Why I Deactivated My Twitter Account - Breaking Bad

Social media; with the exception of a rare few, who perhaps have been living on an unknown yet Internet free planet, we all know what it is and we all use it on a daily basis. How many of you click on Facebook even before you’ve said good morning to your family? Those little red notifications mean that the things we’ve posted have been read and approved by our peers using the ubiquitous “like” button, or should I say the like, love, ha ha, sad or anger emoticons, which we can now choose from! Thank goodness I have Facebook to define the way I feel.

One of the most well known icons on the planet 

One only has to go any place where there is a social gathering, be it a café, restaurant, airport waiting room or similar and you will be guaranteed to see the same thing. People, dozens of them, all poring over their smart ass phones. There will be little or no conversation, small children will be ignored, and older children who do not yet have a phone or tablet will be running about or finding other ways to draw the attention of their distracted parents. It is a sad scene indicative of the so called evolvement of our society.

Teenagers "socialising"

It would seem we cannot cope for even five minutes without our phones

For those parents who try to moderate or limit their children’s Internet diet, there will be daily battles as they say despairingly to their children, “Will you please put that down while we eat dinner?” The child/teen rolls their eyes and insists that unless they just send this one message to their bestie, then life won’t be worth living.  My recent experience of this was when my 19 year old step-daughter came to stay and asked one night if we could all watch a film. No problem. The film was duly put on and she spent the entire time looking at her phone! When asked “Are you watching this?” we got a detached “Yeah” as she continued scrolling, tapping and generally not watching the asked for film.

An epidemic of tapping and scrolling

Sigh.     

     

My other pet hate on Facebook are what I call the Facebook Police. You know who you are. The people who seem to have way too much time on their hands and who feel the need to comment on everything and everyone’s posts.

Example; someone asked if anyone knew of a Golden Retriever stud dog for her bitch as she wished to breed from her.  Oh. My. God. You would have thought that the poor woman had asked if anyone knew how she could poison her dog without anyone knowing. She was absolutely attacked by the self-righteous brigade who asked questions such as;

How can you breed more dogs when there are so many wanting rescue?

How can you make money out of your pet?

And on and on. While both questions might well be pertinent, it was NOT what the woman asked. She asked for a stud dog and got shot down in flames. She did not ask for a lecture in the morals of dog breeding.

Another example; a woman posted an ad for an antique baby’s crib. It was many years old and a really lovely thing. Here come the Facebook Police to say that a similar crib is less money in Mothercare. What? Who gives a f***? This is an antique, a lovely old thing, which cannot be compared to the piece of modern plywood in Mothercare. The posts continued as other people added their two penny’s worth. Ah yes, noted another nay sayer, my daughter just bought a crib like this off eBay for only 20 pence, or some such stupid comment. Again, no one asked you, keep out of her business, she’s selling a crib not asking for estimates on what it might be worth. Sheesh.

Another main player in social media is Twitter.  

Another well know Icon

Dictionary definition of the word Twitter;

To talk lightly and rapidly, especially of trivial matters; chatter.

Or as someone on Facebook recently said to me;

“A lot of people talking and no one listening”

Never were truer words spoken; thanks Rupert G J

The Twitter site, which started in 2006, allowed people to send messages or Tweets as they are known, of no more than 140 characters. That should have been my first warning as to the dubious usefulness of this social media. I mean really, what can one usefully say in 140 characters?

As an author I had a Twitter account. It was considered essential for furthering awareness of my books. I’ll be honest, I didn’t “get” Twitter but I duly began “Following” people and was very excited to see new people “Follow” me back. However, the excitement was short-lived and after a very short while, I began to wonder about the value of Twitter. It seemed to me that given the very fast turnover of Tweets, I’d need to be sat there 24/7 watching for new ones and re-tweeting or liking them! It was just something else to do. Something else demanding my time and attention and if I was Tweeting, I was not writing books!

