I’m sitting on the train tonight, trying to access Twitter.
It’s been the case for a while now, that on the journey home I habitually flip through the stream of disjointed conversations, briefly reading and passing over the snippets of a day that belong to those that I follow (and all their followers). Usually the only moments I’m not doing that, is when we pass under the city loop. But even then I sit with my phone in hand, stealing the moments when “not in service” blink off and I can go back to my lurking. Tonight though, I’m not really getting any access at all, so I’m forced to listen to the conversation going on next to me. Yes, I’m an eavesdropper from way back, but this time I really have no choice in the matter.
The girl sitting opposite me is recounting her break-up to a friend. It’s quite a marvelous story. They had their whole life planned together, including the birth of their first child, which was going to be a girl “because that’s what we both wanted”. Goddam, I’d tweet this stuff if only I could get connection. I’ve even written the tweet in my head.
“Break-up story next to me rather amusing. Girl quite heart-broken as they had their first child already planned. A daughter named, Keesha.” I’m imagining it might be spelt with a $ sign.

Next tweet: “Someone sign this girl a reality cheque. And get her a book on baby names.”
Anyway, I’m not getting any luck with accessing the internet so I put my phone in my pocket, just as Keesha’s want-to-be-mum hangs up and turns to a portly man sitting in front of her.
“I’m sorry about the music playing earlier, I really didn’t mean to disturb you.” He nods and says it’s not a problem, obviously a little taken-back that she’s apologised in such a sincere way.
“Anyway,” she continues, “How was your day?”
He looks unguarded and it gets my attention too. Do strangers really ask each other this these days? Most of the time we’re plugged into iTunes or grazing through Facebook and Twitter. Or even, going old-school, reading a book.
“Um, it was, as usual, quite routine, as most days are in fact.” He answers with a fumbled honesty. She continues to pursue the conversation.
“What is it that you do?”
“I’m retired, but I was a lecturer at TAFE.” She goes on to tell him about her abandoned studies in hospitality, a sleazy boss and her desire to return to learning. She tells him it’s marvelous that he’s a teacher, that he must have worked hard to achieve that, that is must be lovely to have a job where people look up to him.

“Well,” he says in a quiet knowing voice, “It’s not really that esteemed, most people regard lecturing at TAFE to be that thing you do, when you can’t do anything else.” She disagrees. And he thanks her. He looks a tad more chuffed than just chuffed.
I’m at my stop. My signal returns. I walk off the platform, glad that I hadn’t tweeted earlier.
I type: “Endearing conversation between two strangers next to me. A heart-broken 20-something and a retiree. Feeling a little heart-warmed.”

I walk off wondering how often I’m disconnected from the people around me.

I’m not discounting online connections, I think it’s possible to become close and value those whose 140 characters drop through your day. After four years of some followers, I’d say I’d know them pretty well, and yes, having even not met them I refer to them as “friends”. But a lot of us would admit to being seduced by the Twitter vortex, and it’s so easy to become drawn into – when nothing can happen without a desire to tweet it. I think sometimes there are sadder implications for relationships and family life, when we become so seduced by our need to be constantly connected to others outside of those immediately around us. I’ve seen it happen.

I’m not going to read Twitter on my commutes anymore. And then maybe, a little less when I’m at home. I don’t know how successful I’m going to be. I’ll let you know.

But someone just signed me a reality cheque. And it’s best I cash it in.