The graffiti carried a certain resonance. “You can’t backspace life.”
Too right, I thought, slinking to the train wearing a large hat and sunglasses.
It was the morning after the email of the night before.
I’m still not entirely sure how I managed to upload every email address in my computer to a professional networking site.
I’d read the handbook on what not to do on such sites, but somehow managed to transgress every rule with a click of a button. Well, maybe a couple of buttons in nuclear sequence.
The first sign something was wrong was a perplexed email from the dog groomer wondering if I was setting up in opposition. This was followed by one from my old Dad.
“I’d love to be part of your ‘professional network’ dear, but couldn’t get past the question how do I know you? There was no box to tick for fruit of my loins.”
With sinking heart I reviewed my sent invitations and saw my life flash before my eyes.
A former Commissioner of Police? OK! But an outlaw motorcycle gang – that shares the name of a well known sporting goods company?
But there I was complete with my best glossy magazine editor photograph and CV including years as a crime writer asking politely to “share updates” with … the Rebels.
The next three hours were spent frantically withdrawing invitations. I’m still not sure how many actually reached their destination.
I’ve not heard from the ex-Commissioner of Police nor the menacing rumble of Harleys, but I have learned the hard way when to click “ignore”.