Sometimes, I like to buy Costa’s giant custard creams just so I can hold them in my hand and feel like Gulliver.
I was in gmail earlier. I like to scroll down every so often to ‘details’ and then check the IP activity on my account. Then I get to sit on this big throne and look down at the account’s granular activity.
It’ll mostly be chrome this and mobile that. And then every so often, it’s “atom feed” which on the one hand I want to google the meaning of, but that would ruin the glee of feeling like I’m a very big queen, bull-in-a-china-shopping her way through a nuclear plant. The queen is mostly me, but bigger (or perhaps everything else is smaller, it’s hard to say) and my legs are two big tree trunks, partly eroded by whatever it is nuclear waste does to people, although that would suggest I’m metallic which I think I’m not. Actually no, totally am. And the atom feeds are like the little tiny blackberries escaping the advance of whoever it was that chased them in that Ribena advert. Except here they’re more like sub-atomic gingerbread men with huge woeful faces made of icing because they’ve seen me approaching and it’s all aaah-aaah because they know they’re done for and then I catch up with them then they’re all squashed #the end.