Dancing With Myself

- No, no, no and no. This simply will not do any more. I am not standing for it. Once a month blogging? What is this, 2007? And don't you even dare trying to use Watch With Mothers as an excuse again. You only write for them once a month as well. Is there not a single thing rattling around in that ginormous skull of yours that could be turned into some scintillating text?

- Er, yeah, sorry about that. I've been around, other places, you know. Sorry, who am I talking to here?

- Other...? I knew it. I knew it. I can't believe it. You've been cheating on me, haven't you? Again. With that whore. That flighty painted Jezebel, Twitter. Did she dress up for you? Oh, she can look like Tweetdeck, can't she? Did you do it on your phone? My God. You disgust me.

- Hey! That's hardly cheating. I've been on Twitter for over a year and I've still made time for...hang on, what... Cheating on you? Are you a personification of Blogger?!

- Well, if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you.

- Right, you're a personification of Blogger. Great. Good. You're a huffy, stereotypically female impersonation of Blogger, accusing me, a straight female, of cheating on you with another female, Twitter. I'm not quite sure what that means, actually.

- No point asking me. You never tell me anything any more. Just scraps, that's all I get recently. "Oh, here's what I think of Battlestar Galactica. Oh, I bought some boots. Oh, I went all kiss-arsey all over Collins and Herring cos one of them follows me on me on stupid Twitter."

- Stop doing that stupid voice. And put down that handbag. I don't even have a handbag.

- "Oh, I don't even have a handbag! I'm so unconventional!!"

- OK, OK, I'm sorry. I get that you're angry. I'm not exactly sure why, seeing as you're a non-sentient piece of software, but I'll run with it. You're right. I've been wasting all my thoughts in little bursts on...well, not here. But I'll be better. I promise. How about this...I'll do a blog every day now, *every day*, till I can't do it any more. At least a week, and I'll aim for a month. Would that make you feel better?

- ...

- Hmm?

- What, like Richard Herring?

- Yes, like Richard Herring.

- Or like Mark Watson?

- Yes, or like Mark Watson.

- Well... OK. Tell you what you should do as well. Maybe grow a Hitler moustache and do a comedy show about it? Or change your name to Mark Watson, Little Miss Originality?

- Passive-aggressive point taken. Wow. You really are quite the snarky little cow, aren't you? But I know you're only doing it to spur me on to greater heights, so I appreciate it.

- Er...yeah, that'll be it.

- Right then. Guess I'll see you tomorrow, for what will surely be an interesting and exciting experiment! Yeah? Yeah? Hello? Why are you crying?

Buckle up, peeps; I may have finally lost it...

The Duologue Currently Playing Out On Repeat Within My Brain

A casually-dressed but otherwise collected-looking woman, Frontal, sits contentedly on a wooden chair in a large, run-down hall. The "Retro Text The Nation" jingle from the Adam and Joe show floats quietly through the walls. Frontal strains to hear, and slumps dejectedly as she recognises it.

Frontal: Oh, God. Stuck on this again. I will be driven literally to distraction. (shouting) Shut up! I cannot think with this playing again and again! I'm trying to sum up my day and make new friends in just 140 characters!

Suddenly, a flurry of noise as a mostly identical but far shabbier woman, Limbic, bursts through the door, slamming it behind her and holding it shut, as if hordes of zombies are trying to scrabble through it. Frontal smirks at the sight.

Frontal: Ah, distraction. Right on cue. And what flight of fancy ails you today?

Limbic sidles over, looking around huntedly, and cowers by the chair.

Limbic: (hissing) It's already here!
Frontal: (dripping with sarcasm) Oh, poor you. What is?

Limbic shoves a well-thumbed copy of thelondonpaper into Frontal's hands. The headline screams "TUBE FEAR: SWINE FLU HITS CITY". Frontal scoffs and tosses it aside. Limbic screeches and pounces upon it, feverishly re-reading an article she's already memorised.

Frontal: Great. So you think we're going to die of a disease that is currently affecting 0.000000008% of the population of this country cos Murdoch has told you you will. More people have died in the last week sharpening pencils.
Limbic: No, no, no, this is the one. This is the big one. This is end of days stuff. Don't you remember that thing on the TV? That thing with that guy, and he was crumpled in the tunnel in the subway in New York, and then three days later every housing estate in Britain was like gulag redux?
Frontal: That was smallpox. And that other thing...oh yeah, FICTIONAL.

Limbic stares glumly into space. Suddenly she slaps a hand to her forehead.

Limbic: Oh, my head. My head hurts! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God...

She frantically scans the article again and points to the list of symptoms. She stares imploringly at Frontal.

Frontal: Yeah, and how much liquid have you drunk today? Half a cup of tea. Why? Because you've been too busy staring at the computer, without your glasses on, compulsively updating the Guardian swine flu panic blog to go and get a drink. You don't have swine flu.
Limbic: (ignoring her completely, still reading paper) I've got a sore throat too!
Frontal: Your job involves you talking loudly, unnaturally and at length and you've had a very busy day. It's affected your throat as it often does. You don't have swine flu.
Limbic: (hand dramatically back on forehead) My head is hot!
Frontal: Your hand is cold. You don't have swine flu! Jesus, you haven't even BEEN on a tube!
Limbic: (screaming) People sneeze on buses too!

Limbic really quite upset with all this. Frontal sighs. Time to put a stop to it.

Frontal: (gently) Look...this is just a consequence of spending too much time watching 24 hour news channels. They hype this stuff up out of total necessity. They have to fill the time. You've been watching Charlie Brooker, haven't you?
Limbic: (warily) Yeah...
Frontal: We make a passably intelligent person between us. We know that we've not been near anyone who's been to Mexico, that our chances of catching swine flu from the few random people we've been in contact with are very slim, that it seems to be relatively benign in most people it affects, that modern medicine is more prepared than ever for a pandemic, and that it's more likely we'll die being flung joyfully under a bus by a passing murderer.
Limbic: (calmer) I guess that makes sense...
Frontal: Good. Now let's just get on with our lives, and not let ourselves get driven to a breakdown by sensationalist tabloid reports.

Limbic is thoughtful. Then a sudden startling revelation.

Limbic: Oh, sensationalist, is it? Well, answer me this. Has Ben Goldacre rubbished it yet?

A beat. Frontal is stunned. She wasn't ready for that one.

Frontal: What?
Limbic: Has. Ben. Goldacre. Rubbished it. Yet!
Frontal: (knows she's utterly defeated) No.

Limbic leaps up triumphantly and throws her hands in the air. Distant squealing fills the room. Triumph turns to horror, and they run away in a flap. Exeunt, pursued by a swine.

UPDATE: Since I wrote this, the WHO has raised the pandemic level, and we're certainly all going to die. And as you may be able to tell, Limbic has taken full control.