Hi. I tried to leave Facebook last month but it turns out it is really hard. Mostly because I didn’t do a very good job of it. I did a sort-of slap-dash exit which involved some general “How To Leave Facebook” googling, the downloading of old photos and terribly embarrassing twelve year old posts where I have written little missives (which I thought at the time were comic and now, just, KILL ME with the cringiness), and then I got bored with the next steps which required more of a deep-dive, committed, computery fiddling. Something to do with third parties. Unnecessary and dull said my naive, giddy-with-a-newfound-false-sense-of-freedom inner voice and so I skipped the third step and went on to babyishly imagine I was finally one of those people who had broken free.
Of course, I know – I KNOW – that Facebook owns Instagram and so I also know that a real, proper Facebook-Leaver would delete Instagram too, and also WhatsApp if we are being thorough, but I felt like those were steps too far. I love a little (long) scroll through the Instagram world which I fill with interiors/babies/friends/foodie worlds. It is like I have my own TV channel and I am the boss of it. Also I am the star, and the presenter, and the HR hiring and firing person who makes decisions about who gets airtime and who can piss off and so I couldn’t give it up. Not my Instagram joy. Especially not now, when everything has the sheen of sadness on it and joy requires a bit of work to first uncover and then to hold on to for dear life. But I was prepared for a little Leaver-compromise and no one would know that I hadn’t done it perfectly well, and how deep should one really have to go and isn’t it too late for us all to really break free and why can’t I just treat Facebook leaving like I do folding the washing – do it for a bit and then chuck everything into a hallway cupboard and walk away before it all falls back out onto the floor to become part of someone’s cushion and blanket soft-toy upholstered den?
So it turns out that I’m still on Facebook. I can’t get into it to mindlessly scroll though and while I miss that a little, all the checking in and seeing what people have been up to, all the photos of birthdays and sunny days in New Zealand, I do not miss the aggravation I was feeling over people who do not agree with me. Which is a whole problem in itself. I would sometimes wade in and argue with people and then feel weird about arguing and then rant IRL about it and sound, once again, like a nutter. Now I do not have to argue with people online because I am blind to them. BLIND. Also wholly uninformed about whose birthday is coming up. It’s a bit hard to get used to.
I have effectively left but it turns out you can still find me listed on it and WORSE is that my Instagram stories are still there, posted whenever I post some dumb little video about us walking along the canal or eating Korean chicken wings in buffalo sauce. And so here I straddle – one leg in the Leavers and one leg in the Remain. I have failed. I am a social media slave. Weak, blind, missing Messenger quite badly and yet never again able to write someone a short birthday message on their page as though I had actually remembered and not just been spurred on by the social pressure of everyone else doing it after being reminded duly by that Zuckerberg.
Also. There had been more auction house stalking and bidding and ‘winning’. ‘Winning’ at an auction is a funny phrase because you haven’t really ‘won’ if you absent-mindedly put a bid on another vase/chandelier/table lamp/Taschen coffee table book/wall sconce and then forget about it but later discover you owe an auction house somewhere deep in the country quite a bit of money plus hammer price plus VAT. We have been having couriers turn up frequently and we don’t even know what will be in the boxes. I mean, things are getting very crowded in here again. I will show you a little sample of the delights that are now put back into cardboard boxes and shoved into corners and wardrobes and under beds and behind the doors. They are all a bit mismatched but if there was a theme, it would be mid century Murano glass with a bit of Hollywood Regency and a dash of 50s toleware. All for the house we don’t currently live in, of course. The house in New Zealand we will one day visit (me for the first time) and that we will one day live in and that we will furnish in this multi-era interior design mashup of ABSOLUTE DREAMS:
We are expecting any day now for the courier to deliver a thick 70s gold chain necklace, two Art Deco club armchairs, another toleware chandelier, another Murano pink 70s waterfall chandelier and a green velour walnut framed early 20th century button back sofa. Mark has also bid on a small brass statue of a gorilla in a baseball cap. He ‘lost’ it last time but is trying again because, out of some Christmas brass gorilla-shaped miracle, another one turned up at the auction house. He is quivering with hope and excitement and I am, well, I am hoping the auction gods let that one go to a more gorilla-appropriate dwelling.
In other news, someone asked me (again) if I was expecting another baby yesterday. I was wearing navy corduroy dungarees but, like, still…it was a bit sobering. Also sobering was the lovely night on Wednesday in celebration of us all being allowed out again – we went for cocktails at the Connaught Bar but could only afford one drink and a shared pizza because it was expensive in that way that you think it might be an in-joke, and then you realise it is not. Still, good for my rather pickled liver to have to stop at one.
This is me trying to look fetching, not freezing, with the cutest baby in town. I think the photo has been squeezed, so ignore that. See instead those parched lips, crepey neck and crispy fringe! Lovely new Emilia Wickstead coat though – new with tags, usual price 2000 pounds (oh yes!) but bought for a song (well, 200 pounds) on my old faithful friend eBay:
And finally, the oldest and youngest of our clan, having a cuddle and cheering us all up: