Free Black Swan Green by David Mitchell

sherry?’
    ‘Why the heck not, Michael? Why the heck not?’
    Alex grunted as I gave him his Coke. He scooped up a fistful of Twiglets.
    Nigel did this perky ‘Thanks very much!’ and grabbed the Twiglets too.
    Hugo said, ‘Cheers, Jace’ for the water and ‘No thanks’ to the Twiglets.
    Uncle Brian and Dad’d left Driving and moved on to the Recession.
    ‘No, Michael,’ Uncle Brian said, ‘you’re mistaken, for once in your life. The accountancy game’s more or less immune to economic doldrums.’
    ‘But you can’t tell me your client base isn’t feeling the pinch?’
    ‘The “pinch”? Blimey O’Riley, Michael, they’re taking it in the teeth! Bankruptcies and foreclosures, morning, noon and night! We’re rushed off our bloody feet, pardon my French. Swamped! Tell you, I’m grateful to that woman in Downing Street for this financial – what’s that latest fad? – anorexia. Us number-crunchers are making a killing! And as partners’ bonuses are profit related, yours truly is sitting rather pretty.’
    ‘Bankrupts,’ Dad prodded, ‘are hardly repeat customers.’
    ‘But with a never-ending supply,’ Uncle Brian glugged his sherry, ‘who gives a tinker’s cuss? No, no, it’s you shop folk that my heart goes out to. This recession’ll bleed the high street dry before it’s finished. Quote me on that.’
    I think not , said Dad’s wagging finger ‘The hallmark of switched-on management is success in the lean years, not the years of plenty. Unemployment may be up to three million, but Greenland took on ten management trainees this quarter. Customers want quality food at bulk prices.’
    ‘Relax, Michael,’ Uncle Brian did a jokey surrender, ‘you’re not at a seaside sales conference now. But I think you’ve got your head in the sand. Even Tories are talking about “tightening belts”…Unions dead on their feet, not that that’s a bad thing in my book. But we’ve got British Leyland haemorrhaging jobs…the docks dwindling away…British Steel imploding…Everyone ordering ships from South bloody Korea, wherever that is, instead of the Tyne and the Clyde…Comrade Scargill threatening revolution…it’s difficult to see how it can’t have a knock-on effect on frozen crispy pancakes and fish fingers, in the long run. Alice and I do worry, you know.’
    ‘Well,’ Dad leant back, ‘it’s very good of you and Alice to worry, Brian, but the retailing sector is holding its own and Greenland is robust.’
    ‘Very glad to hear it, Michael. Very glad indeed.’
    (So was I. Gavin Coley’s dad was laid off by Metalbox in Tewkesbury. His birthday at Alton Towers was cancelled, Gavin Coley’s eyes sunk into his skull a few millimetres and a year later his parents got divorced. Kelly Moran told me his dad’s still on the dole.)
    Hugo wore a thin leather cord around his neck. I wanted one.
     
    When the Lambs visit, salt and pepper magically turn into ‘the condiments’. Dinner was prawn cocktails in wine glasses for starters, lamb chops with chef’s hats with Duchesse potatoes and braised celery for main, and a Baked Alaska for ‘dessert’, not ‘afters’. We use the mother-of-pearl napkin rings. (Dad’s dad brought them back from Burma on the same voyage he got the Omega Seamaster I smashed in January.) Before starting the starters, Uncle Brian opened the wine he’d brought. Julia and Alex got a whole glass, Hugo and me just half, ‘and a whistle-wetter for you, Nigel.’
    Aunt Alice did her usual toast, ‘To the Taylor and Lamb dynasties!’
    Uncle Brian did his usual ‘Here’s looking at you, kid!’
    Dad pretended to find that rather amusing.
    We all clinked glasses (except Alex) and took a sip.
    Dad is guaranteed to hold his wineglass up to the light and say, ‘ Very easy to drink!’ He didn’t let us down today. Mum shot him a look, but Dad never notices. ‘I’ll say this much for you, Brian. You can’t half choose a decent plonk.’
    ‘Fabulous to earn your