Elephants are not Normally Pink

Pink elephants rarely feature in my life. Even in my wildest days of drinking and whoring, I never suffered the delirium tremens and associated hallucinations. Or, if I did, then the hallucinations did not manifest as pink elephants. I saw plenty of other pink things; a natural consequence of waking up in a whorehouse; but never an elephant.

I saw a pink elephant last night. It was in the garden of the castle. Its primary function seemed to be the amusement of the king and queen’s daughter, as part of her birthday celebration, so I doubt that an excess of alcohol was the cause. At least, I hope not. That would be singularly inappropriate for the birthday of a one-year-old. Aiobheann did herself proud with the arrangements, including the pony she had feared would be a problem, and a jester doing the juggling. We walked from the tavern to the castle together, followed by, of all things, a unicorn. I think it says something of my life over the last couple of years that seeing a unicorn was barely worthy of note, much less surprise or excitement.

The party seemed to be going well, but then I started to think about my own son, Arthur. Though, I suppose I should get used to thinking of him as my nephew. I may have crawled inside the bottle when Alexandra died, but even so, I was aware enough to agree it was for the best that Gerald and his wife raise him as their own. I wonder how old he is now. By my personal experience, it was six years after he was born that arrived in London, and that was 18 months ago, so he would be approaching eight. However, I don’t know how closely the time in London, or indeed here, relates to the time in the rest of the world, so who knows? I have no clue how time goes here and I have no idea when, or even if, I will ever get back to that world, to see him again.


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