I miss free gifts.
Not because
they were free.
They weren’t.
You bought
the comic.
Or the magazine.
Or the cereal.
The gift simply
came along.
Doctor Who Magazine.
A cardboard Dalek.
Transfers.
Badges.
Fold-out posters.
Sometimes
a tiny plastic thing
sealed
inside a cloudy bag.
You couldn’t wait
to get home.
Sometimes
the gift
was better
than the magazine.
Or perhaps
the magazine
was secretly
the packaging.
That seems
the wrong way round.
Or perhaps
exactly
the right way round.
Panini knew this.
So did Frosties.
Little figures.
Dinosaurs.
Roman soldiers.
Famous people.
Things
small enough
to lose.
Important enough
to remember.
I wonder
if we’ve forgotten
how much
we like collecting.
Not collecting
for money.
Collecting
because things
belong together.
The complete set.
Seventy-eight tarot cards.
A full sticker album.
Every Doctor.
Every monster.
Every tree.
The pleasure
isn’t ownership.
It’s completion.
There comes
a lovely moment
when you realise
there aren’t
any more.
The collection
is finished.
You close the box.
Smile.
Platforms
don’t understand
finished.
There is always
another post.
Another notification.
Another recommendation.
Another scroll.
The end
keeps moving.
Maybe
that’s why
they’re exhausting.
A museum
has an exit.
A garden
has a gate.
A good book
has
a final page.
Mr Benn
always went home.
He carried
something
in his pocket.
Not a prize.
Not a trophy.
A reminder.
Proof
that somewhere impossible
had briefly
been real.
That tiny object
was doing
far more work
than it appeared.
It wasn’t
worth anything.
It simply said,
“I was there.”
Perhaps
that’s
what a token is.
Not ownership.
Evidence.
Memory
made portable.
NFTs.
Non-Fungible Tokens.
An oddly
unfriendly name.
When they appeared,
those curious
digital collectibles
that briefly promised
ownership
of digital things,
I became curious.
Not because
I wanted
to own one.
Because
they asked
an ancient question.
How do we carry
a place
home?
Then
almost overnight
they answered
a different question.
How do we prove
we own
a thing?
The answer
became
more important
than the question.
That felt
like a shame.
I don’t think
digital places
need investments.
I think
they need
souvenirs.
A postcard.
A bookmark.
A tiny fish.
A folded map.
A brass key.
A pressed leaf.
A tarot card.
Something
that quietly says,
“Take me
with you.”
Not everything
needs
a subscription.
Sometimes
I’d rather
buy
one beautiful thing.
A proper postcard.
One
oversized
tarot card.
Write on it.
Put a stamp
on it.
Send it
to someone
you like.
Let it travel
more slowly
than the internet.
That somehow
feels important.
I’ve started
wondering
whether
every digital place
deserves
a gift shop.
Not a shop,
exactly.
Somewhere
the visit
continues.
Museums
understand this.
You don’t buy
the postcard
instead
of visiting.
You buy it
because
you don’t quite
want
the visit
to end.
That’s different.
The object
extends
the place.
Maybe
websites
could do that.
Not ask
for another minute.
Offer
a small memory.
The web
used to feel
more like this.
There were
odd little websites.
Guest books.
Tiny GIFs.
Personal pages.
Independent places.
The digital equivalent
of independent bookshops.
Little cafés.
Village halls.
Second-hand bookshops.
Places
with character.
Now
we mostly
have platforms.
Very efficient.
Very useful.
Rather like
motorways.
I don’t want
to live
on a motorway.
I want
to visit
small places.
Places
that leave
something behind.
That’s really
what I’m writing about.
Places.
Real ones.
Imagined ones.
Digital ones.
Places
worth remembering.
I’d like
every article here
to leave you
with something.
A postcard.
A sticker.
A tarot card.
A map.
A tiny creature.
A curious object.
I don’t have
those things.
Yet.
But I’m
working on them.
Perhaps
that’s what
this place
will become.
Not a platform.
A place.
And if
I’m lucky,
one day
you’ll finish
reading one
of these essays,
reach the end,
and instead
of seeing
“Please subscribe”
you’ll simply find
a small gift
waiting for you.
Because
every place
should leave you
with something.
