from the inner zones of our towns and cities. The ICE versions are poisoning us and the rise of the electrics will see ride-sharing, short hires and more of the cheap taxi culture, followed by better tech that lets the cars drive themselves off and park cheap out of town, or underground, only appearing when summoned or planned and further culled by constant-monitoring scheduling efficiencies. The old car ads of mystery, status and adventure promise are gone, the current ones changing to reflect the new disinterest, but still ridiculous. All advertising is ridiculous. Drop your tv in a skip and your tolerance/acceptance quickly fades, you see the ads for what they are – garish, frantic, absurd – when you chance across them in moments of exposure in hotel rooms or weekend stays. And these last-standing ads are shrinking, flashed by on digital skip-forward, banished from the streaming sites. They have to pounce on you, five second flurries, a burst on a web page or bus stop screen, too fast for you to turn off or turn away, the threshold of what you’ll absorb before your hand reaches out to click away. But I’m old enough to remember the time before internetization. I straddle the tech fault lines, a weary colossus with one foot in the analogue past, the other toe-pinching for a grip in the now – can’t call it the modern anymore, that old chestnut exploded long ago. I remember the night walks, the march back through silent streets when I couldn’t afford a car or take a taxi and there was no late bus, no late bars and it wasn’t hip to ride a bike. After 11 my town was grave-quiet, and I was a small hours stroller with a house more than a mile from my nearest night-owl friend. I hurried over the cobbles and yorkstone flags, rationing cigarettes to last the journey. Just a glimpse of the empty loading strip here in my present and I’m fresh-set in my night-walk memories. Decades ebbed away but memories so sharp I feel I’ve just turned a corner and slipped out of sight. A shadow walker passing. Barely a moment ago.
