I’ve joined ‘Twittter’. Well, you read about it everywhere: all the bright young things ‘do it’, and the terminally-hip. I am neither of these things, but, undeterred, I signed up.
It’s easy; pop in your details, then wow the world with your first ‘tweet’. But oh, the tyranny of the blank page. What shall I write? It must be something pithy, something good. But what’s this? I have one follower?
How can I possibly have a follower? I only signed up a minute ago. I begin to sweat at the thought of how this person knows I’m here when I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. My follower is in America, (how global, how exciting) and she asks, ‘are you fascinating?’
The sweat runs cold. I consider drowning my new-born account and running for the hills. Why am I doing this anyway? My hands shake. It takes ten minutes of type-delete-type before I muster something floppy about joining twitter.
I click ‘tweet’ and my offering flutters away into cyber world. I glow with maternal pride. I wonder if my new friend will be impressed.
Thirty seconds later and the screen updates.
I now have no followers.