Chapter I

The afternoon was spent Bluetoothing and after work I get my vehicle back from some Billy Joel clone faggot in Corstorphine, fitted with an elegant all new in one in car DVD GPS unit, which has screens, amps, TV and radio, prime navigation and spectacular AV performance from a compact, attractive package that is incredibly easy to operate and offers streamlined functionality. It comes in din and double din sizes so is a direct replacement for my existing CD/radio. I am very excited about the prospect of satisfying my hi-tech entertainment needs with a unit that pays maximum attention to flexibility, practicality and performance. It was my first impulse purchase of the day. Something I needed, although I had started looking for a 3/4 length winter coat that looked good rather than blocked the wind. This is truly the unit. My hands shake as I anticipate stepping into the world of DVD GPS, experiencing images and sounds that I never imagined possible. I almost burst when I see that I have fully integrated snooper alert. Military strategists agree that successful defence begins with good intelligence about the enemy. The patented warning system relies on both forward - and rearward - facing radar antennas (front and rear laser sensors too). It goes beyond Ordinary Detectors by telling me - on every alert - where to look, and how many speed cameras to look for.

Using the stylish wide-screen on-dash motorised touch panel I input my destination into the state of the art DVD Cyber Navi unit, a precise, high-end navigation system that will take me door-to-door across Europe without changing a single disc. I cruise to the Gyle Shopping Centre, winner of the Jean-Louis Solal Award for 'Customer Care Programme' April 1994, where I easily find a space among the 2,500 free parking spaces with dedicated special needs parking. While I initiate the DVD viewing sequence of the new in one in car DVD GPS unit I think I'm right about shows reflecting shifting values. I think that I'm right about the men on TV being, mostly, emasculated. I think I'm right that the tone is more negative, more depressing. TV takes its cues from 9/11. This will be great for my MBA thesis. Only about 350 words written in total, but some really good thinking about what would be the inhabitants of my political system dedicated to a philosophy of integration and versatility - not users of the internet, or their computers, but in fact it's going to be technologies.

Taking care not to touch the flat part of the disk with my black leather gloves, I select a new DVD from my in-car collection. The show I'm watching has a guest appearance from a guy who was once in Magnum PI. I love his guest appearances. His character is compelling, and well-played. If anyone has a beef with this new bodice-ripper show, it's him. He tried for years to get a new Magnum PI produced, only to have his vision passed over for the one we received. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he's as bitter as Benedict is, but I'm happy to see him coming to terms with the show as produced. It doesn't fall into the same trap Magnum PI fell into: lots of teasing, but no payoff. It's fun for some losers to have these little mysteries string us along, but it's not fun when nothing is ever resolved, when the mysterious is couched in more mystery. It's not fun when some little plot piece is revealed only to have some bigger mystery behind it.

There isn't actually a lot of dramatic action happening - much of the story revolves around the psychology. I'm momentarily distracted from my critical analysis by a couple of doggers in the Ford Focus parked just behind my vehicle. I re-adjust the rearview mirror to reflect a view of the 500 seater food court. I don't think the desultory, fragmented nature of being in the lower end of shopping experience car park echoes my rather uninterested attitude when watching this actual DVD. My problem is that there seems to be acting and singing going on at the same time, but in a disassociated way. And whether it's inherent, or the way they're directed, they just seem two-dimensional cyphers of characters.

Chapter II

As the ComCab shuffles leisurely past the Zoo, where this simian-minion almost certainly lives, I presume that the detailed directions conveyed by email a few hours ago are sufficient admonition of my intended destination. It muffles something in plain grunts through the antiquated intercom system. I can just about make out the word 'fasten' and accordingly secure my cufflinks. I then snap on my Sennheiser Active Noise Reduction headphones to lessen the offending droning, instantly creating an elegant, calm and more welcoming environment. I take a quick snap of the luminescent plate bearing the licence number with my navimobile and email it to the Evening News picture desk lest I'm destined for a soggy Queensferry grave, then adjust my Mobile Airband Radio to the Aerodrome Terminal Information Service Frequency 131.35 to snare any caveats of aeronautical jihad.

