Yesterday I finally gave in and got myself a Twitter account. To be honest I don't really get it yet, but within a few hours some 30 people I have no connection with are my followers. Some of the time it feels as though you are at the centre of a massive crossed line eavesdropping on conversations that you barely understand: the next you plug into something unexpected, immediate and wonderful. I have drawn the line at Denver Real Estate, web-dating and half a dozen earnest female Christians pushing out depressing messages of hope that belong on motivational posters of sunsets and seascapes. I mean really. Forster's "only connect" may be the motto de jour, but surely a small degree of editorial control is permissable.
Here, in a life-affirming paean to the power of a laptop and a few microphones, is a Twitter find. The digital world bringing raw street music together.
Stephen Fry has almost half a million followers, and no, I don't understand how he has time to breathe let alone tweet.
Do I have a witty, ironic avatar? No - if you really want to see me dribble, I'm lizbolshaw. As usual
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