🧩 Wittering from the Potting Shed 🧩

By Virgil Twobyfour

Occasional Time-Traveller, Accidental Technophobe

Keith came by again this morning, arms flapping like a pigeon caught in a hammock, with that look on his face that suggests I have once again failed to plug myself properly into the 21st century. “Virgil,” he says, eyes popping like a startled badger, “I’m trying to get your website up and running - you need to pay attention!”

“Well,” I replied cheerily, “I’ve never met a website myself, but if it’s up and running, I do hope it’s wearing sensible shoes.” Keith groaned as though someone had accidentally parked a wheelbarrow on his favourite hat.

He spent a good twenty minutes waving a small glass rectangle under my nose, saying, “You can do everything with this,” like some demented conjurer. “Everything?!” I exclaimed. “I don’t want my phone making toast - I tried that with the radio once and the less said about the arias my bread sang that morning the better.”

“Virgil,” Keith spluttered, “I mean it can send emails, post blogs, check comments…”

“Check for what?” I asked. “Badgers in disguise? Ducks pretending to be geese? Last time you had me posting a blog I thought you meant putting my diary on the garden gate. Mrs Partridge down the road read the lot and left me a very nice jar of gooseberry jam as a critique.”

Keith, face the colour of a well-brewed teabag, began muttering something about algorithms and outreach and “user engagement,” which to my ear sounded like one of those Country Fayre dances we never quite get the steps for. I nodded sagely and assured him that if he wanted to reach the users, he ought to try knocking politely at their front doors.

“You need to understand,” Keith implored, hands in his hair like someone trying to untangle a nest of particularly uncooperative eels, “your followers want to read your posts online!”

“My followers?” I blinked. “I wasn’t aware I had any followers. Do you mean the ducks at the village pond? They’re probably looking at my sandwiches right this minute. Little opportunists.”

At that, Keith made a noise like a deflating concertina and fell into a chair. “You never grasp this stuff, do you?” he muttered.

And I thought: probably not. My interest had already wandered off and was no doubt chatting to the ducks and humming a hymn to itself. Still, I appreciate his efforts - I really do - but I can’t help feeling there must be simpler ways to stay connected. Like leaning over the garden wall and telling Old Jim that the runner beans are looking promising. No passwords required. No screen glare. Just good honest gossip and the occasional startled blackbird.

Your happily bewildered neighbour,
Virgil 🐸