Time since last Internet usage: 3 weeks, 22 hours, 5 minutes and 7 seconds
I waste no time when I arrive at Carlisle station, finding an Internet cafe close by. I’m practically shaking as I cross the threshold, like an addict about to get their fix.
At first, I’m so overwhelmed that the person behind the desk has to practically usher me over to a vacant desktop. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long that I have no idea what I’m going to check first.
My mind floods with options: Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Gmail, and in the end I decide to start with my email, as, if there’s anything important, that’s where it will be.
I almost can’t bring myself to do it as I’ve worked so hard over the last few weeks to teach myself to live offline, but in the end I can’t help myself. I’m suddenly desperate to know.
My inbox is loaded – 1,264 unread emails. Holy Moly. This is going to take me ages. I start scanning rapidly through my inbox, ignoring the millions from ASOS and Boohoo, who have clearly missed me. I find one from an HR officer at my old work. My heart skips a beat as I think that maybe they’ve realised they’d been too rash in firing me so quickly. Maybe the whole inappropriate tweet had been a godsend with the PR and they’re begging to have me back.
Dear Daisy,
I am writing formally to advise you of your dismissal after gross misconduct. Attached are the terms and conditions of your leave.
If you have any questions, do not hesitate to contact me.
Yours,
Sally Roden
Or maybe not.
That’s the only work-related email in a sea of advertising. I scan the rest of my inbox downheartedly, and other than an email from a Nigerian solicitor informing me of a large bequest from a long-lost relative, I seem to have no important correspondence. It takes barely any time at all to realise that I am an advertisers’ dream, having signed up to nearly every shop I’ve ever bought from. When I clear my digital backlog, I’m definitely unsubscribing from everything.
Lack of job offers aside, there was nothing too bad in my emails, and it gives me a little boost in confidence to check my Twitter.
I do a quick scan of what’s trending, and I’m pleased to report #priceless is over its fifteen minutes of fame. I sigh with relief, but I still have notifications.
There are over a hundred, and as I scroll through them, I see they’re mostly from men saying things that rival my priceless tweet for smut. One of them is a retweet mentioning me, and has an article attached to it from the Mail Online. My eyes pop out as I read the headline, ‘Hot as Hell Tinder Date slams Big Knicker Disappointment’, and there, staring back at me, is a picture – more like a professional head shot – of Dickhead Dominic, next to a picture of me taken at Helen’s hen do when I’m pushing my boobs together and pouting at the camera.
My hand shakes as I click onto the link. I already feel sick to my stomach and my eyes can barely focus on the words in the article:
Daisy Hobson, 34, found herself at the centre of a viral twitterstorm, after she accidentally tweeted her thoughts from her company’s account, rather than her personal one . . .
I’ve only read one line and I’m already fuming. I’m thirty-bloody-one, you arseholes!
Daisy was immediately fired after tweeting: Sexy knickers £25, Brazilian £35, New outfit £170. When your Tinder date is hot as hell & you’re going to f**k his brains out = #priceless. The apparent party girl’s personal feed is already littered with sex tips and risqué musings on life. It seems she’s up for anything.
Juxtaposed with the pictures of me from the hen do where I’m dressed in that slutty outfit, doing those ridiculous challenges, are the tweets from the Cards Against Humanity style game:
@DaisyDoesTweet
The Secret to Good Sex is being up for anything!!!
@DaisyDoesTweet
A Woman’s Worst enemy is the Missionary Position!!!
Read on Wednesday how the hot-as-hell Tinder date Dominic Cutler, 34, thought that Daisy was a disappointment in our exclusive interview.
I can’t bring myself to read any more of the article, which seems to have been stitched together with tweets and Instagram photos. Talk about taking things out of context.
I hastily delete my Twitter account, not wanting any of those vile men to be anywhere near me. It’s what I should have done three weeks ago.
I then type my name into Google and brace myself for a deluge of hastily typed articles. I’m almost relieved when there are only a few entries relating to my tweeting disasters: the article I’ve just read, Dickhead Dominic’s exclusive, which I can’t bring myself to read, and one in Marketing Monthly. I click on that and wince at what the marketing industry are going to say about me.