The ComCab, which is equipped with small plasma billboard, offers quite breathtaking data viewing options. As energising as a shot of caffeine, I greedily initiate the Bluetooth sequence on my fully integrated Blackberry GPS Radio Frequency Identification mobile and synch the purpose-built TX2 taxi's plasma screen to enjoy viewing a refreshingly larger image of my own targeted portfolio of webcasted advertisements (Molton Brown, Lib-Dems, Bang & OIufsen, Ingleby Gallery, Valvona and Corolla, Bloomberg, the new Garbage CD). As I watch a short feature on the ways in which Brazilian suma ginseng helps boost circulation and stimulates the energy banks, while essential oils of juniper berry, cinnamon, oak moss, armoise and geranium revitalise the senses, I think about how I love ID card proposals with an unmistakably refined passion, and certainly have no problem with retention of email/SMS/phone data/GPS/RFID. It's fun to be in demand.

My handheld naviphone contains all of my financial, legal and medical records, making it unnecessary for me to go through check-in, keeping my libido high without any drowsiness. The bottleneck at Newbridge roundabout has been eradicated allowing me to slip modestly into Scotland's fast-growing east coast airport, a hub within easy access of Fife, Tayside and Aberdeenshire, Edinburgh and the Borders. Central West Scotland and beyond. The taximeter which calculates and clearly displays the ongoing correct fare for every journey within the City area, accords with the approximation on my naviphone. Omitting the discretionary gratuities, I begrudgingly input the de rigueur PIN to authorise my transaction, all the while complaining that the ComCab lacks full RFID mobile wallet e-cash compliance.

I am unreservedly dismayed when, having trekked nearly 7 miles in a public taxi, I am left to transit without the assistance and convenience of a covered moving walkway. While I am cognisant of arriere-garde arguments that favour al fresco pursuits, I am far more convinced by queueless personalized air-conditioned stress-free environments. Scarred by the plazaless environment, I walk through the automatic doors, (as they must all be), and head straight for the escalator. I notice as I touch the moving handrail that the escalator has been alloyed from an ancient formula, then plated in palladium to provide a polished, scratch-resistant finish. As I ascend, the peripheral vision around my Blackberry surreptitiously allows me to acknowledge that the terminal is swarming with unprepossessing simpletons ascetically clad in gym apparel, trailing their stingy sacks and pallid progeny. An ill-fitting Burton prostrates his Amex at a Self-Service Check-in kiosk. I'm cool and confident having checked in online 18 hours ago through a wireless connection at Schiphol while waiting in the Safire Suite to be KLMd back to the Capital.

At the top of the escalator lies gastronomic purgatory, the Granada Food Village where a variety of high mark-up calorific reheats are available to the unpalatable unpallated. While Burger King and Brioche Dorree are eternally denied my custom, I am a regular patron of the Village Grill. The Village Grill's exclusive Polish caterers have long afforded me with toasted bread which, at £2 per slice, forms an adequately expensive loaf to feed to the swans that congregate beneath the balconies of my mockdock apartment. Clutching my Plantinum Club World Aristoclass ticket, I then endure wafting past Franklins of Boston and J D Wetherspoon before encountering the world renowned Jenners where I leave forwarding addresses for the next 36 hours. While I'm filling in the form with a NASA biro, Jenners' professional gift-wrappers add a special touch to my Village Grill loaf for a small fee before dispatching it to my mockdock. All along I think about how much I want to bring some of this heart-home to new world markets and how I want to be part of profiting from the lives of such professional craftsfolk. I want to do a small thing to keep alive such traditions that have developed over a thousand years, so that future generations can continue to enjoy the discreetly serviced sanctuary that is the dedicated Priority Pass Lounge.