn down reporting on flower shows in case there might just be a Mafia connection. Sparks’ mum had met Sparks dad in headier times, when she was young and single, and couldn’t give a fig for the dangers inherent in covering the opening of the local poly’s new English Department building, having a glass of wine with the new young junior lecturer (“I expect my students will come to fancy me in time”) and then getting married six months later, on account of Sparks, but still pleased about getting married.
Sparks’ mum still covered the odd WI event, which was easy for her as she was a member these days, and Sparks’ dad still subscribed to some fairly esoteric critical journals, some of which he now saw that his old students were writing for. They had a nice quiet life and they missed Sparks when he wasn’t there and were always happy when he left and their nice quiet life could resume. Sparks was deeply fond of them and almost always remembered to buy them presents or send them the relevant cards.
Today, six months after Sparks had been attacked by beanpole men for travelling into another dimension, and a few weeks after he had retired from self-pitying lushness, he sat down to Christmas dinner at his parents’ house. Everyone was wearing paper hats, except for Sparks who had taken his off but found it still felt like he was wearing it. Crackers had been pulled (Sparks got a whistle and a puzzle so obscure he didn’t even understand what he wasn’t supposed to do) and a quantity of Blue Nun consumed. Conversation had been light – when your son has had the same dog-end job for 10 years and his long-term girlfriend has left him for an Australian, you tend to fall into silence a lot – and Sparks’ dad was just about to clear the much-ravaged (by Sparks) turkey when Sparks looked up from the potato he was making, inappropriately, into a little brown Halloween lamp, and said:
“Dad, do you believe in alternate worlds?”
“No,” his dad was about to say, when Sparks’ mum interrupted.
“Don’t bother your father when he’s taking out the dishes.”
This suggested to Sparks’ dad that his wife thought he was a man who couldn’t handle more than two tasks simultaneously (he had been at the Blue Nun for an hour or so). As Sparks’ dad considered himself the kind of person who was quite capable of taking the dishes out and discussing alternate worlds, he decided not to say no and instead said:
“I find the topic very interesting.”
“No you don’t, you daft old man,” said Sparks’ mum, affectionately but rudely. “You just don’t want to look senile.”
Sparks’ dad came back from the kitchen and sat next to his wife in a way that he hoped suggested he was ignoring her. A small dog leapt up and began sniffing his
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