The Loneliness of the Tweeter


I am living in a small room. Not even a Bedsit. It’s a larger building converted for multiple occupation. I share bathroom and kitchen facilities.

I am on Twitter laying upon my bed. I am reading the tweets of a sad old man “Too young for The Archers, too old for South Park“.

I feel empathy with him. As I doze of I notice that a hole appears in the wall, with a human eye and part of a face visible, watching me. I say “I see you“, and jump up, out of bed. I look through the hole and see an old man called Colin, sat on his bed alone. I realise that this is the author of the tweets I’ve been reading.

I am out shopping. I see Colin sat outside a cafe with his shopping. He is drinking wine waiting for his laundry to finish. He has an open bottle of wine hidden in one of his bags.

I talk to him, and Ann and others concerned about him are also there. I leave them to it.

Later I am in Marks & Spencer‘s, which has been converted to a small market. I’m looking for something as a present. Colin is passed out on the floor with another man, the staff are trying to wake them and get them out. I wake Colin and tell him home is only five minutes away. Then I leave the staff to help him out.

I’m back in my room. I just want to sleep. Someone is knocking, trying to get in. It’s my landlord. I let him in. We talk and as people pass my doorway they introduce themselves and come in. Some are smoking, which I hate, and I think it’s rude that they think its ok to smoke in my space.

I chat to my landlord about when I was homeless. My drinking and drug use, how I struggle, but overcame them.

I realise everyone is listening to me, like I’m a king holding court. I finish what I’m saying and politely insist that they leave so I can go back to sleep.

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