For the past 264 days, I have been hounded by a merciless small green owl. If I were to share this with friends, troubled whispers about my mental wellbeing would soon strike up. Disquieted, they might even cart me off to the hellscape of a wellness intervention. And yet this malevolent bird is entirely real.

What I saw at the Montréal shooting

Exploring Bologna from above

Colbert quit the stage with a whimper not a bang

It is there when I unload the dishwasher, lamenting its disappointment in my efforts; and it is there when I put my daughter to bed, warning that it is about to become “very angry.” Yes, Duolingo is an insidious Jiminy Cricket on modern shoulders – except that it lives in our pockets and, rather than dispensing wisdom, is an emotionally blackmailing shame merchant with rage issues.

It wasn’t always this way. In the early days, Duolingo was an indefatigable champion of my faltering attempts at learning Italian, applauding trifling achievements as I repeated words I secretly already knew. But as the weeks turned to months, its true nature emerged, the love-bombing exchanged for something more sinister. For I had entered the most tyrannical affliction in online modern self-improvement: the streak.

We’re all at it. We count steps, track sleep, monitor protein, close rings and log habits. Somewhere along........

© The Spectator