Very much like the Push Pops craze at my school or the inexplicable mass urge everyone had circa 1993 for those t-shirts that showed exactly where you were a bit sweaty by lighting up in fluorescent colours, everyone I know is suddenly on Facebook. And just like then, I can't think of any way my life might be enhanced by a piece of clothing that lets everyone around you know when you're feeling somewhat hot, but everyone else is wearing one and I wonder if I might in actual fact be missing the subtle entertainment value in standing round in large circle with everyone else and showing off the colour of my armpits after all.

I never bought a Hypercolor t-shirt and gave up Push Pops after half a day when I realised my hands were attracting lint from as far away as Stockton-upon-tees, but I was curious about Facebook. Lured there by invitations from joyful converts I type my email address and wait for it to tell me who else I know is on there. All of them. People from school, old tutors from university, every single blogger I've ever known, people from jobs I've been fired from, people I haven't slept with since Pearl Jam were good and people I have. They're all in there, wearing colour changing t-shirts and giggling at each other's damp bits.

I was still busy scratching my head over this phenomena and wondering about what it was all actually for when someone leant me his login so I could poke about, a favour I absolutely didn't instantly repay by leaving marginally rude messages on all his friend's profiles. And oh, the immediate chatter, the ceaseless babbling! . It was like sitting at the back of the bus on a school day at 3.30. I attempted to find some people I knew in order to stalk them briefly but mercilessly find out if they were using it for any other reason than to tell the world they had a bit of a sore toe and this is what I look like with my comedy festival hat on, but was quickly thwarted by the requirement that they be my 'friend' first; of course, anyone who I care enough about to want to know what they're having for dinner I can just ring and ask and the rest I don't care to let know I expressed an interest. Especially the people I haven't slept with since Pearl Jam were good. I left in a small but not imperceptible huff, pausing only to write a final BOSOMS on somebody's wall.

If I were to be standing in the middle of a largish living room, surrounded by floaty, rainbow coloured bubbles of all the words that could possibly be used to describe me, not only would I be on some ketamine of extremely interesting strength but it would be words like 'querulous', 'taciturn', 'derisive' and 'aloof' that would be happily bobbling closest to me. ''Awkward' is positively trying to get into my ear. The word 'social' is all the way across the room, buried under one of the cushions of the old sofa that no-one likes to sit on after Auntie Susan's doberman pissed on it last Christmas and you've never quite been able to get the faintly moist feeling out. Knowing this as I do I never expect to be truly interested in anything that could conceivably have the word 'network' attached to it - mostly just not sniggering out loud is an achievement - but still. Perhaps I'll try again in a year, see then if it's more about keeping in touch and less about jumping up and down in a fluorescent t-shirt and waving frantically, telling people you're alive.