I read two accounts of relationships breaking up on Facebook. In one, a woman realized the man she thought she was seeing had claimed to be single on Facebook, in another a woman’s husband had a virtual affair and changed his relationship status (or some such thing). And in both the cases the women were lamenting how everything was out there, and spread like wild fire among friends and strangers (don’t know which is worse), and the consequences of such linen-washing on Facebook.

What exactly are the women crying hoarse about?

After putting their lives – and its definitely not just women here – on display, do they, by any chance, expect privacy? Don’t they vicariously go through the personal details of others and delight in them? So, it is but natural – isn’t it? – that others should delight in similar such details about them?

On a slightly different note – and yet still on the issue of Facebook – people seem to be living their lives more through their online profiles than in real life.

And now on a complete different note.

Read an Agatha Christie after ages – maybe even a decade. After a phase of pretty heavy-duty writing – complete with award-winning authors – reading an old-fashioned murder mystery was simply refreshing. It felt good. Like a lunch of dal-bhaat at home, after days of celebrated gourmet cuisine.