Originally published in The Clifton Courier, June 14, 2017

I think I’m being watched.

I’m not implying that I am important enough to warrant a full Secret Service style surveillance situation, but maybe I am. Because the past few days have brought some creepy incidents that really feed my delusion that everybody is paying attention to me.

The first one came through the week, when I received a notification from online the platform I run my blog* through that a hens party business had started following me. Apparently I write so much about women partying together that this event-planning-meets-male-stripper-booking-agency deemed me a prime candidate to target.

* In print, this led to a cheeky link to this blog. Considering you are already on this website, reading said blog, including that link seemed a little redundant. 

Thanks to highly-sophisticated algorithms, my online activity and the content of my social media posts can be interpreted, analysed and packaged up for internet platforms to target with specific marketing material and public relations strategies. Clearly “hens party”, “sparkling wine” and “mooning people off a yacht” were keywords that attracted the attention of this party-planning business.

It’s not something I actually mind that much, because it means the ad spots in my social media feeds and the websites I visit are filled with relevant advertisements for me instead of marketing things like investment opportunities and real estate, which would be a waste of the client’s money and a sad reminder for me of how far off I am from owning property.

But in the case of this bachelorette party firm, I feel the data has failed them, considering I’ve written a few times about how much me and my posse would prefer a legit Harry Potter impersonator to a cringe-worthy striptease.

This is just an example of online marketing, and given how much I overshare online, I’m surprised I don’t get more targeted ads for things like novelty-shaped chicken nuggets you can buy in bulk or witty tote bags.

But then something happened the other night that suggested I was being bugged.

I got home on a Friday feeling particularly exhausted after the working week and did what any 25-year-old would do on a Friday night: turn on Antiques Roadshow and pour myself a stiff cup of tea.

As I was settling in to weigh up whether a woman’s collection of tiny, handcrafted wooden shoes would be worth anything (spoiler alert: they weren’t, but the sentimental value was in the seven-figure mark) I received a notification on my phone. Apparently an antique collectible account had just followed me on Twitter.

Coincidence? Yeah, probably. And considering I post a lot of updates about my deep love of trashy television from the UK, it wouldn’t have been that much of a stretch for anyone to assume I would enjoy that particular account.

But I must admit, I did consider closing the blinds and thanked all things holy that I was wearing pants.

Then this morning I was sitting in the park after a particularly stroppy jog. My form was terrible, and my huffing and puffing left few guessing at my level of fitness. And despite the cool weather I was exceedingly sweaty thanks to the overzealously warm jumper I had chosen to be active in that morning.

While I didn’t see my reflection in a mirror, I’m assuming I would have looked like death after that minuscule exertion.

As I sat sipping tea, a message came through on my phone: it was a text promoting a home-visit doctor service.

Yep, someone is definitely following me.

Sorry for being so boring, whoever you are.

* Also, for once there isn’t an actual swan reference in this story so I can understand any confusion over the title. I just really felt the need for a Billy Madison quote. Ever feel that way?