At six twenty pm I go on to twitter.com, because apparently it's what all the cool people are doing.
I don't know what I'm supposed to do there.
Apparently you type into a box what you're doing right now, and then you can see what everyone else is doing right now. I type something suitably pretentious into a box, and then I look at what everyone else is doing.
Everyone else is mainly cooking dinner and listening to Hot Chip on their iPods. I fight the temptation to type into a box 'Hot Chip are, like, *so* 2005! You should be listening to Lindstrom*, dweebs!', because a) I am not fifteen, and b) these people were on twitter.com before me, ergo they are cooler than me, even if they are listening to Hot Chip on their iPods.
I type into the void a bit more.
A bloke called Mathew is wondering what's so good about twitter.com.
So am I.
I reckon everyone else is just pretending to know what's so cool about it, while they cook dinner and listen to Hot Chip on their iPods.
Mathew wonders if it's because he doesn't have any friends.
I almost offer to be his friend. Then I think that might be a terrible breach of Twitter etiquette ('twitiquette'), and some of the people on there have been there since, ooh, last week at least! They might gather round me and Mathew in a circle and laugh, and taunt, and chant 'you love him, you love him'.
'Twitter is more fun with friends!' says the blurb. Going by the available evidence, I consider that this statement may have merit.
I email James to see if he wants to go on it, luring him with the promise of a site that's so inconsequentially solipsistic it makes blogging look like War and Peace and the Red Cross rolled into one.
Strangely this doesn't work.
In a last ditch attempt to get to grips with it, I inform the Twitter crowd that I am 'moping'.
I go and cook the dinner, without listening to Hot Chip on my iPod.
It is now eight sixteen pm. In Twitter time ('twime'), about seven years have passed. Mathew probably now has thirty-eight thousand friends and a column in the Guardian.
'This typing what you're doing into a box malarky, it'll never catch on', I think to myself.
I sit down at my laptop and fire up Blogger.
* Or is it Prins Thomas? I can't keep up.