Tweet, Tweet

Tweet, cluck, caw, coo, cock-a-doodle-doo! These sounds once attributed to birds, now to Twitter. A chorus of voices, muttering pathetic gems or pearls of wisdom. Mocking. Opinions. Songbirds replaced by human tweeting. Repeating and general twittering. Permission to chirp ad nauseam. A written 'X-Factor', like giving the mike to those who think they can sing, except in this freedom of speech, there is no auditioning. Voices out-of-tune automatically through to the chorus round, no training. No practising scales, warming up the vocal chords, or warbling, just thrust out on an unlit stage and performing.

Letters forming words, forming sentences. Their comments contained in speech bubbles. The voice unheard, words seen. The audience reads an improvised script, adding their own thoughts to it. Repeating opinions. Following the latest news. Obsessed with twittering. The tweets get stronger, if not in actual sound, then in volume. The flock grows more shrilling. Lyrics reduced to abbreviations, unusual punctuation and smiley faces. Language used as a violent form of gesticulating: angry gestures spew from the mouth instead. Some words that are better left unwritten, unread, unsaid.

Vindictive and spiteful like The Twits. A children's book by Roald Dahl which some adults said made them feel physically sick. It was the descriptions of their practical jokes on each other that did it: Mrs Twit's glass eye and Mr Twit's beard where food would be saved for later. Adults were repulsed, kids loved it. A Roald Dahl reader, I was sucked in by his words, his characters, but now I understand how some adults felt: I feel the same way about Twitter. Would I love it if I were younger? If I wasn't quite so principled? I don't doubt it; I'd probably be addicted to it. But social networking came on the scene after my teens and I'd functioned perfectly well without it. Like Mrs Twit, I'm happy to turn a blind eye, but what I can't concede is the pressure to join it. Tweet, re-tweet, twitter, keep up, follow tv, radio or sports personalities, politicians, and trending. Who has the time? Everybody it seems – tweeting is part of the job, essential to everyday life. A web entourage of people, like the glue Mr Twit coats tree limbs with to catch birds for his pie.

The vast majority have fallen for this social trap: this interactive map of new technology. A social platform where everyone from Joe Bloggs to David Cameron is connected. Points of view from the mundane to the offensive. Freedom of speech from behind a safety blanket. Greater debate, we all get to have a say – fantastic! Nobody is oppressed, excluded. Yes, but what about when this freedom is intentionally used to champion an horrific act or slander an emergency service? People verbally abused on cyberspace. Mr or Mrs Twit gets what they want: a response. Attention. Is everyone entitled to their opinion? Of course, but some thoughts need to be self-policed. Kept private. Or conveyed in such a way so as not to cause indignation or distress. Twitter basically says while it may not be wise to speak these words, you can tweet it.

What and how to tweet is a linguistic problem: how do you engage in mistranslation? Where the written word is not black and white? Where there's no body language to accompany it? In a public forum, the words we use are important and should be tweeted carefully. Birds need to be alert – don't get caught by The Twits.

Chicken

Why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side. That was the joke that was regularly told when I was younger. I don't know why it now springs to mind when I think about job hunting. Perhaps it's because I'm no spring chicken, I'm in my middle years, my prime. Job hunting has got harder. Supposedly it's because I'm past my best, my flesh more tough than tender. I haven't just left school or university. I've done the 9-to-5, the commuting; been chained to a desk and the office stress. I'm battered from my brief working life, I'm fried. In leaving my last job, I took a risk and now I can't seem to cross to the other side.

I know the look you're giving me: playing chicken at your age!? Why? Why? Why? For reasons I won't go in. An impulse, a moment, my state of mind. Like a hen that can no longer lay, I knew I couldn't continue. I'd desperately tried and it wasn't working, the situation was worsening. Perhaps it was all in my head, but I needed fresh air, a change. That was earlier this year and I'm still here: on sabbatical. Unemployed, but not for want of trying. Before you rant, I'm not on the dole or claiming any benefits. My choice, my savings.

