In which I discover that I am not too cool for Pokemon Go

I am much too cool to be playing Pokemon Go. It should be obvious just from looking at me, in my high-waisted trousers and the Nike shoes with the big gold ticks on the side. Sometimes I just sit and look at them on my feet, and feel pleased about my life. People with shoes like that, as cool as that, they live good lives. I am much too cool to be playing Pokemon Go.

Yesterday, I took the bus home, rather than the tube. There are many feasible reasons for this. The Tube is London’s armpit, a dark, festering, hairy, prickly, fetid space, moist and sad and sticky and awful – and for that reason I avoid it when I can. The bus is less expensive, which is good, since I just bought an entirely unnecessary bomber jacket, covered all over in palm leaves (nothing necessary in your life ever comes covered all over with palm leaves). The bus drops me much closer to my house than the tube – it’s all relative, since the walk from the tube station to my house is 5 minutes, and the walk from the bus stop is 40 seconds, and so neither journey is likely to involve a ring and some elves, but even so, even so.

I could tell any of these reasons to anyone and they would believe me, while also wondering why on earth I was telling them about my commute when they really wanted to talk to me about how best to market their new mascara with a magnifying mirror embedded on the side of the tube (why did no one think of this before) – but they are not the reason. They are not my reason.

My reason is three electronic eggs, green and white, which I am incubating, quietly. This could be a comment on my fertility, an oblique clue to my mother, but it isn’t, since any offspring I ever have is unlikely to bear any similarity from what is due to hatch from these eggs: a blind grey bat fluttering frantic wings, a small yellow electronic mouse. My children, since you asked, will be unusually good looking but humble; academically gifted but also able to ace a serve even in bright sunlight. Since you asked.

If you asked me which Pokemon I most relate to, I would have to say Jinx, the hovering frantic frightening woman, with round red breasts and long blonde hair. That might be why I’m disappointed when I see her, but still try and catch her. There’s a teaching in that.

Sometimes the bus goes too fast, through the London traffic, and my app won’t be tricked into thinking I’m Usain Bolt, sprinting through the crowded streets to hatch my egg. It stops and waits, stalling the distance tracker, as Trafalgar Square and Regent’s Street flash past. I’m slightly judgmental of the hoards of tourists with yellow bags, darting between the buses like they want to die. But I’m not really watching them, not really, as my avatar sprints through blue streets, sometimes lost, sometimes pausing.

She and I have things in common. We both carry more than we need. We both like shorts and tights. We both get lost easily in the streets of London, waiting for an arrow or a sign to draw us back on track.

I toss balls with abandon on the bus (not really. London drivers wouldn’t have it, though no one complained when an old man spat throatily into my hair, once). This is the virtual part of my reality, watching white and red balls spin and tumble past children in prams and the hunched hoods of teens. And yes, in case you’re wondering, I’m not very good. I miss a lot.

I’m much too cool for Pokemon Go, but I’m still sitting at my desk with my app open and my phone plugged in, slowly heating up from the pressure of all the Pokemon; a man named Rob has set a lure in the office and I’m waiting to fill in all those shadows with forms, with my own coterie of Pokemon.

I was much too cool for Pokemon, but then I thought about it: I have a pocket full of monsters. Comparing that to Tinder (a pocket full of assholes), I’m doing all right.

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