“Wow,” said Anthony, his mouth opening wide to elongate the vowel, head turned to cast his eyes upwards, neck elongated, one hand on each side of his head. “Dad! Look! Look!”
Mr. Carol looked upwards at the tall plastic spires.
“It’s a castle, Dad! A castle!”
“I suppose it is son,” agreed Mr. Carol. Keep it light dear, was his wife’s winning move in the argument. Don’t ruin it for Anthony with pointless pedantry and cynicism. Alright for her, she was off singing with the girls.
The castle lay in the centre of the amusement park, towering above the other buildings. Taken together structures displayed an eclectic mix of architectural styles from many global cultures and periods of history. They represented, thought Mr. Carol, an architect’s supreme imagination and stunning lack of attention to detail. But the boy loved it, and maybe that’s what mattered.
A blaring of trumpets approached, announcing the arrival of a procession of presumably under-employed arts students in brightly-dressed costumes. Again, styles and fashions plundered from history and across the spectrum of global society, with little thought given to relevance, justice, or purpose. At least here, Mr. Carol grumpily mused, the mass violence of the past had found some resolution, as bowdlerised imitations of the national costumes of vicious enemies had found a place walking side-by-side in some gaudy, noisy and excessive celebration of nothing more than the presence of a new harvest of paying guests.
But the boy loved it.
To be continued…