On Twitter, what's fascinating isn't merely what people write. I try to picture where they were and what they were wearing as they were tweeting.
So I am imagining Rupert Murdoch on Sunday night, slurping on a glass of fine, golden beer, seated in a red velvet smoking jacket.
Clutching his phone, filled with the kind of irritating news a boss often receives, he cast his frustrations to the wind. Or, rather to the Twitterati.