(P)erfectly (C)onvenient
In the corner of a cluttered room stands the passport that never expires. The aeroplane that never takes off. The ferry that stands tied to the jetty. Angular, light beige plastic boxes and a little TV screen. They look so innocent, like sleeping children. Press a button and everything changes. Fans begin whirring, little red, yellow and green lights begin to wink. The little TV screen beckons me to the world beyond the cluttered room. I'm off to China in a minute or two, or maybe I'll view the Taj Mahal. Perhaps write a letter to the White House. Choices so vast I hardly know where to start. My fingers flex. The mouse that has never nibbled a bit of cheddar lies on her plastic mat, ready for her circumnavigation. QWERTY and their friends await my gentle tickle. I pause. Funny little pictures, arranged like an art gallery that's run out of wall space beckon tantalisingly....
No, I don't know where I want to go today, thank you very much.
Ó
Kevin Webster, 1999