Caitlin Moran (The Times journalist) has Twitter. In fact, I would go so far as to say, without ever having had the pleasure of meeting her, that Caitlin Moran likes Twitter. (I promise this is not a post entirely about Caitlin Moran. That’s next week). On Twitter, (which I personally feel would receive much better press if it had a less silly name – I like to call this the Peaches Geldof curse), you get 160 characters to create a ‘bio’. Caitlin’s simply reads: ‘A woman, yes, but still funny.’  Perfect. I suppose, if I think about this carefully enough (I really need to spend more time thinking carefully, and less time writing rap eulogies to myself- ‘I was born and it was good/ Sometimes I pretended I lived in the hood/ My accent betrayed me/This turned out to be deadly’), I like Caitlin’s bio because it’s very nearly exactly what I would like my own, real-life bio to be. Except I would also like something to be said about my rap skillz. I’ve been thinking a lot (mostly about apt rhymes and dropped beats) but also about what other people think about us. Oh, when I say ‘us’, that’s just a polite grammatical trope. I’m entirely self-obsessed. Now the trouble with trying to find out what other people think of you is that you have to be very sneaky. And most likely, ‘sneaky’ is not high up on your list of ‘adjectives I’d like people to use to describe me’. Unless you’re playing a game of ‘Assassin’, obviously. So, I have decided to take a different approach. (Different to listening at doors, wearing all black and trying to blend into the shadows). I am following Caitlin Moran. I simply tell people. You would be surprised at how seamlessly I have managed to integrate this approach into my daily life. ‘Off to the gym?’ ‘Oh yes, I am terribly strong. Ironically, I never have to use this quality, as I am also exceedingly fast. I’m just a highly evolved physical model. Ta-rah.’ I then simply pop off round the corner and have a quick snack. ‘Would you like mustard with that?’ ‘Oh, mustard. I would indeed. I have highly distinguished taste buds, and am a protege of Heston Blumenthal. It doesn’t even matter if all you have is French mustard. I guarantee the seeds won’t get stuck in my teeth.’ Then I simply saunter back to the office, safe in the knowledge that I will go down in history as a perfect physical specimen, who never got mustard seeds stuck in her teeth. Come to think of it, that would make an excellent Twitter bio. 

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