Is Anybody Here?

You're invisible now,
You've got no secrets to conceal.
- Like A Rolling Stone, Bob Dylan







I blog, therefore I am. Or so I used to say to myself.
Don't bet on it, matey.
Today I was plunged into a deep ontological crisis.
It all started so well. The weather was milder, the sun was shining and I had a £5 supermarket voucher in my pocket. To say I had a spring in my step would be over-egging the pudding but I might well have done if I'd been wearing what I believe are known as 'trainers' rather than Oxford brogues.

I approached the grotto of gastronomic delights that is Somerfield's emporium and the electronic doors failed to open. This has happened to me before. Several times.
I walked backwards and forwards in front of them repeatedly as though someone were pressing the rewind button on a video machine, but to no avail.
Then I jumped up and down in front of the sensor, waving my arms in the air, like someone who had just won a week in Ibiza on a television game show.
A passing neighbour said "Alright?", his expression indicating that I definitely wasn't and would soon be moving to somewhere with 24 hour room service by men in white coats.
A friend of mine, a priest, used to say that when God closes a door he always leaves a window open. Well I've got news for him. Somerfield doesn't have any windows. So you've screwed up big time there, Omniscient One.
Then another customer came along and you know what? Those fucking doors slid open immediately.

I wandered the supermarket aisles like the ghost of a Victorian mill worker, wondering what you buy for someone who doesn't actually exist.
What the hell is going on?
Am I just a figment of other people's collective imaginations?
Am I someone else's imaginary friend?
Have I spent so long in the cyber world that the corporeal world no longer recognises me as existing?
Is anybody here?
Who, if anyone, is writing this?

If you're reading this it means Blogger has recognised my password and that may give me sufficient confidence in my existence to return later and write what I intended to today before a sliding door's sensor shattered my customary solipsism into a thousand tiny pieces.