Just when you think you’ve got enough friends in the world to hold a decent orgy, some geek in California tells you it’s not enough and that you should be sharing your body fluids in a virtual world, where people aren’t called Bob and Sue anymore but CP30 and BilboBagit. I’ve resisted Facebook but now, I’m in danger of being sucked into Twitter. Like an adolescent schoolboy who’s worried his testicles might be the wrong shape, I’m dithering by the bedroom door . What do I say, what do I do? Is it really of interest to JellyFrog or RustyNail that I’ve just had a jam sandwich or that I’ve shrunk my angora jumper on a hot wash. It all looks like a load of wittering to me. Help.