Joseph Dobbie is someone to feel really sorry for. He met a girl at a party, sent a dreadfully poetic 500-word email to her, she forwarded it to her sister and her sister forwarded it to some friends.
Her friends forwarded it to the world, by Sunday his email was in my inbox and by Monday he was all over the papers.
I forwarded it on to a couple of friends, the subject field reading, 'I feel really bad about forwarding this ...' as though that makes it better.
Actually it's worse: I was only about number four on the chain of emails, which came from my boyfriend, which came from his mate, which came from the sister's mate. Since rather a lot of my friends are journalists, I could conceivably be the reason it reached the, ahem, media confesses Rebecca Seal.
I sort of feel bad. But even though I've seen his picture in the papers, it's like he doesn't exist, which encapsulates the alarming beauty of the internet: when you've pinged that email off into cyberspace and deleted it from the sent box, you can easily delude yourself into thinking it's vanished into the ether, never to be read.
This is, of course, a long way from the truth. Joseph may not feel any better, but there but for the grace of God go most of us. I could probably be fired for some of the things that have emanated from my inbox.
My productivity has been seriously compromised by hours spent wondering whether referencing Chekhov in an email to a potential pull will make me look erudite or geeky, and questioning whether, 'yeah, party was fun. felt well hungover today though. best, T', means 'Let's engage in a meaningful relationship which will definitely result in children,' or 'was she the really drunk one who told the same story twice in 10 minutes?'
I've thought I was getting into something deep and meaningful, only to find out (usually a little too late) that deep and meaningful wasn't exactly on my recipient's mind.
I've had IT retrieve crucial documents from crashed computers which has necessitated nice men called Barry trawling through one or two (or seven) 'I want you right here right now'-type messages. And I've pressed the wrong button and emailed the boss rather than the boy.
But I'm not the worst culprit by far, although I've definitely embarrassed myself fully.
So 'fess up - who emailed the company online noticeboard about 'how well we, like, connected, last night'? Who sent their mother-in-law webcam pics of their new knickers by mistake? Who has had to anti-spam a zealous/jealous a ex-boyfriend? Who has let their trigger finger hover over the send button, wondering whether this is an email too far (it always is) and sent it anyway?
Who has emailed a friend about how much of a future the latest pull has, only to send it to said pull, from whom you never hear again? Confess all below ...
