‘I don’t understand why you would blog about not being on Twitter’, said a friend this weekend.
At the time, I’d had a couple of shandies and didn’t think anything of it.
Later, when I’d sobered up, I wondered what she’d meant. She didn’t understand why it would be difficult to leave Twitter for a month? She didn’t get why I would choose to write about my experiences? Or why I would choose to share the links on Facebook?
I don’t know.
Maybe you have to both be on Twitter and suspect that you’re spending far more much time and energy on it to understand the first. It’s seductive, it sucks you in, leads you down rabbit holes and before you know it, an hour or more has gone by. Or maybe it’s having a slightly addictive personality … in the same way that I can’t leave a bar of chocolate unfinished. I don’t drink, smoke or gamble, but maybe I am a Twitter-Addict. It can’t just be me … or maybe it is.
Anyone else feel the same?
As for the second, I’m a writer and I like to write about things. I like to write about my thoughts and experiences and if I can occasionally entertain, inform or educate, then so much the better. Some things may resonate with people, most probably won’t. I don’t expect anyone to read everything – or even anything – I write. If you don’t fancy it, don’t read it.
Back to the withdrawal symptoms … and I’m pleased to say the weekend was a doozie. I was out and about – on the archaeological dig, at a party, at a family do – and barely gave Twitter a thought. In fact, it was so far from my mind that I forgot to post. Today the urge came across me at the most random moment. I saw that poor Nigel Farage had a milkshake thrown over him and I really wanted to see what Twitter made of that.
How random is that?!
Anyway, instead of giving in to my urge to read about Brexit, I signed up to work in a polling station on Thursday.
Onwards and upwards and thanks for reading!