But then something strange started happening. One by one, slowly but surely, they were beginning to reappear in the daily voyeurfest of my Facebook news feed. How wonderful!
On further inquiries it transpired that no, it was not that my virtual acquaintances were growing tired of my one-line status update wisecracks. Some of them had simply had enough of Facebook and deleted their accounts - but alas could not cope with the withdrawal. So I decided to check it out. What actually happens when you deactivate your Facebook account?
Step 1: emotional blackmail
The first step is to get to your account settings. Buried away in there is the Deactivate Account option - I could tell you how to find it, but it was such an epic labyrinth of menus I have long since repressed the memory; and I'm not prepared to go through that trauma again simply for your benefit. You're on your own.
If you do find the page, here is what you are treated to: emotional blackmail.
Phil will miss you! Remember that summer's day the gang went to Thorpe Park and rode the Nemesis Inferno over and over? Here's the group photo!
Laura will miss you! You hadn't seen her in two years and went to visit her in Australia. How could you forget! You took a little boat trip out of the resplendent Sydney Harbour to go and see humpback whales in the ocean - here's the picture!
Fiona will miss you! I know you haven't seen her since that messy wedding in Boston. I know you don't remember, you were off your head for most of it but look! At this photo! Here you are with your oldest bestest college mates having such a fun time!
Look! Here are the photos! DON'T DO IT!
Clearly our Facebook overlords interpret your decision to leave as a declaration of intent to eat all the paracetamol and check out of this dull existence.
You take a deep breath. And you hit the button.
Step 2: cold turkey
No more Facebook. No more sneaky peeks during work hours at Barry's latest views on the Jedward commercial. Finished are the real-time updates of Iain's run-ins with that homeless lady in Harvard Square, Massachusetts. You find other ways to push the day along.
That Excel spreadsheet starts to look like something you might actually let the client see. Look at that beautiful pivot table! And doesn't it look so much cuter in the Calibri font?
But more than that. You reconnect with humanity. And caffeine. You find yourself spending more time at the coffee dock. How did I never notice Jelena? She makes my skinny latte just right, six times a day. You ask her about her day. And her divorce. She tells you about the miscarriage.
Step 3: relapse
It's just too hard. Getting off heroin would be easier. You tried methadone/twitter but 140 characters of monochromatic text is just not the same. You're not sure if it's delerium tremens or all those little hash symbols that are making you dizzy. Just then you get the mail.
Just in case, y'know, you changed your mind, we saved your details. Only your login name, your password, phone number and home address, your list of 'friends' and every status, comment, and photo you ever posted (including the ones you deleted). Please come back. James misses you. Alan is starting to forget what you look like. If you change your mind, just go to www.facebook.com and log in again, all will be forgiven. It will be like you never left! Please come back. Or else.
And you cave.
And so it continues for a few months more, in an endless cycle of steps 1, 2 and 3 above.
So welcome back Stacey, welcome back Ewan. To the recently departed, we miss you. But not too much, cos let's be honest. You'll be back.
