The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee Read Online Free Page A

into matchsticks. This was a fair in Brisbane, and it had rides and bumper cars and a Ferris wheel and cotton candy stalls.
    I like these sorts of fairs. I never go on the rides because I am afraid of heights, but that doesn’t stop me enjoying myself. It’s the lights and the smells and the bustle of people. There is something magic about it. I’ve only been to two in my life.
    So I was happy to watch Rich Uncle Brian go on all the rides. I held his coat and waved at him as he slid past me on the Pirate Ship. Then he went on the Ghost Train. Twice. I wondered if that was what it was like to be a parent, smiling and waving as a shrieking person flashed past you with a wide grin and frightened eyes. I suspect there’s a bit more to it than that.
    When Rich Uncle Brian had finished the rides, we bought hot dogs and wandered along the rows of stalls. There was a place where you had to throw a small ring around the neck of any one of dozens of lined-up bottles. I had a go, but the ring kept bouncing off the bottles. It looked easy, but no one managed to do it, at least while I was there. Rich Uncle Brian was cynical.
    â€œThey design these things so you can’t win, Pumpkin,” he said.
    I thought he was probably right, but I also thought it wasn’t worth mentioning. People were having fun. They were bathed in lights and clutching prizes or candy apples or clouds of cotton candy on sticks. The fair was no place for cynicism.
    We passed a shooting range. Metal ducks ran along three rows. They were battered and dinted by experience, but kept on going. No one was shooting at them, so the man behind the counter was doing his best to get customers.
    â€œC’mon, sir,” he yelled at Rich Uncle Brian. “Try your skill. Win a prize. Two dollars a pop and every gun has sights.”
    Rich Uncle Brian stopped.
    â€œYeah,” he said. “Sights set to miss.”
    The man was obviously offended. He put a hand over his heart.
    â€œNot here, mate. Try for yourself. Five shots for free. If you miss, you walk away. If you hit, then give it a go. Whaddaya say?”
    Rich Uncle Brian looked down at me. I shrugged and held out my hands for his jacket.
    He hit ducks with four out of his five shots.
    â€œOkay,” he said to the man behind the counter. “Provided I use this gun.”
    â€œBe my guest.”
    Rich Uncle Brian spent eighty dollars trying to win a prize. Well, he won a prize every time, but the prize was a pencil with a fluffy thing stuck to its end that was probably worth twenty cents. He had his eye on the major prize—a huge stuffed animal that might have been a gnu or a camel with severe disabilities. And Rich Uncle Brian wasn’t giving up until he had it. I might have pointed out that it was probably worth about twenty dollars, but I suspected that wasn’t the point. This was about proving himself.
    Mum says that men are just little boys deep down. Sometimes not so deep down. Sometimes not deep at all, but right on the surface. He could’ve bought a whole Toys“R”Us shop, being Rich Uncle Brian, but this wasn’t about money. I held his jacket and watched the ducks fall.
    â€œHah!” said Rich Uncle Brian in triumph, one hundred dollars later. The man handed over the deformed camel/gnu and RUB passed it on to me. I knew he would.
    â€œI don’t want it, Rich Uncle Brian,” I said. “It’s vile.”
    His face crumpled in disappointment. I felt bad, but I couldn’t lie to him. The toy
was
horrible.
    â€œBut I won it for you, Pumpkin,” he said. “If you don’t like this, what do you like?”
    â€œThat,” I said, and pointed.
    A goldfish in a plastic bowl. It sat on a shelf to the right of the ducks, which were still going round cheerfully despite being targets. I say it sat, but that was the bowl. The fish was swimming. It was gold and beautiful.
    â€œWe’ll have that instead,” said