Wiped Out!

I was tired of my terminal, terminally tired. E-zine after e-zine rolled uneasily past my eyes - e-zine e--zine e---zine, e----zine.... Surfing the Web seemed as pointless as surfing at Weston: with the tide out at that, and 'super Mare' a matter for litigation.

Each and every e-zine engaged to entertain: to titillate, to scintillate, to keep me up late. But, did they fit the bill? No. They bit they fool. I was frustrated, enervated, constipated. Deteriorated. Dilapidated. Defenestrated: my windows no more than frames.

And then - fingers crawling slow and slug-like over sugary slow-pressing keys - I found it. It.

IT.

Different? Refreshing? Impressive? IT was all of these: and more.

Fascinating? Wonderful? Astounding? IT was nothing less.

Vertiginous? Rhapsodical? Climactic? Neither more nor less.

Could this be the holy grail, the ultima thule, fons et origo, rus in urbe, trux in transit? The seven times seventy-seventh Wonder of the Web? It seemed less than possible, but more than probable: an eclectical e-zine welding the priceless wit of Wilde to the witless precision of a VAT Notice; the gritty sensuality of Swinburne ground in with the sensible grit of a Soil Association pamphlet; the brilliance of Baudrillard burnished with... well, a lot of other cool stuff.

I sent up a great cry, and someone - that lucky person who would be next to see IT - came in.

"Did I hear a sort of cry, dear? Is there something wrong? Are you unwell? Shall we fetch a doctor? Psychiatrist? Systems analyst? Hard disk person? Not that. I hope. Remember the last time it went? Down? I'll say, dearie. I never thought to hear language like that from a young lady what..."

"Quiet!"

She was quiet.

"Look!"

She looked.

Attracted by her grotesquely girlish giggles, others entered. Their weird whoops of wonder attracted more. Little ones gathered round. Old folks hobbled in. Word went out to the neighbours. Yes, even the ones who with the Barry Manilow tapes....

Soon a colossal crowd was assembled around the shimmering screen. Adenoidal youths at the back, talking pointlessly of neural nets. Girls reading genetics, pointedly ignoring them. Mothers with babes in arms; fathers as required. A vast mass of the middle-aged, on foot. Pensioners seated, with cups of tea on arms. Octogenarians in bathchairs, under wraps. Nonagenarians (and above) borne faithfully in funerary urns. Small children beneath, merrily tying feet to mains cables....

This, I announced, is SWALLOW.

"I'm too hot," cried a little angel.

"That's because a Swallow brings Summer," I explained.

Wrong. The little devil had been blocking the cooling fan. Ping. The screen went blank.

Then The Wailing began.

V I T A A M O R Y

www.unde.clara.net