Using Twitter to promote books

When I did use Twitter it was usually after I had written a blog or had a book release. I would tag people into Tweets. If they were individuals, I would only tag those I followed and who followed me. If it was a big organisation or group, I would tag them if I followed them, but they didn’t necessarily follow me.  

Obviously there would be a link to the blog or sometimes directly to the book. I mean, that’s what it’s for, right?

Wrong.

My first taste of things to come was in the build up to my most recent novel Caught in Traffick. A harrowing book set in Thailand and following the underground activities of a child trafficking gang. I duly sent my Tweets – which is by the way SO time consuming. I’d literally sit at the laptop for hours sending Tweets to all my contacts, which had now grown to over 1000.

I was pleased to see that someone had sent me a direct response. 

I was less enthusiastic when I read it.

This guy berated me in several Tweets (140 characters was clearly not enough in which to abuse me). He accused me of trying to make money out of the misery of children, of exploiting them. He called down shame upon me and asked others to “name and shame” me. I was absolutely mortified. 

My insides turned to jelly as I contemplated the horror of public humiliation. Would I be held up as a bad example; sacrificed and burned on the fires of social media?

As a child protection social worker who has spent years trying to protect children and fighting for their rights, to have someone accuse me of exploiting them was quite honestly, devastating. I then found that the guy had blocked me, thus preventing me from responding to him. However, I did some digging and found his website. Turns out he was a mercenary living in Thailand, charging people a small fortune to search for their lost children. Talk about hypocrisy!

I also discovered that the main players on Twitter were all after business. They were like a pack of hungry sharks, all sending me never ending Tweets asking if I wanted to sign up with them and have them send 4 Tweets a day or whatever it was, for only $9.99 a month.  Hang on, can’t I send my own Tweets for nothing? Hmm, the point being that they had eleventy million contacts who would all see the Tweet about MY book and of course rush to buy it. Nah, doesn’t work. I tried it and was several hundred dollars the poorer.

The straw that broke the camel’s back came last week. I am a member of a closed Facebook Book Group, which shall be nameless as what happened is no fault of this group. Someone in the group suggested that we all exchange Twitter details so we can support each other. Good idea we all said, let’s do it. And so began a frantic afternoon of adding many more people to my contact list. One of these people was a woman, who I shall not name, though I am sorely tempted to do so. She added me and I added her, I mean that was the idea. She is a book blogger, she has a website dedicated to reviewing other people’s books. An ideal contact.

I had written a blog about how I researched my latest book. The blog was therefore about child trafficking in Thailand and made difficult reading, which naturally, not everyone would find to their taste. However, I duly sent out my Tweets to these new contacts, confident that they at least would re-tweet it and raise the profile.

Sigh.

This woman sent me a sharply worded Tweet in response saying “No thank YOU I do NOT wish to read this”. I stared at it in disbelief. What? I mean, what? Once again, I went to message her back to say I had not intended any offence, only to find I had been blocked. This time, I felt angry, really bloody angry. This woman was one of many who had agreed to share Twitter details so we could be of support. Who blocks a fellow author simply because the blog content is not to her taste?

No my book is not chick lit, no, it’s not it’s not happy ever after, but it’s relevant and current and sticking your head in the sand and pretending it’s not there will not make it go away. Fine, if she didn’t want to read it, just don’t read it. I get it. But to send a rude and churlish response and then block me?

Enough was enough.

On 6^th November this year, after just over 12 months of trying, I deactivated my Twitter account.

I cannot begin to describe the feeling of freedom. Something lifted off me as I realised I would never again have to sit there sending hundreds of Tweets, which would only disappear into the ether.

For me, it feels good, feels right, so maybe I owe that woman my thanks?

Maybe

Watch out Facebook, you might be next.

