There was 468 words, 2181 characters, 464 spaces in this beginning (and then I wrote the title)

Well here I am, newly emerged from the electronic estate agents, digital keys jangling in my e-pocket and a hopefully welcoming cyber-doormat emerging from my fingertips – if technological rebirth floats your fancy in any way, then I hope you’re having something approaching a boat-tickling time.

A few years back, I was living in a shared house – occupying a room just big enough for a single bed, a wardrobe and a window – and as I lay there one evening, musing the kind of things one does before entering rehab from wakefulness,  an agreeable  rendition of Country and Western wisdom came beaming in over the radio waves.

For some reason, this chorus that, until today I had heard only once in 4 or 5 years, has loosely stayed with me ever since; probably more because of George Harrison’s catchy interpretation of pithy wisdom than because it’s a motto which has guided me through life.

Not that it hasn’t felt a tempting prospect at times but, like starting a religion, only a little pondering was needed before the odd drawback began to shimmy it’s way into existence.

Nevertheless, the lyrics  have cropped up in both my conversation and my thoughts since; it’s an argument with a ring of truth and, at times such as this, provides the most appropriate Radio 2 story for the occasion.

These words are being written whilst on a train traveling from London to Liverpool. A quick play with the GPS on my phone has revealed that I’m a bit to the west of Northampton (actually, having just had a toilet break, a read of the Wikipedian history of Radio 2 and a prolonged marvel out the window at just how much green space there is in this pleasant land of ours, the train is just pulling into Stafford).

But anyway, wherever it is, I know where I am – to within 1700m – which I find quite interesting, and hope might have the potential to be rather useful.

I also have a whole series of destinations lined up for the next few days; Liverpool Lime Street in 40 minutes time, the Bluecoat tonight and tomorrow, the banks of the Mersey on Sunday afternoon, Euston on Sunday night. As I write, my abysmal ability to avoid destinations – geographically and otherwise – is growing more and more apparent.

Destinations are like gangbangs. They only come in series.

C’est le vice.

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Tim Jeeves is an artist and writer who, at certain junctures, in particular contexts and amidst a myriad of other inclinations, will turn his attention towards the flexibility of identity.
Aware that these words may invalidate such investigations by being read as a statement of a constant self, he has embarked on a project entitled 'Artist’s Statefragment'.
Viewable at www.timjeeves.com , this work, written in hypertext, enables an increasing number of artist statements, each addressing a different aspect of his practice, to be viewed non-linearly and with fluctuating priority.
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