Neither of them wanted to watch the news. Or the woeful Christmas specials. Kipper couldn’t handle yet another dose of Jane Austen on PBS’s Masterpiece Theatre either. English costume dramas just didn’t do it for him at all. And the First Lady had banned any consideration of repeats of pre-Disappearance sports highlights shows. They couldn’t understand the accents on the Australian soap operas. It was too early for any of the cooking shows, so they settled on Grand Designs, an English program that followed couples – for some reason, it was always couples – as they built or renovated their dream homes. Every week it was the same thing: the couples always underestimated the budget; the dreams always ran ahead of their resources and the available time; and it was as if nobody had ever heard of employing a project manager. Barb enjoyed the aesthetics of some of the old houses being brought back to life, while Kip, who’d had to be ordered to keep his nose out of the Dearborn House restoration efforts, enjoyed shaking his head and muttering ‘assholes’ under his breath as these idiots made the same basic engineering errors and project management mistakes week after week.

At least it made him feel better about his own manifest inadequacies. He was the type who loved to crack wise about Dubya before the Wave. Now he imagined a pantheon of departed American presidents, looking down on him, smacking their foreheads in constant aggravation and cursing, ‘What a fucking moron!’

The commercial breaks had likewise changed greatly since ’03. Many of the spots were taken by the Advertising Council. A particularly entertaining one tonight featured an African-American male doing pull-ups for the camera and stating that he didn’t need to take his heart medication because he was just fine. As he hoisted up into the camera for the last time, he could be seen twitching before dropping off the bars and out of view with a loud thud. It ended with a reminder to go see your doctor and take care of your heart.

The ads for private businesses tended to be hyper local. One shaky camcorder spot featured a large man in bib overalls rocking back and forth on his feet, trying to convince folks that they needed his lawn-tending services. Kip’s favourite place in Pike Place Market, Frellman’s Brats and Sausage Hut, was a little slicker. Home of the Thrown Brats, they gave you a fishing net to snare the bangers out of the air.

He was surprised to see a lengthy, much more professional-looking ad for Cesky Enterprises’ new prestige apartment project in the renovated Smith Tower. It reminded him of the days when television advertising wasn’t a cottage industry.

‘What did Jed want to talk about, honey?’ Barbara asked when they had finished eating.