Freya

Teen Spirit or The Joys of Taking a Teenager on Holiday

Since living in Brittany, we have had several visitors. We always appreciate people coming out to see us and have enjoyed sharing our home and this stunning area of France with them all. At the moment, we have Steve's 19 year old daughter and her boyfriend staying with us. It took me back to a time in 2010, when Steve and I went on holiday in Gozo - a small island off the coast of Malta. We took self-same daughter with us, but at that time, she was only 14, and we all know what THAT'S like eh?

Here is an extract from my 2nd book, Gozo Is the Grass Greener? Which featured an entire chapter about the experience of taking a teen on holiday - it may resonate with a few of you .

Extract from Gozo, Is the Grass Greener?

So why Gozo? Of all the places in the world, Gozo? We had been told that we would love it and were assured that our first experience of the magical island of Calypso as it is sometimes known, would be unforgettable. After all there was beautiful weather, friendly and welcoming people, it was not expensive to eat out and had a charm of its own. Having visited the main island of Malta in the archipelago on three occasions without a hop-over visit to Gozo, we were encouraged to try out this tiny jewel in the Mediterranean as a standalone holiday destination. We were assured it was quieter and less crowded than its big sister, Malta. Yes, it would be a truly unforgettable experience. 

And so it was, that in August 2010, we agreed that we would rent an apartment in Gozo for a week and after some internet searching, we settled on the sleepy looking Xlendi Bay. We also agreed that we would take Steve’s 14-yearold daughter, Sabrina, with us. Unforgettable? We had absolutely no idea what we were in for.

I pause here to shake my head and sigh at the foolishness of that particular decision. Anyone out there with a teenager will no doubt be shaking their head and possibly even wincing as they marvel at our naiveté. Did we really think that we could take an almost stereotypically perfect example of a dissatisfied generation to a small, quiet island where free wi-fi was as remote a possibility as my ever becoming a size 8 again? – bar the starvation diet, of course, where I could actually make it down to an 8.  Like most teenagers, Sabrina had a serious dependence bordering on addiction to internet social websites – not to mention her iPhone, laptop, iPod and junk food. What were we thinking?! 

In hindsight, it was not the best decision we ever made. Mainland Spain or even Florida in the States would have been better options here, but Gozo it was. And I omitted to mention that in addition to the addiction to all things internet, we had four years of stored up, brooding resentment directed at myself as her dad’s evil, new partner who had ruined her life, to add to the mix. 

Anyway, as a glass-half-full kind of person, I was determined to make the best of it, so I set about planning and organising the flights, transfers and so on that accompany any holiday. Steve was texting Sabrina regularly to advise her of what she needed to bring along – lots of swimwear, shorts, tee shirts, something to go out in at night; that sort of thing. He would send her long lists of things needed, painstakingly spelling out every word in longhand as all adults of a certain age tend to do. The texts that came back without fail, however, would just say:

K.

“K?” Steve would ask me with a frown. “What the hell is K?” 

“I think she means okay, darling. She’s agreeing with you,” I would explain. 

“Well, why doesn’t she say so then?” would come the scowling, Neanderthal reply.  

“It’s just the way they communicate, darling. It’s shorthand,” I would add. 

“Well, it’s stupid,” he would growl in return. 

I was already captivated by the photographs of Gozo, with its hidden coves and bays, and the crystal clear waters surrounding it.  I could almost taste that local cuisine: the pizzas handmade in front of you, the locally produced wines and cheeses . . . . . mmm, it was going to be a treat! I wondered vaguely if Sabrina would eat goat’s cheese.

The earliest hint of real things to come was when we got to the airport. It transpired that despite her father’s longwinded, repeated, clear texts of instructions as to what to bring, Sabrina did not, in fact, possess a bikini or swimming costume of any kind – not that pencil thin, teenage girls wear swimming costumes, but you know . . . . . Sabrina announced the issue with that marvellously sullen, stone face which humans only possess between the ages of 13 and 17 years – dead eyed, expressionless and said in a manner which somehow managed to apportion blame to both her dad and myself. 

Steve’s response was to ask me, “Can we sort something out for her?”

