Every now and then I go on Facebook . It takes me about 2 minutes to realise why I don't make a habit of it. The bragging season is upon us. Not content with boring us all with close-ups of the £4.35 cup of coffee they've just bought ( more fool them ) they've now moved on to bigger and better things. We're treated to an eyeful of some ludicrous cocktail they're sipping on the balcony of the sort of hotel they know full well that most people will never be able to afford in the kind of resort that has less to do with travelling but everything to do with bragging.
I used to know people like this. They were in my primary school, sitting at the front of the class with their hands raised higher than everybody else's shouting " Miss, Miss .... me Miss .... me ". They might as well have had NOTICE ME plastered on their foreheads. Facebook was invented for them. They've never really grown up. They have to tell the world that their holiday is bigger and better. They've had a modesty bypass and they're gonna tell the world about what a far superior time they're having than any of us.
The kind of post I love is ... bugger ... the washing machine has just packed up . Now that's real life and gains my utmost respect. Or maybe ... oops forgot to shave my bikini line - now that's more like it . This week I'd have posted ... how do I get rid of chin hair ... or .... why do mosquitos like me so much or even .... cat's just puked on freshly laundered duvet. Of course I'd then have had to take selfies with me and cat's puke or snap-chatted a few hundred disinterested morons or tweeted it to the masses or maybe I should just pretend that the duvet cover in question was a real silk, 2000 thread count, gold plated , Versace designed little number in a 10* billionaire's resort on the other side of the world . Nah ... not my style.