A lot of people have asked me why I don’t allow comments and don’t have share buttons on my posts.
Don’t be silly.
No one has asked me that.
That’s what people on TikTok say before showing you how they put their fit together this morning.
But I’m going to tell you anyway.
It is worth remembering that for centuries, reading a newspaper did not come with the expectation that you would immediately explain to the author why they were wrong.
And if you did feel the need to share your thoughts, it required a pen, personalised stationery, and the post office.
That friction was a good thing.
It is that friction the internet, and most especially its bastard child social media, has removed almost entirely.
We have been reprogrammed to think that publication marks the start of something.
Now every thought arrives with an implied invitation:
“Your turn.”
I don’t invite comments. Not to avoid disagreement or discussion.
I don’t mind either.
I am, after all, often argumentative and sometimes entirely disagreeable.
I will disagree with you at dinner. I will challenge the person at Farmers whether knowing Joy’s date of birth actually helps her find her membership number. I have even disagreed with myself to the point of changing my mind, and expect to do so again.
The issue is timing.
By the time you take your seat and open your Maltesers, there have been seven abandoned openings, a half-hour discussion about whether “reprogrammed” is the right word, and several tummy rubs for Brian.
You see 800 words.
I remember everything that didn’t make it.
Entire paragraphs have jumped from introduction to conclusion and back again.
A joke has been written, explained, unexplained, and finally removed to be saved for a later essay.
A better turn of phrase has suggested itself while unloading the dishwasher.
The discussion is not about to begin.
You missed it.
By the time I press “Publish”, the discussion has happened, the workshop has concluded, and the pen has been put down.
I love that you’ve found your way here.
Because these are not my secret thoughts that I only tell Brian, and then only because he doesn’t speak English.
This is a website.
It exists because the vain part of me hopes somebody else might find the observation amusing, useful, interesting or recognisable.
It makes me feel slightly less like an old man shouting at the clouds.
But now that the thought has been offered, the transaction is essentially complete.
Your reaction can remain entirely private.
You can agree.
You can disagree.
You can laugh.
You can roll your eyes and wonder how somebody has managed to write 1,200 words about phone number formatting.
You can forget the entire thing five minutes later.
All of those outcomes are perfectly acceptable.
You will always be welcome to my thoughts, the rest is between you and your internal monologue.
Anyway.
Your turn.