In webspeak, that is. Old Backside and I, his ever-controlling head prefect, are conning you all into buying our ginormous pile of ordure; leading you up the proverbial garden path, as it were; painting a portrait which might not be a reflection of reality.
I recall that some years ago I appeared at the Big House purporting to be a young ballet dancer learning flamenco in Iberia; family in Surrey, etc., etc. and quite a few correspondents chose to befriend me. It was frighteningly simple to become a persona. When I owned up, some were less than complimentary; others disappointed.
Here on the chariot we are so few that it’s had to imagine any of is a simulacrum, to use an old word. But maybe we have the odd catfish lurking in the shadows? I wonder.