I have forgotten how to surf.
I used to be quite good at it. I could do it for hours on
end, as time seemingly stood still until at last I came up for air realising that
I was suddenly hungry or cold. These days I can barely manage ten minutes at a
time.
We’re talking internet surfing here. If you ask me, it’s not
entirely my fault. The decline in my agility is largely the result of the feeds
delivered by a mob of little round-edged squares. Using a secret password,
these guys have infiltrated the mini computer in my handbag, which, in medieval
times, was once used for calling people. The bosses, Frankie “fb” Baloney and Enzo
“Insti” Gramma, have convinced me that I’m no good at it anymore, that I can’t
choose my own adventure in cyberspace. Their power is so influential and
far-reaching that I now seem to spend 90% of my time online looking at content
they’ve arranged for me instead. And I, like a poor sucker paying protection
money, thank them as I pay their ever-increasing costs.
