8/100, Things My Wi-Fi Knows

I think sometimes of the things my Wi-Fi knows. I think sometimes of my Wi-Fi as a living thing. I think sometimes it is right to think of it like this. I think sometimes of a person on the other end, collating the data it brings them; the locations, the time between each, when it falls out, when it connects again. I think sometimes although I would rather not, of their intent. I think sometimes how they might build a picture not just of where I am but of my proclivities.

In the last 24 hours my Wi-Fi has connected to southern trains, the last Tuesday society, lady mildmay, a friend’s flat in Canonbury, Dean Street Townhouse, Waterstones, The Ivy, Arket, Tate Modern Members’ bar. I’ve trained it well, it no longer requires the passwords to any of these, just connects automatically. Does it connect when I walk past buildings I’ve been in? I have not thought to check until now. Is it always sending out a pulse into the city, looking for my ghost?

It think sometimes how I want to write a book about the tube. I think I want this book to be a declaration of love. I have heard that most other people find the tube to be claustrophobic or dirty or mildly terrifying or just terrifying. I find it soothing. I find I could spend all day in it. When I’m in it, I often find myself playing disaster scenarios over and over. I find these to be soothing. I like the tunnels. I like how far you can walk without ever surfacing. I like the differently patterned seats for every line. I like the pollution particles in the air. The like the fear of The Gap at Bank on the Central Line. I like the tiles at Warren Street, the exceptionally wide platform at Angel’s southern branch, the stairs at Covent Garden. I have a particular affinity with the shabbiness of the Victoria Line and the filth of the Northern.

I think now the reason I have grown especially fond of the tube is that my Wi-Fi fails to stalk me underground. I wander with impunity. There, I am as unreachable as I am untraceable. There is no past imprint, no present one, it feels like being situated back in 1996. The last generation to know what it’s like just to go somewhere and go entirely alone.