I like to think that Jesus first said ‘I am that I am’ after being asked unsuccessfully by Mary Magdalene to help with the washing up, by way of a non-hostile refusal. It was the kind of thing that I occasionally tried on my own mother, but it didn’t wash. Which meant that neither did she.
Mush else besides doesn’t wash right now. Sir David Attenborough joined Instagram, or rejoined it, this week and, last time I sneaked a look, he had 4.9 million followers.
I say ‘sneaked’ because I had to borrow Caroline’s phone to find out, as Instagram and me have deleted each other in the last week, so I no longer have access to it.
Our relationship had never been an easy one, rather like the denouement between one of Sir David’s racing snakes (them) and the fat iguana (me).
After about three years of trying, I think I had eight followers, of which someone managed to follow me twice, which is either rather flattering or extremely creepy. I then got thrown out of that account because I couldn’t remember the password. For a time, I threw all my energies at getting a ‘proper’ following on a new account and, by a process of posting cringingly worthy pictures of sick dogs and sunsets, I slowly ascended through the rankings until I had 48 followers, although I think that’s an exaggeration. It was 32.
Pride wouldn’t let me befriend the people that Instagram told me were virtually friendless themselves, on the basis that misery loves company, but also because they might end up turning me down.
Comically, I began to realise that I was one of the tragics who actually did go back and look at how many ‘likes’ I had achieved, or at least admitted to doing so, which was normally none. Possibly one, as our firm’s ex Bank Manager seemed to like everything I posted on principle. But after him, no one. Nada. Rien. Just silence. If only Cambridge Analytica could have liked just one of those sunset photos, it all might have been salvageable.
It was only a matter of time before I deleted the App, with one of those almost entirely hypocritical puffs of self-righteous wind to the effect that my privacy was being invaded, and Facebook were selling my name to any bidder out there, let alone the highest one.
That was, if true, also patent rubbish. I deleted the App because it turned out that I had nothing useful to say, and also I had run out of sick dogs to photograph in sweet positions. The fact that it was a rainbow free summer didn’t help either.
Twitter is next and then, then Linkedin and then, when I am feeling really brave, Facebook, which I only joined to keep up with my children who promptly left it.
Meanwhile, I have this.
I am that I am.
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