As I lie here on the sofa, shrouded in a thick checked picnic blanket and an even thicker swathe of self-pity (having been struck down in my prime by a hateful lurgy that is currently laying siege to my bank-holiday-battered immune system), a number of issues are playing on my mind.
Firstly, Twitter.
As a long-term Crackbook addict (and self-styled Status Update Queen), I appreciate the hypocrisy of what I'm about to say, but since the dawn of even newer social networking mediums such as Twitter I've felt reluctant to get involved. I suppose in part this has to do with the following:
a) I don't understand how it works - always a surefire way to ensure you miss a trend
b) I'm genuinely concerned if I get addicted to one more social networking site my real life networking skills will suffer irreperably
c) The whole idea of people giving moment-by-moment updates of the mundane goings-on in their lives - not to mention other people wanting to read them - makes me feel depressed
d) I can't help feeling it gives the youth of today (listen to me with my granny chat at the grand old age of 28!) yet another excuse to misuse the English language
e) The @ signs on Twitter annoy me - bad grammar!
In spite of the above, I have to admit I'm feeling the pressure to conform now more than ever. Not only are the vast majority of my writing friends Tweeting away merrily without so much as a backward glance, but I've also heard so many Twitter-related writing success stories it's got me thinking; am I missing out?
Next Issue: The 'I'm Never Happy' Conundrum
A few weeks ago I met a boy (albeit a very drunk boy) outside a curry house in Birmingham's student area. We clicked. We exchanged phone numbers. We texted a few times over the following weeks. And, on bank holiday weekend, we met up. Not once, not twice, but three times! He is interesting, funny, affectionate and kind. He is also - at 25 - a good deal closer to my age than the last few ill-fated liaisons have been. He even, for reasons entirely unfathomable to me, finds my natural stupidity amusing - endearing, even. And he brought me chocolates (Ferrero Rochers!). But. Always a but. And this particular But concluded at 5pm yesterday afternoon with me commenting to a bemused colleague as she prepared to leave the office: "I have a horrible feeling there may still be a boy in my bed."
He sleeps, you see. An awful lot, from what I can make out. On Saturday, for example, he slept until 7.30pm. On Monday he slept until 4.30pm. And yesterday, my housemate informs me, he failed to leave my house until gone 3pm -when I'd left for work at 8am and he'd promised to be gone by 10am! Not that the sleeping thing alone is enough for me to rule him out. I just have that familiar sinking feeling, you know the one, voice of Roy Walker in my head saying 'He's good but he's not right.' Not that I'm desperate to meet Mr Right now, given my imminent plans to travel, but I'd still love to know why it is I'm never happy with the boys I meet; they're either all about the looks but arrogant bastards underneath, or all about the personality but not quite up to scratch in the sexiness department. Am I asking too much to want both? Or just a perfect combination of the two?
I'm also mulling over my vote in tomorrow's election. In spite of my dire lack of political knowledge and the somewhat depressing website I viewed earlier which claimed my vote would make no difference whatsoever to the outcome, I am planning to haul my diseased carcass down to the voting office before work. Why? Because I couldn't bear to become the sort of person who waxes lyrical about the country going to rack and ruin but can't be bothered to do a blind thing about it. Maybe it won't make a difference, but that's hardly the attitude to go through life with now, is it? You have to believe you can make a difference. Then maybe, just maybe, you actualy will.
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