My response, however, was to look as if I had just begun to suck a lemon. Actually, it was more like two lemons, a grapefruit and a generous slice of lime.

I took a deep breath to prevent words coming out such as, “Why, WHY don’t you have a bikini with you?! I mean your dad told you enough times to bring one.”

I avoided saying such things for two reasons: 1. The words would fall on deaf ears; and 2. It would not have made the slightest difference.

Instead, I swallowed the cocktail of citrus fruit and propelled said teenager towards one of the airport boutiques. Now, for those of you who have never had the dubious pleasure of shopping in an airport boutique, a word of warning: any sign which reads DUTY FREE is to be ignored. It is a lie; a complete lie. It should be translated as follows:

“This is probably the most expensive shop you’ve ever been into. You cannot possibly afford anything in here and the experience will leave you penniless for the rest of your holiday.”

In my life, I have had to stop going into those brightly lit, wonderfully smelling and alluring shops, which drew me like the proverbial moth to a flame, as I was heard to say loudly:

“Duty Free? Duty Free?? I can get this cheaper at Boots the Chemist. Look at the price of this Toblerone! And Tesco’s are doing a 2-for-1 on this. £10! £10 for a box of Roses! I don’t think so.” 

You get the picture, right?

Anyway, I digress – and we had not even left the UK yet. There we were in exactly such an establishment, waited on by women who looked as if they had applied an entire box of Elizabeth Arden product to their faces in one go. The chosen bikini resembled a plaited bootlace crossed with a spider’s web – and it cost £35. I tried hard not to imagine what a similar item might have cost at Primark or TK Maxx, but I could not help it. 

As we left the shop, Sabrina’s internal fashion radar picked up on a trilby type hat and I saw the slightest glimmer of light in her eyes. Pouncing on an opportunity to be popular (damn you, repressed Grammar School behaviour patterns), I asked her brightly if she would also like that hat – and just like that, I found myself £55 lighter in total. I strongly suspected that I was no more popular than I had been 10 minutes earlier. But hey, I tried!

THE hat

Eventually, after the customary three-hour wait at the airport, a flight lasting three hours 20 minutes, a 45-minute taxi transfer to the ferry, a 25-minute ferry ride to Gozo and a final 15-minute ride to the apartment, we arrived. There we also became about another 50 euros poorer as Sabrina possessed a fascinating need to be fed and watered at every available opportunity. I began wondering if she had an inbuilt sense of an impending, worldwide food shortage or something as I had never witnessed a child, a teenager, with quite such a capacity for junk food.  

There had been an almost non-stop mantra of, “I’m hungry, I need a drink.”

It started at the airport, continued on the plane, picked up again at the airport in Malta, progressed in the taxi and reached a finale on the ferry to Gozo. Add to that the inevitable, “Are we nearly there?” and you will get some idea of how frazzled our nerves were by the time we reached our destination. 

As ever, words that sprang to mind – which on this occasion were, “How the hell can you still be hungry, you’ve eaten your own body weight in chicken nuggets?” – were suppressed. 

Instead, anxious not to spoil the holiday, I smiled and asked, “What would you like?”

You know that could not last, right? All that repressed rage. It had to come out . . . . . eventually.

I am not going to dwell too much on events which unfolded during that week. It was a bit like Groundhog Day, a never-ending loop of:

a) I don’t like this/that (fish in the sea, seaweed, the menu, the heat, Valletta, whatever)

b) I want egg and chips (in every single restaurant)

c) I’m bored

d) I don’t like swimming in the sea (Of course, you don’t!)

e) This bikini doesn’t fit (I’m sorry, my response to this is censored)

f) I don’t want to do that/go there

g) I’m bored

h) Can we go back to the apartment now? (No!)

i) I’m sitting next to Dad

j) My phone’s gone flat (What? You didn’t bring a charger? Really? After all those texts your dad sent reminding you to bring one!)

k) I’m bored; l) I can’t sleep (Try being quiet)

m) It’s too hot (It’s August in the Med. What did you think?)

n) I need a drink

o) I’m hungry

p) I’m bored

q) Can I have some money?

