The Impossibility of Pronouns

“Conversation simply becomes impossible.”

The person wearing the elephant broach and the red wool dress sighed and consciously pivoted the entirety of the cranial superstructure belonging to the same individual to the left and then to the right by means of instantaneous neurological commands, of which the nervous system’s owner was only tangentially aware.

“Is it not a price worth paying, for biological certaintitude?”

“No.”

Elephant Red sipped on a small, thin espresso that tasted of soil. The person opposite with the Roman nose, wearing a blue cardigan and glittery spectacles spooned up a chunk of coffee cake and deposited the same for digestion, via oral orifice. Upon the conclusion of mastication, Roman Blue spoke through crumbs and spittle, thickly.

“It isn’t all pronouns,” said Blue. “Just the subject, object and possessive. And of course, the reflexive and intensive pronouns. The rest are fine, including the inanimate.”

“Everyone will be known as it, eventually. This is inevitable.”

“Nonsense.”

“People will rebel. There were letters on the wall last night.”

“Which wall?”

“The wall of the alley, close by the house where this table’s other occupant has resided for 18 years.”

“And what did these letters say?”

“Spelling it out is the only way to safely communicate it. They read, ‘ess-haych-ee-forward slash-haych-ee-arr’.”

Disco Cicero gave out a strangled yelp.

“Be careful!”

“Careful. Yes, that’s a very good word. Care, full. Care turned up to maximum. An entire nation on pronoun alert. Look around. There are no groups at this cafe, just couples and individuals.”

Caesar of the Cyan cast a suspicious glance at the other patrons.

“It is early. People don’t like to be social at this time of day.”

“Piffle. Without pronouns, conversation between more than two people becomes absurd. And try having a phone conversation. Even email has become a nightmare.”

“Everyone will adjust.”

Crimson Pachyderm sighed and waved at a waiter for the bill.

“To be English is to be constantly berated for not adjusting by people who do not themselves adjust.”

“The meaning of this sentence is obscure,” Glittery Blue frowned, finding the entire direction of the conversation discomforting. It was like being led into a dark, wild jungle by a guide with a death wish.

“People imagine that the legislators who wrought this absurdity abide by it?”

On the other side of the table, a deeper frown.

“Of course.”

Red Jumbo chortled.

“Such faith in power.”

“It is necessary,” stated Aquamarine Susan, ‘A small price. A welcome corrective. Things had got out of hand. Steps were needed. Besides, these personal pronouns are not required. Everyone knows everyone else’s biological truth.”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed.”

“Then what about the biological truths in this place. Name them.”

Sparkly Blue spooned down more coffee cake and pondered in a sugary haze.

“Very well. Man. Man. Woman. Woman. Woman. Man.”

“Impressive. Now show the working that led to those conclusions.”

There was an eruption of expelled air and a derisive cough across the table.

“Gladly. Tall, be-suited and square jawed. Let’s see. Bearded. Breasts. Bare shoulders, long blonde hair, narrow chin, wide hips, lipstick. Woman’s hands. Wide shoulders. Swearing. All obvious. No need for pronouns at all.”

“Impressive. Tell me, is it possible to reveal the date of the upcoming cosmetic surgery?”

“This question makes no sense.”

The person in red with an elephant pinned to one tit pointed across the table at an angle of approximately 45 degrees to the table’s surface.

“Women don’t have big noses.”

Roman Blue’s heavily laden spoon paused mid-air.

“Resorting to insults is a poor substitute for logical argument.”

Contented munching resumed.

“It could also be said that the presence of facial hair is indicative of a biology at odds with an individual’s assertion of gender.”

Cake crumbs and spittle were expelled at speed in all directions

“There is no such thing as gender! I…”

The stilted conversation in the cafe stalled. Pigeons on the window sill ceased their amorous adventures. Cars braked. Music died. In the background, a member of staff tried to explain the situation to the Metropolitan police’s switchboard operator without using pronouns.

Red Elephant smiled.

“I…” repeated the person in the blue cardigan with the glittery glasses and the Roman nose. “Help!”

“Help whom?”

The person in the blue cardigan with the glittery glasses and the Roman nose tapped against the outside of a familiar torso, in the lower reaches of which half a slice of caramel coffee cake was being churned into particles by a rumbling sea of acid.

“Alas,” said the person wearing the red dress and the elephant broach, “Your present interlocutor is sorry and can only hope that with sufficient time and re-education, the person on that side of the table learns to live without the use of the redundant perpendicular pronoun. Ah! The bill. Thank you.”

Sirens could be heard in the quiet.