Humph, what did I expect? Finding a job was never going to be easy! I knew that, but I hadn't expected to, well, feel so redundant. Used up, wiped out. I wasn't aware my qualifications, my experience would mean so little. That it would be so difficult to even be considered for a new career. Cooped into an area of expertise. Wings clipped and inclined to viciously peck my way out of it. Caged because I don't hold a degree, I didn't choose to raise a family. Where are the opportunities for those of us who are 30+? For those who didn't excel in written exams or go to university? What was the point of college and working part-time? Getting my first full-time office job aged 18? Working my way up, changing jobs, gaining experience. My CV rubbed out if GCSEs are altogether scrapped by 2017. On paper, I won't exist. Defunct.

What exactly does 'graduate' mean? Some employers assume 'graduate' means more equipped for the job. Value a degree in any subject above everything else. Theory does not outweigh the practical. Then there are employers who favour experience, but won't help you acquire it. Pah! And the same goes for modern apprenticeships. Why are these limited to an age group? Why can't I have a new start, train for a different career? Why can't opportunities be created for all of us, from when you first enter work to when you leave it? Where are my answers? Not here.

The Government struts, crows its educational strategies. Congratulates itself on ill-considered policies, preening. Education does need an overhaul, but so does employment. Employers need to assess candidates individually, taking into account qualifications, achievements and experience, instead of writing you off with a cursory glance. Good GCSEs; a GNVQ, which is dismissed, undervalued; no degree; relevant skills, but not in this field – reject! Under or over-qualified - which is it? Confused! Training yourself is not a one-off, a phase or stage. A decision made at school or university. People change... Mature, develop new skills, new interests. From egg, to chick, to hen, to tough older bird. Gaining knowledge and skills is a lifetime apprenticeship.

Penny

“See a penny, pick it up and all day long you'll have good luck.” I recited scooping a penny from the pavement. I held it aloft and rolled it between my thumb and index finger. Caught in the light, the Queen's copper head glinted, her thin lips look pursed, but she could be smiling. Is a shiny new penny luckier I wondered? If you picked up a penny that's old and brown, would your luck too be tarnished? A bad penny, layered with dirt, discoloured by other people's misfortune. Could this be why brown pennies are mostly used for making wishes? Flung in a fountain or down a well? Fingerprints washed away, cleansed by water. Brown penny, make a wish and get rid; shiny penny, pick up for a full day's good luck. Someone should investigate this, conduct a study to find out.

Personally I don't recall any instances of luckiness on 'I-saw-a-penny-day'. It would make no difference even if I had for I was intent on saving. Browns and coppers stashed in my purse for a rainy day. Tempted to dip my fingers in fountains and wishing wells, save the coins from drowning. Rescue them from a watery grave. Hands held tightly behind my back; resist, resist, resist... “Money doesn't grow on trees”, my dad told me. I never thought it did nor did I trust the money-spider. Why does he always tell me this? Money doesn't grow, it's made by Snow White's seven dwarves tunnelling underground in caves. Really, adults are so stupid! I thought as I rolled my five-year old eyes. But I liked being a money-saver; listening for the clunk as I pushed bronze coins into money-box tins, rattling the container. Emptying them out on my bedroom floor, counting one, two, three.... two, four, six... Separating the pennies from the pences. Inhaling their stale, musty-brown odour, which left a residue on my fingers. Penny fragrance, an Autumn perfume: the mulch of dead leaves and bonfires.

The bank was important. Men in suits and women that sat behind huge glass screens. My head just reached above the counter, money-bags clutched in one hand and my savings book in the other. My fists prised, coins and book swiped from the customer's side to the banker's. My pennies scrutinised, patiently counted; the sum calculated. A proud smile touching my lips as my pocketbook is transferred back: I did this! These frugal lessons have stayed with me. Penny-pinching gives my heart that same leap of satisfaction, along with receiving a payslip or cheque for services rendered. Managing my funds, creating a cushion.

The way banks operate has altered; it's harder to access your money or talk to someone about your finances. Nobody is on familiar terms with their bank manager. Telephone and Internet banking is a web of security passwords. All of us duped by their assurances. The economic climate we find ourselves in was a sudden boom, a crash, but was it? Somewhere there was a gradual shift away from saving. A switch to spending, hemorrhaging. A subtle tide to have what you want when you want it: credit. The account entries in red, unbalanced.

There's a wise Japanese saying: 'A fortune begins with a penny.' The colour red may not be considered lucky by us, but a penny should be. Seeing a penny and picking it up could change your luck: begin with bronze, follow with silver, then go for gold!