Twitter, you’re with me last thing at night and first thing in the morning, but recently my feed just seems so cluttered up with anger and spite. Not that I want videos about kittens and puppies all the time, or snaps of people on their holidays with sunbeams spangling the rims of their goblets of rose, but nor do I want what’s increasingly a daily dump of scorn and hate.
I scroll for news and inspiration for stories and insights from admirable people but lately there’s less inspiration and a lot more white hot fury than I feel up to dealing with at 11pm or dawn.
Things that people are middle finger emoji furious about include Twitter boss Jack Dorsey not muzzling the very nasty Sandy Hook denier Alex Jones; everything Ivanka does or says; everything Gemma O’Doherty does or says; the mere fact of Steve Bannon; the hideous trinity of Corbyn, Boris and Rees-Mogg; cheating exes and big game hunters.
Of course we all create our own worlds on Twitter and so this is my world and its my own fault if it’s full of expletives but I’ve tried to change things. A poet tweeted that since she had started following more history and philosophy folk, her feed had calmed down a lot. I followed her suggestions, but it didn’t make a difference – I’m still getting Donald loving Fox News presenters who say terrible things through their blond bangs and white teeth.
Seems that the history, art and philosophy people don’t tweet as often as the really angry ones who are full-time disgusted at just about everything from taking the knee to the reduced size of Greggs sausage rolls.
This week, did anyone catch Nathan, an angry man absolutely ripping into a young influencer – name blocked out so we don’t know who the poor woman is – all because of an Instagram post she put up? Rio’s museum was burning and journalists were being jailed in Myanamar for telling a story but still over 109,000 people were liking Nathan frothing at the mouth over this woman’s picture. Was she posing over a giraffe she’d just shot? No, she was sitting up in bed, in pink pyjamas, surrounded by heart-shaped balloons, dreamy pillows and breakfast in bed – three strawberries and a plate of folded pancakes that look suspiciously like tortilla wraps. She’d added a message that drew the eye to her bedside table and its very large bottle of Listerine. The message was all about making a positive start to the day, code for banishing dragon breath.
I eased onto one of those yoga mats that have spikes all over them and found it strangely comforting
Of course it was a paid partnership with Listerine, and a girl has to make a living, but Twitter wasn’t holding back. “ F*** off if this is anyone’s normal morning” said grumpy Nathan, opening up a very long thread of nasty comments, and not about him. There were all kind of ugly pics about how the rest of us start our days, and a lot of tweets hoping that this woman with perfect eyebrows was going to step on a piece of Lego directly she got out of that bed. I felt mean just reading the thread.
Burst of enthusiasm
Personally, I started this week getting up very gingerly, unlike a week earlier when, in an influencer-like burst of enthusiasm, I had sprung out of bed with pep and purpose. Showered, dressed, ready to go and all before 7am, all that was lacking was a clean pair of socks. It felt great. The socks were airing on a radiator downstairs and, going to fetch them, one of my feet landed in a pool of greenish dog vomit. Oh well, if I have anything in common with the brilliant Paul Howard it’s that I am a fool for my dog so instead of cursing I worried about her grass-eating habit. Then, a bit less influencer like, I hopped upstairs again on one foot. Nothing for it but to hoist my vomity foot up into the wash hand basin and sluice.
This gave me a bit of a turn. Ten minutes later I couldn’t sit, walk or lie down. My burst of efficiency was over. I had banjaxed my back for the first time ever. Everyone else had to go to work or school and suddenly I was fulfilling a long held ambition of being in bed on a work day with no one and nothing to bother me, except for the excruciating pain. A kind colleague messaged to say that that heat and Nurofen were my only friends now.
My elderly father arrived with tablets. I eased onto one of those yoga mats that have spikes all over them and found it strangely comforting for about five minutes.
The tablets wore off and I got stuck on a landing not able to go up or down stairs. I could not brush my teeth (never mind rinse with Listerine), other ablutions were out of the question. I had a blizzard of texts with suggestions for physios and osteopaths and mystic healers down the country with month long waiting lists.
Back sufferers. Who knew there were so many of them? You humans with strong, flexible backs have no idea what they go through. What we go through. Do you realise that there are people who reach for a toothbrush in a certain way and have to lie on the floor for a week afterwards? Who grasp at a seat belt and end up out of work for six months? Who carry a box of books one day and next are being measured up for a corrective corset? Who were athletes once and now are hobby pharmacists they’ve so many pain killers in their cabinet. It’s a really horrible thing.
For four days I inched my way from armchair to bed. Books were too heavy. I only had Twitter. The pope was gone, the news cycle moved on. A heat map showing Airbnb properties all over Dublin like measles, depriving families of rentals, was making people very angry. As for measles, the rage was contagious.