The other night, I took the initiative as my fella shuffled into bed. Pulling back the covers to find me wearing little more on my lap than a laptop, I demurely enquired if he fancied something for a sensitive bladder.
Granted, his response wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but he gave it sufficient consideration to pause and ask what the catch was. Oh alright. It’s a free sample, I confessed, before proceeding with a cut ‘n’ paste diatribe on the consequences of the legal infringement of my privacy following a consultation with Dr. Google. The screen margins were festooned thereafter with ads offering character-building treatments for tearful organs.
How can they get away with this?, I Mary-Robinson-clawed, fully expecting a customary shrug of his shoulders. They were not forthcoming. Instead, I’d detonated a ‘good one’ about how a bloke he knows remarked on an official footy merchandise site he was unimpressed with the plethora of Thai Brides ads all over it. My bloke went on to have another chuckle to himself, insisting his bladder could withstand the pressure. Unlike my irrational levels of paranoia.
For reasons I don’t fully understand, I exported this blog to Twitter, and accepted an invitation from another parent at our one’s school to join their Facebook group the previous week. Which meant signing up to both. On The Same Day. All part of my new fuck-it attitude. One of those fleeting feelings I frequently mistake for will-power. Like giving over giving out about Bono, and exercising. In reality, I had committed the social media equivalent of turning up at the gym in a bathrobe wondering if I could leave my sunglasses on while taking a nap on the rowing machine without anybody noticing. It didn’t take long for the feeling to flee.
But there I was, hovering above the stab button on an offensively saccharine platitude, putting sensitive bladder treatments together with Sharon who went to St. Catherine’s but who I might like to be friends with anyway because she’s also friends with Julie who liked the aforementioned platitude, and getting an almighty Munch Scream. I legged it out of both with all the speed of someone about to wet themselves. It was the sensitive blatherer in me.
You like top 5s and German Asparagus Festivals?
So does your boss, and your mother-in-law, and your cousin Yvonne!
STEP AWAY FROM THE FACEBOOK. The best thing to do is just spy on people who don’t keep it private. Of course, you miss out on all the really juicy platitudes, but it’s better than them bothering you. The influx of adverts just because you skimmed over a site are very annoying, even more so when you’ve actually bought the damned thing. I’m having another go at the exercise malarkey. Third attempt at getting past week 3 of couch25K. This time we’re going big – trying for a 10k. We’ve done two days of week one, and have already misplaced one of our trio.
Birdie, I believe you can fly. I believe you can turn off Sky. Fair play. I’ll be cheering you on from a sinking sofa. For a moment I thought that said 25k. I feared for our friendship, but luckily it was a misreading. Facebook is the worst hen party I’ve ever encountered. And Twitter feels like roaring into the void, if I ever managed to open my trap for long enough. Neither are for me. At least I tried, and in here I can talk to myself ad nauseam without the pressure of character limitations. Or anyone reading, apart from your fine feathered self.
Exactly. And we have proper conversations. Heck, sometimes we’re even online together.
And as if by magic you’re here 😀 BTW I have actually just posted a post 😉 You’ll have to come over and chip in; otherwise it won’t count. It will be like a bear shitting in the wood with no one around to step in it. A bit like my previous offering…. :-(((((
*little jig* Begorrah I will. What’s this about a last offering, eh, EH. If I’ve missed a post, I’ll…I’ll….*shakes fist menacingly at self*