[A phone ringing. Call centre operative #MSC11519 answers.]
J: Good morning, you’re through to John, how can I help you today?
I: I have, so it would appear, broken through at last.
J: Yes. And how may I help you, Mr… ?
I: Call me Ishmael.
J: Ishmael. Right. Is there anything in particular I can help you with today, Ishmael?
I: Some years ago – never mind how long precisely – having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and –
J: Sir? Ishmael? You’re through to John. Do you have a –
I: I have broken through.
[Silence.]
Whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever the rush-hour tedium catches my heart mid-beat, and turns the roaring red traffic of my blood to a turgid mass; whenever the sky looms whale-white in a thousand mirrored windows, lower and lower; and the squat city starves midst a flood of excess information, every tenacious wire screaming light, light, and data – then I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.
This is my substitute for pistol and ball.
[John hangs up.]