You get the picture. The effort of suppressing my murderous emotions became a daily battle. On one occasion, I had to go for a long walk, during which time I marched around like a demented marionette and actually had a panic attack with the enormity of the task of holding it all in. By day four, Steve was apologising. 

Through clenched teeth, I was saying things such as, “Do NOT, under any circumstances, ask me to do this EVER AGAIN!” 

Lovely Gozo

One day, it was agreed that Sabrina could have 10 euros to spend. However, she asked if we could keep it for her until she returned home and get £10 sterling instead. Okay, I could go for that (watch this space). I remember so clearly the day I finally cracked. We had been sitting outside a hotel on the waterfront having a drink.

Sabrina said, “I’m still thirsty, can I have another?”

I had gone inside to check out the rooms and to take an opportunity for some solitary hyperventilation. I was determined that Steve and I would return alone to relax and have a holiday which did not involve being pecked to death 24/7. When I emerged, Steve informed me that Sabrina had asked where I went, so he had explained to her that we might return for another holiday.  

Her response had been, “Yeah, bring me.”

That was it! I could feel all the pent up, bikini-buying, week-of complaining rage coming up like a volcano. And it all come out.

“WHAAAT?! Bring you with us? Bring you with us?? Are you serious?? I am never, NEVER bringing you on holiday again as long as I live and breathe! You’ve done nothing but complain the whole time; nothing suits you.”

I suspect my eyes were bulging at that point and I think I spat out at least once. Anyway, I was certainly not done yet. I continued ranting and raving about teenagers in general, my lack of finances following the trip and on and on and on. When I was done, there was a small silence, after which Sabrina responded with a nonchalant shrug.

“Yeah, well, I only asked,” Sabrina continued, “I’m bored on my own. Next time, let me bring a mate with me and it’ll be better.”

Oh. My. God. Had she really just asked me to let her bring along another teenager? That provoked a fresh outburst.

I spluttered, “Bring a mate? Bring a mate??” (I seemed to need to say a lot of things twice). “Why on EARTH would I do that? It’s bad enough with one teenager, never mind two of you! Oh yeah, let me bring TWO teenagers on holiday, then I can really have a nervous breakdown!” 

Steve sat quietly through it all with that bemused, “I wonder why this is happening” look men get.  

Me on a far away bit of rock hyperventilating!

The reality of it all was that it had, in the main, passed him totally by. However, by the last evening of our holiday, Steve too snapped after a particularly tricky evening during which he had, against his better judgement, allowed Sabrina to have a cocktail (bad idea). Steve had bundled his daughter back to the flat with the accompanying warning:

“And I don’t want to hear another peep out of you all night, do you understand?”

I patted his arm in silent sympathy as Steve lay rigidly in bed staring at the ceiling, quietly hyperventilating (it really did help). 

Despite me looking like a cross between Bet Lynch and the Michelin man, I had to include this absolute classic of a photo - see how happy the teenager was? Ha ha, sorry Sabrina, I couldn't resist 

Somehow, we got through the journey home, albeit with lots more feeding and watering along the way. We eventually got to the moment of dropping Sabrina off. As she got out of the car, she turned to me and cleared her throat. Ah, I thought, she’s going to apologise for her behaviour or, at least, say thank you for the holiday.

But Sabrina looked at me. Just as cool as you like, she said:

 “You owe me a tenner.”

My nervous breakdown was complete.

Ahh but we all played nice in the end 

Gozo Is the Grass Greener is available from Amazon;

https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B011L7LLIA/ref=pd_sim_351_4?ie=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=5NXVG352WKPMD0GM09QY

I have also written two other books to date

Known to Social Services and its sequel, Caught in Traffick. Both available via Amazon

Visit my website; www.freyabarrington.com 

Freya