The web will sometimes lose its lustre for me. My fingers log me on: my brain logs out. The computer fan blows like an apathetic fly doing an impression of a broken helicopter. The screen drones a soul-boring whiteness into the room. Advertisements leap with tired gusto from the corners and sides of newspaper homepages; falling, limply, on indifferent eyes. I lean back in my chair, brush hair from my forehead and give my right eye a scratch.
I wish to run away to the sea; to cover my wrinkled knees with lukewarm September sand whilst a small squad of ex-starlets recite anecdotes about the Bulgarian Farm Poets Movement.
I wish to dig myself a hole in the ground; to pull on a pair of pea-green Wellington boots and a motorcyclist’s helmet and squat like a toddler whilst a tall Welshman sings the last twelve lines of Hector Spinkel’s Musical Treatise on the Manufacture of Double-Jointed Dalmatian Puppets.
I wish to sit in the fridge for a while; to sit in the fridge in my wife’s navy blue overcoat, sipping a quart of pineapple juice through a light grey straw whilst an actress with painted eyebrows declaims Eva Holubk’s majestic poem, Easily I Quipped: Sodden.
Or I might just check my e-mail again.