EVEN though he had a point, Galileo was forced to recant. That's what I'm telling myself, taking consolation in good company. You see, dear readers, I discover myself in similar straits. Despite publishing a sneering column railing against social networking sites in this very spot, a column that friends on both sides of the Atlantic have been quoting back at me ever since, I was recently persuaded to join the Twitterati.
I'm tweeting (that verb is so humiliating to type) under the moniker Randallwrites.
To what do I attribute my conversion? Sheer, crass commercialism. There! I've said it.
Here's how it happened: I had been, as we're now instructed to say, takin
g a "staycation", on account of being too broke to travel in the manner to which I should like to become accustomed, but desperately in need of downtime in which to nap, read novels and stroke pusskis under their furry chins. Plus, why expend all that energy making one's home a magical paradise if you never manage quality time there? (See how I talk myself round?)
The upshot was a free afternoon joyously filled with a leisurely lunch in the company of a friend making a quick visit to Edinburgh. My pal is a successful, energetic entrepreneur. He is also dyslexic, and rarely found in an office, preferring to do business on the fly. This suits him: he's bouncy and leggy and uncomfortable squashed behind a desk for any length of time.
As we chatted about the problems facing the newspaper industry (that was me, salting a salmon fillet with my tears), he fielded texts and tweets on his iPhone and casually predicted – Andy Warhol would have been proud – that in the future all news would be personal.
Meaning that he and others like him – the upwardly thrusting mob – would choose a few reliable journalists (or bloggers) to believe in, reading only those stories which they selected to flag up as being of particular interest, whether because of content, stylishness of the prose or their sheer hilarity.
He pointed out that the days of generating income from "followers" were fast approaching. If you're smart, he urged, you'll start Twittering, telling people about the stories you're writing (and where to read them, with url links), the books you're reading (and maybe, one day, writing), the ideas you're mulling over, etcetera, etcetera. By the time his pitch wound down he'd convinced me I was two tweets away from world domination, and I scurried home to spit-polish my orb and sceptre.
That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
My other notable news is that I've won a place on the plinth and now receive regular emails with the salutation: "Dear Plinthee." My hour of glory will be 10-11am on Friday, 10 July.
Oh how I remember the excitement with which I greeted news of this project, and how I burbled on about it to Antony Gormley during our interview. For a while there I actually vibrated with anticipation, which led me to make multiple applications, to improve my chances.
Be careful what you wish for. I know the slogan, why didn't I write it on my hand? The words "hoist", "own" and "petard" spring to mind and I feel like the Cowardly Lion outside the Wicked Witch's castle. Having conceived a cunning plan to free Dorothy he turns to the others and says, "Now there's just one thing I want you to do, fellas: talk me out of it!"
My plan is not to plan. I'm going to stick to my initial gut reaction, which was that the plinth would make an intriguing vantage point from which to observe the world and experience quiet contemplation. My boss pointed out the fundamental idiocy of this premise – it's all about seeing art from the inside out, he said, and learning what it's like being on display. Oh my!
