To be honest with you, I used to be a little scared of trolls; not the trolls of fairy tales – that lie in wait under bridges for unsuspecting tasty goats to come along – no, I’m talking about the new breed of modern trolls who lie in wait behind their computer screens, who troll through the Internet for opportunities to assert themselves in stealthy ways that will cause damage to others without the injured parties knowing their attackers, or why they were attacked. Oddly enough, for one so fresh to the world of the Internet, I’ve had cause to wonder at what motivates trolls because I was actually subject to a bit of wicked trolling myself earlier this year. In my case the only conclusion I could draw was that the two female trolls,who wrote almost identical nasty things, and who both came from my own hometown, must have had personal reasons for being so horrible. Inexplicably, they left their names, which meant nothing to me… at the time.
My advice to those with a hankering to become a troll would be: do not troll when you have to leave your real name as your calling card, especially when you live in the same small town, and you can be found on Facebook. And yet, one of my trolls was perhaps not quite so stupid because there happens to be another woman in our town with the same name; apparently (according to my allies – the forces of good), the older one of that name is an important middle-aged lady, involved in the local theatre and charity groups; the other is a working mother; and I do not know either of them personally, as far as I know. My intuition told me that the troll was more likely to be the older lady but I couldn’t be certain, and why? Did her husband (whoever he was) have a soft spot for me? All these months later, though the hurtful comments are no longer foremost in my mind, I still ponder occasionally on the true identity of my second troll.
Funnily enough, Jane, one of our local ‘movers and shakers’, called me last week and asked if I would give a forty-minute talk at the Havana Club (for old folk). Being a professional artist, and therefore a minor celebrity within a three-mile radius of Dawlish, I’m on the list of ‘approachables’ on the talking circuit. Having agreed to do my bit for the Havana Club, it was then suggested that I should telephone another lady who would be able to book me into a convenient slot; that lady’s name was – you guessed it – the name of my troll! Of course, the woman in question may not have been my troll; nevertheless, I found all manner of excuses for myself not to call her. At last, after a full week of mulling over what I should say and how I should say it, I decided I could leave it no later – the bull had to be taken by the horns – and I phoned her.
“Hello, is that ******** ********* (possibly Mrs Troll)? This is…ah… Sally porch. (I forced myself to smile because people can tell if you’re smiling or not when you talk on the phone.) I’m calling about the talk I’ve been asked to give the Havana Club.”
“Oh yes, Sally, Jane told me to expect a call,” she said in a fairly friendly way, as if she knew me. “You’re charging £30 – aren’t you?”
“That’s right.” (I had agreed with Jane on the figure of £30, on the basis that it was half the highest amount the club usually pays its speakers.)
“The club might be closing down soon through lack of funding, so Jane said she would put a tenner in the kitty,” said the likely Mrs Troll.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary, let’s call it twenty pounds.”
“Thank you,” said the probable Mrs Troll, “I’ll get Agatha to call you and arrange a time – I don’t deal with the bookings myself.”
When I put down the phone I thought about the matter of my humble fee. Twenty pounds is not a lot on the talking circuit nowadays; if I had to rely upon that for my living I would not have to diet – I would starve. On second thoughts it hit me that actually I would rather starve than have an important woman (or a troll) spread the word about town that I was so mean that I charged the old folk at the Havana twenty pounds for forty minutes of my time (plus the preparation and travel time).
I phoned her back.
“Hello? This is Sally Porch again.”
“Hello Sally!” a man’s voice answered in a smile ( I could tell he liked me), “I’ll just get ***** for you.”
“Hello Sally?” came a surprised voice.
“I’ve been thinking about it and I’ll waive the fee – just thought I’d let you know so you won’t have to fret about it.”
“You don’t have to do that,” said the lady (who might well have been my troll).
“Oh yes I do,” I thought to myself, but I didn’t say that. I smiled as I bade my cheery goodbye and gave no hint of my misgivings as to her possible alter-ego. I felt good. Who’s scared of trolls anyway?