The god of social media is having his revenge.
Tuck yourself up on the sofa, Carla, remind yourself of the magazines sold, the album sales, the pre-Letizia (and pre-Michelle, actually) glowing reviews, and laugh the laugh of the righteous woman.
In this networked world we live in, I’ve discovered two things.
First, I’ve made enough of a splash with my book for one (yup, one singular) stranger to have mentioned me on Twitter.
Second, I made no impression on her whatsoever. None. Zip. Zero. She had 140 characters at her disposal for a follow-up tweet, and I didn’t merit any of them. Not even an emoticon.
Not only this, but I was doing a reading at the time with four other people and they all interested her in one way or another. She got more enthusiastic as she went along and by the end she was positively cheeping.
But for me, she was eerily silent. Was she perhaps having her wineglass refilled? Was someone having a whispered conversation in her ear? Had her BlackBerry temporarily run out of juice as I read and chatted my way through my allotted five minutes?
We shall never know. We don’t really care. This was simply designed as a reminder that By your blogs and tweets shall ye be judged.
Carla may not have looked Vogue-cover-perfect in her dodgy Dior, but at least we cared enough to comment. I thought I looked rather spiffing in my last-minute-present little cocktail number. And I did the voices and everything when I read. But I was speaking to a void. Stephen Fry, Oprah and Barack Obama have nothing to fear from me.
The rest is silence.