A result of this particular weakness (I have a great many, including one for bow-legged women, despite my sainted mother's warnings about such) is that I thoroughly enjoy following a few Facebook pages which showcase old photographs of places that have become integral to my past. It's fun to see how a city/town/rural area has changed - or not - over something like one and a half centuries, and I get a little nerdy thrill out of new images posted by people who are far more obsessed than I with such things.
What I DON'T appreciate, however - how dare they disrupt my smoothly flowing stream of consciousness - is the constant infiltration/hijacking of such pages by people (usually, I have to say, women of a certain age) insisting upon bulldozing a thread - frequently a string of questions and answers about the history of the image and/or whatever it depicts - with the following kinds of posts:
- Dorothy Grimsbottom: "I used to live at number 74 when I was a little girl!"
- Joan Bumblethumb: "Is that you, Dot?"
- Dorothy: "Yes, who's that?"
- Harold Purplenose: "I lived at number 26 from 1956 to 1969. Number 25 used to be the only house in the street with white window frames and a yellow door."
- Joan: "It's me, Joanie from number 64!"
- Peter Womble: "The next street along was where I watched a German bomber drop a stick of bombs on the beach, killing nobody. I'm pretty sure it was a Dornier."
- Dorothy: "I don't remember anyone called Joanie, sorry."
- Harold: "Number 33 always left the light on all night, as I recall. My mother used to remark upon it."
- Joan: "Dot, you might remember me as Ursula. I had a blue dress."
- Peter: "Although it might have been a Heinkel."
- Harold: "Burned all night it did. Must have cost them a fortune. Mind you, he owned his own company, so..."
- Dorothy: "Oh, yes I remember Ursula. I never liked her."
- Joan: "I thought you did? We used to play together. Is that why you pulled my hair?"
- Peter: "Now I come to think of it, it was a Junkers. Anyway, the main thing is, nobody was hurt."
- Harold: "I bet it was that bl**dy (pardon my French) light at number 33 that attracted the Luftwaffe."
- Dorothy: "............"
...and so on. And so bloody on...
It's time, I've decided, to fight back. I have therefore decided to launch a campaign of joining such pages under a creative name with the express purpose of engaging such people in the most banal conversations possible about fictitious childhood memories, just to see how long I can keep it going, and with the hope of making their heads explode with false recollections. You know the kind of thing: the time when father O'Reilly spent more than forty five minutes 'having tea and crumpets' with Mrs. Hoolihan on the corner, and with the curtains half closed. Or perhaps the tragic story of how little Morris got his willy caught in his mother's mangle and had to be cut out by the fire brigade. then again, there was that incident when two sheep were found floating upside down in the back yard pond of that family from Pakistan-or-wherever-it-was-it-doesn't-really-matter-they-were-foreign.
I find my fingers automatically steepling, in a decidedly wicked kind of way...I'd ask for help but it sounds like too much fun, so just leave me to it...