Had it not been for the Gods of these times, such as they are, I wouldn't have known what to do with myself. O Twitter, O Facebook, you beautiful scrolling bastards.
I post the following to Facebook...
Wake. Decide on another half an hour's sleep. Reach for phone/alarm to reset it. Find pint of water on bedside locker. Pint of water swoons a bit, wipes its feet, drops. Water water everywhere. Wake in blind panic. Cuss wildly, loudly, vituperatively. Hold head in hands. Walk to bathroom. Find toilet roll. Return to find doused documents and brand new Empire magazine. Cuss again. Wipe, soak, weep and get dressed.
I take out my knife, my fork to anchor it, and cut the update into three bite-sized tweets, losing a couple of adjectival flourishes here and there, and post it back to front.
I imagine this to be the piece of honeyed prose to break down the wall between couched Thursday afternoons and sombreros on some imagined beach, and wait for the 'Share' icon, that luscious little piece of code, to go blip blip blip at the mastery of my careless grasping, made verbose.
Then the inevitable. The little red lad in the top left hand corner signalling comments from my sister, my father, my mother, and not a one of them registering the least surprise at my early morning fumbling. The latter went so far as to label me a gobshite. Even Milhouse's mother thought he was 'cool,' whatever the blazes that word means. A few other sympathisers, but the cognoscenti silent.
I pick up not one new Twitter follower, nor do I follow anyone else, and it is only now that I wonder what the great man, my grandfather, would have thought of such preoccupations as social media, social networking, social being without the social doing.
He'd laugh, fix his paper, say "you're some crackpot!" and go back to the crossword. Then ask how to sign up.