“Dry your eyes. On your feet.”
Sometimes the world’s random turns throw up a charmed piece of timing. That was the first tweet that I read on 19th September 2014, sitting on the side of the bed, eyes burning, wondering what on Earth I could possibly do with a day for which I’d bought champagne, but which broke my heart before dawn.
I’d resisted Twitter for a while, then fallen in love with it, weirdly comfortable with the disembodied voices of strangers. Small phrases, 140 characters: at its best, little postcards that made me smile, laugh or think.
For whatever reason, that tweet cut through, its arrival perfect to give me a virtual shake. I’d tell the writer – if I knew who they were – that I managed to carry out half of their instruction to us hollow-eyed, political orphans that day, though I failed miserably for a while on the first bit.
Today we should have become independent. We’re not, and it’s not okay, but since I don’t think we can ignore the power that time and timing can possess, and since words are all I’ve got, I’d like to tell you a story.