I like a map. I can’t be doing with some computerised woman telling me which way to go in my own car. No thanks, I’ll stick with a map, some pig-headed perserverance and the sure knowledge that if a map says it exists then it does, no matter how long it takes me to find it.
One of my sisters will tell the tale of “catching” me reading the A-Z of London at bedtime. I wouldn’t say I was reading it as such but I was certainly looking at its pages. This was years ago, but if push had ever come to shove I reckon I could have taken the Knowledge.
Now the Other End of the Sofa has accused me similarly. This time of reading a map on Google. Why? he wanted to know.
Because, I said, maps are always the same. Things don’t move on maps. I can look at one and remind myself of where places are, or I can look at one and find out where places I haven’t been yet are. They stay the same, they don’t mess me about and they are never boring.
I didn’t also say it’s either look at a map of East Sussex or watch the television, and frankly in a head-to-head between Keith Allen scrubbing the floor and a bit of Ordnance Survey there’s no contest.