Sunday Rant

I love Twitter. I could find a thousand good things to say about it. But today I woke up in a grump; I cannot bear the smugness. And there's an awful lot of smugness. There's a particular brand of tweet: the what I did this morning tweet. It just gets me every time. I'm someone who has to set seven alarms and still only manages to get up with enough time left for a bowl of cheerios, half a cup of tea, and a frantic dash for the door. So who the hell are these people who get up, go to the gym, walk the dog, cook breakfast for the whole family, paint the walls in the spare room, write a blog post, and teach their newborn child calculus before they're at the office at 8.30 a.m raring to go? Who then spend the rest of the day saving their company, emailing 365 separate people about separate issues, bemoaning the useless intern, and standing on their heads whilst juggling seven balls and meeting with twelve important clients at the same time in different cities? Worse are the ones who continue this sickening faux-productivity through the weekend. The ones who party it up on Friday down the pub with some mates, wake up at five on Saturday with a wicked hangover, go to yoga instead of feeling sorry for themselves, and then proceed to spend the next 48 hours enjoying absolutely every second of their weekend. They go to films, bookshops, museums, picnics, pubs, nightclubs; they attend festivals, stumble upon quirky new corners of their neighbourhoods, try new restaurants, have brunch, lunch, dinner, sunday roasts, ice cream, coffee and muffins. They go to the farmer's market and the gym, they buy things, they visit cousins up north and old friends in Cornwall, they take up surfing, they continue to train for the half-marathon, they bake a cake, they cook lobster bisque from scratch. Basically they do more in one weekend than I'll probably do in a year, and then they tweet about it, using all 140 characters to imply that they've really grabbed life by the balls, and they want us to know about it.

Seriously. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? Where do they get their energy and their drive from? And what's going to happen when one day they wake up to discover there are no festivals on, all their friends are worn out, their boss is out of town, the farmer's market is closed, their cousins are on holiday, no new restaurants have opened up, they've seen all the exhibits at all the museums within a 100-mile radius, their knees are sore from too much training, it's too cold outside to sit in the park sipping champagne, and all the films look shit?

Suddenly they'll be just like the rest of us. Lazy, time-wasting humans with an average appreciation for the day and a much more reasonable expectation of how much stuff we can fit into 24 hours. And then they'll have to tweet about that.