#chancewouldbeafinething

My budding gromance with Myvanwy meant that for the first time in my distinguished career at the B.B.C (British Bum Cleaner) I didn't use my day off as an opportunity to bolt straight to London to immerse myself in retail therapy. This is largely due to the fact that a) I like Myvanwy's company so much I will willingly cook a meal and chat over a cup of tea without being paid to do so and b) I promised the Husband I would not spend excessive amounts of money on clothing etc.as we are saving for our escape from the Rock to a life in sunny, crime-infested South Africa. I have already failed in this regard as I spent some dosh on a rather dazzling haircut, which I like to argue is reminscent of a 1920's flapper (watched 'The Artist', am in love with 'Poppy' even practiced pencilling in a mole). The haircut happened last week on my day off when I took my shoulder length locks in for a 'trim', but uttered the immortal words, 'I'm not too precious about the length'. 40 minutes and £40 later I was virtually bald.

So this week in order to avoid spending money or coming home with a crew-cut I stayed in and spent an inordinate amount of time on twitter (@sallygypsytiger). As I only have about 11 followers I was almost besides myself with glee when moments after following the T.V critic for an upper class lady's magazine, he in turn followed me. As he is followed by some 5000 other people I like to think he is something of a celebrity, which places me a virtual one degree from fame myself. I don't like to dwell on the fact that he follows about 5000 other twitters. Of course the pressure is on to be witty and something of a messiah in 140 characters #chancewouldbeafinething.

I'm still not entirely sure about twitter culture. The Husband (armed with his iphone) created a twitter account after overhearing two lawyers on a train discussing how wonderful it was to have access to other lawyers views on issues almost instantly. Picturing a community of other like minded seamen (now, now children he is a nautical man) the Husband hastily created a twitter account but informed me rather sadly, "I logged on but nothing happened."

I tried to explain twitter to Myvanwy whilst discussing the topic of Aging. I wondered if my generation will be facebooking each other aged 90 and tweeting such informative pearls such as, "Send a search party, I've lost my teeth again." Myvanwy didn't think all this face-less communication was such a good idea. "Wouldn't you rather just hear a human voice or at least see the personal script of a handwritten note?" she asked me. Honestly? No. If a complete unknown middle-aged gent e.g. the upper-class-lady's-mag-t.v.-critic. were to send me a handwritten note of 140 characters to discuss the fate of the contestants food on masterchef, I'd find it downright freaky. Heaven forbid I should have to physically talk to half of my facebook 'friends' (except of course those of you who followed the link here, love you, chat later xx). In the end I really couldn't explain the relevance of an online community to a woman who for 92 years has lived in the real one, because I have to agree with her, "It doesn't sound like it has much soul."

I think the main problem is I'm too verbose for 140 characters.