One useful rule of journalism holds that the journalist should always engage with the readers. If someone takes the trouble to write - it used to be letters but is more likely now to be a tweet or e-mail - you owe him or her the courtesy of a reply.
Sir Max Hastings, when my editor at the Telegraph though not yet a sir, made it an obligation and threatened to be "very unpleasant" towards any member of staff who failed to observe it.
A second useful rule of journalism more or less preaches the opposite.
It holds that the journalist should regard readers as necessary but best avoided or ignored if contact is made. This reflects what we used to call the "green ink syndrome", the colour a disturbing proportion inexplicably chose for their missives - along with lots of underlining and words entirely in upper case - and can now be known as the online troll factor.
I see arguments in favour of both approaches. My instinct was always and remains to reply, but there is actually no moral imperative to respond to abuse or even robust criticism and - more rarely - praise when its source is people who surf the web looking for discussions in which to be combative, insulting or - keep taking the pills, Monsieur Salut - appreciative. The opinions are those of freeloading users, not buyers.
So why do I sometimes still bother? Good question.
The Local's French edition - http://www.thelocal.fr/20150708/eight-ways-french-culture-can-change-your-life - approached me, not for the first time, for my thoughts on aspects of life in France. This time, the theme was "how French culture can change your life" and I was among the expat authors and bloggers invited to contribute.
My response:
Our eating and drinking habits change the moment we arrive in London or back in France. London life, especially if time there is short, can turn into a succession of meals out - admittedly Indian, Thai, Vietnamese and even French rather than English - because we have become convinced that while you almost always eat better as guests in France, Britain now has a distinct edge with restaurants.
Maybe, in France, we are victims of location, part of the catering trade's captive market on the Cote d'Azur, but we end up feeling disappointed or cheated eight times out of 10, whereas all our French friends and relatives are streets ahead of anyone we know in the UK when it comes to home cooking.
Back in Britain, you also seem to encounter endless opportunities to have a drink; my French wife's friends at her gym in the Var raise eyebrows at her modest consumption, a glass or two of wine a day. I think nothing of having something from the trolley on the train into London from airports but never even think of looking for a pre-flight bar in France.
It seemed a harmless enough project, my comments touched on only a part of the story of life in France. Other contributors dealt with different issues and I thought little more of it when sent the link showing how my words had been slotted into the piece.
Then the comments started. Among the first, someone concealed behind the nom de guerre Si declared: "Utter nonsense. This is not journalism and it is a pity you have debased yourselves with such tripe."
The jibe seemed to be directed at The Local rather than me, but I rose to the bait all the same. "Love the way you trash the piece without producing a trace or supporting argument," I wrote. And I identified myself as the Colin Randall quoted in the article even though, for boring historical reasons, my username appeared as Kingshirker.
And so it went on, Si's ink growing greener and greener and straying into all sorts of areas that targeted me while having absolutely nothing to do with my minor involvement in the article.
Follow the link above and you'll see what I mean. Si and others whingeing about the French life they have chosen to share, or just about the French.
I thought of asking why or earth these people bothered to read, and allow themselves to get so irrationally cross about, something they could so easily ignore.
Then I realised they do it because they have a need to shout, and shouting at a screen somehow makes them feel better. As for me, perhaps I have at last learned my lesson. Si can troll on, unhindered by me.
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