What’s happening in the world? PLEASE TELL ME. I’m having to curate my own reading and it’s awful.
(I’ve given up Twitter for Lent. It feels like I’m living in 1997.)
Things I haven’t been able to say, but have absently turned into 140- characters in my head:
- How *brilliant* the revival of A Chorus Line is and what a nice evening I had out with Helen
- Politely plug anything I’ve written
- The brilliant Fleet Street Fox launch party, and marvellous personalised invitation
- Any time I read a wonderful article or see something particularly ridiculous on the internet
“For God’s sake, don’t write about life without Twitter,” begged Olly, half-hungover, half-clutching wine, 100 per cent hating the endless (usually) smug articles churned out by hacks about how their social media detoxes leave them better people.
Completely fair enough. I fail to understand how anyone living without Twitter is a better person. The good thing about not having it is that my concentration has stabilised; I’m not constantly looking at my phone wondering when I opened the app, or anxiously checking for @ messages to validate my existence that morning. I can focus better. I just don’t have anything to focus on because life is being reported on Twitter.
Where I would have found out the horrendous news about Oscar Pistorius and his girlfriend as it happened, I heard about it through a news email, sent after it had all been verified, and feeling oddly like I was slightly out of the world, rather than in it. I have no idea what the Harlem Shake is. I had to google it when a friend posted about it on Facebook because I am using Facebook as a Twitter replacement. But most of all, I miss all the people who I’ve never met in real life, but who are as much a part of my daily grind as air and the 42 bus. That, and having an entire ongoing newspaper curated for me throughout the day.
This evening I’m off to have drinks with IRL friends I met off Twitter, and I can’t wait. I shall make them talk to me in hashtags, and tell me who’s been drastically offended by whom.
Instead of Twitter I have been singing with gusto and half-pints of Estrella
As part of my not-a-resolution to get more involved locally, I auditioned to join a choir. I come down with a cold every time I have a singing audition, but this time I was laid up with full-blown flu. I filled myself with drugs and slid to Kennington, hoping my shiny forehead and slightly crossed eyes wouldn’t put them off. What do you know! Flu works! That or they really, really needed a second alto.
Being as the last time I auditioned for anything vocal I was about 20 years old, I figured I have to have grown a pair of sizeable bravery bollocks in the last 10 years. At last night’s rehearsal I auditioned for a solo in a beautiful arrangement of Heartbeats by our insanely clever musical director, Dom Stichbury. I managed to hold off a cold this time, thanks to judicious use of half an Estrella and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, and did an audition that was 30% vibrato, 30% cold room, 40% nerves making me judder like a pneumatic drill.
Reader, I got the reserve slot and a short, surprisingly high later solo. Score!
Cat Brown! An update!
The lovely Ambridge, whose woes were detailed here in Instagrammed maudlinity a few weeks back, was carried across town to Wimbledon last week for the latest in a series of ferociously expensive vet visits. This time on veterinary Ambingo, it was for a heart ultrasound. I felt so guilty leaving her there – she really isn’t keen – but was instantly distracted by how INSANELY UPMARKET Wimbledon has got since I lived round there. I mean, it was quite Sloanily posh 20 years ago, but not DvF and branches of Matches and The Bloody Kooples. I collected the cat that evening and she howled all the way home, presumably sharing my sadness at Annabel’s patisserie having been replaced by a candle shop.
The cat has hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. I don’t understand either, so went straight to google. As it’s not too advanced and cats wildly loathe meds, she’s not going to have any tablets until a check in another six months. Intriguingly, the vet reckoned she’s older than five, but you can’t tell a cat’s age. Presumably they’re like trees, and you’d have to cut them in half and check the rings. I can envisage Ambridge’s face at that prospect, and it’s not massively thrilled.
A cat flap is being fitted in a couple of weeks, and then I’ll just have to cross my fingers that the previously indoors-only creature doesn’t decide to bite a car, or swat one of the panthers that line my street. Til then it’s life as normal, a giddy whirl of sooty paw prints on white surfaces, climbing the clothes horse, sledging down the bathtub and nibbling my wrist and courting of plastics. She’s developed a penchant for using my hip as a ledge, and would quite like to sleep in an arm pit if given half the chance. All laps belong to her, and all surfaces that look like they are or could be beds. The look of filthy outrage when she was told, firmly, that my friend’s baby basket was off limits was amazing and monumental. Don’t die for a good few years yet love, you’re far too much fun.