#Priceless = #Stupidity
Every so often someone commits a heinous social-media faux pas that throws their company into turmoil. There are examples littered all over the Internet, from the fashion company who tweeted about the #Aurora hashtag, not realising it related to a mass shooting at a cinema, to the beauty company that tweeted about Oprah Winfrey’s tattoos, only to find they were looking at a photo of Whoopi Goldberg.
The latest company to find itself in a media storm is marketing company WFM, when one of their account managers, Daisy Robson, tweeted ‘Sexy knickers £25, Brazilian £35, New outfit £170. When your Tinder date is hot as hell & you’re going to f**k his brains out = #priceless.’ It was a tweet meant for her personal account, but she sent it accidentally from the company one. For a company that prides itself on its digital strategies for its clients, it’s an embarrassing mistake to have made.
I really have been named and shamed, and that, ladies and gentlemen, is the final nail in my professional coffin. The job offers definitely aren’t going to be rolling in now.
It makes me think that the interview from E.D.S.M. might be my last hope. I quickly google the company, and all I find is a holding page with a date next month underneath their logo. No clues as to what their business actually is.
I do a quick check on Companies House, as Rosie suggested, to see whether they are a legit company, and I see the name of the managing director who wrote to me. The company classification of ‘Other Software publishing’ doesn’t really tell me what they do either, but at least they are a bonafide company.
I guess the only way I’m going to find anything else out is to phone them. I can’t face it, so I turn to Facebook. My eyes fall on the box at the top: What’s on your mind?
Thank you for asking, Facebook. If you must know, I type, my life is a f**king disaster.
I hesitate before I hit the post button. What am I doing? I’m sending one of those awful fishing posts and I can just imagine what will happen if I do that. A number of my good friends will write me messages saying things like: what’s up, hun? xxx or Sending hugs, hun xx.
As if anyone actually cares; they’re just being nosey.
I delete the words and shake my head; I’m not going to solve anything by posting it.
I almost can’t believe that I used to write things like that without consideration. I think back to the priceless tweet and how its over-sharing nature got me into this mess in the first place.
I turn my attention instead to my messages, only to find that I only have a group message from a friend announcing she’s pregnant. But, other than that, no one else has missed me. In three weeks. Way to get an ego boost.
I scan through Facebook, reading people’s status updates, but it doesn’t take me long before I get a bit bored. My friend Ruby has posted umpteen photos of her kitten in cute positions. Simon, who I went to school with, has posted photos of his new Boxster. A number of people have posted about what they had for dinner last night, including my friend Grace, who seems to think that quinoa is the answer to all of life’s ills. And this is what I’ve been missing?
I’m about to log off, when I spot Erica’s status, which isn’t so much a status as a declaration that she’s single. I immediately click on the post to see all the comments, which are flooded with Are you OK, hun? and Call me if you need me.
WTF? I only got a letter from her a couple of days ago where she was saying how much she loved Chris and that they were on the road to mortgages, marriage and 2.4 children.
I immediately bring up my messages and bang one out to her.
Me:
What’s happened? Are you OK?
I’m about to write call me, when I realise I don’t have a bloody phone.
Let me know you’re all right xxx
I stare at the screen, desperate for the message to go from having a sent tick to the world’s tiniest photo, so that I know she’s read it. But it doesn’t.
I wait for a couple more minutes before deciding that she’s not there, and I go back to the main page, still stunned by what I’ve seen.
I’m barely concentrating as I keep checking to see if Erica’s replied. Where could she be? Would she have gone to work? What could have gone wrong?
I have a quick check on Chris’s profile, but he hasn’t posted an update up for weeks.
After that, I can’t concentrate on people’s feeds. Looking at their photos with fresh eyes, they all seem so contrived and self-indulgent. Especially when big things are happening in other people’s lives. Monumental things. I think of poor Erica.
I click on her profile, hoping that she’ll have her number written there, but she’s got it hidden and I haven’t known anyone’s phone number off by heart since I owned my very first Nokia 5110.
I can’t just sit here waiting for her to reply. I’ve got to go to her. I’m sure she’ll be holed up in her flat eating carbs and watching her Cold Feet box set.
I stand up and pay the guy for my computer time, and as I go back over to the station, I stop at the payphone outside, phone the MD of E.D.S.M. and arrange an interview for Monday. I think about Jack and Jenny – there’s nothing keeping me in Cumbria now, and I have every reason to be in London.
I telepathically tell Erica to hold on, that I’ll be there soon.