Ah me. I have a little writer’s blog. I mean block. And I’m not exactly a little writer. It’s not as if I’m a big writer, I mean I’m an inconsequential writer. I have a following (thank you! I am so excited to see you every day!) but a big writer would have books, and an agent, and the face (footnote: the face is the face you have for the back of your book. If you’re Sebastian Faulks you not only have a face, you have a pose. I once saw S Faulkes in a Waterstones walking down the stairs and behind him was his publicity picture. To my delight, he was not only wearing the same jeans/jacket combo, he even had his hand in his front pocket just like his photo. Note to self: check if S Faulks has paralysed hand). No, I’m not a big writer: I just like to write but as it happens, I have big feet. Continue reading
I know it should be something
The postman brings
In a bag
Five go-o-old rings
Mothers can be very disappointing (footnote: yes, me too). Continue reading
I hate Christmas. I think. The fact is that other people’s decorations are going up, the Cadbury chocolate tree decorations have probably already sold out and all that’s left are edible Hello Kitties (footnote: Cadbury’s never make enough, even though they must know that anyone who buys them in November can’t possibly leave them alone), and yet I’m not feeling in the least festive. And I should feel festive because I’m time travelling in the Maltesers advent calendar. (footnote: Maltesers were, incidentally, the gift brought by the fourth, and lesser known, wise man)
The happiness I wrote about in my last post entitled “I’ve won the lottery” is substantially increased due to the large number of people I don’t know asking to be my friend on Facebook. I assume my popularity is due to my wit, intelligence, charm, and pleasure in using the Oxford comma.
A friend of mine has suggested that a further reason may be my unexpected good fortune.
When I began my blog I did it as a challenge. Write a thousand words a week, and good or bad, post it. I did it because I needed to. I was feeling sorry for myself and wanted the world (oh, hello Afghanistan, Estonia and Vietnam! How did you stumble on me? Was it just serendipity? And then you stayed?) to know about it. That’s why we blog – we honestly think you want to know about our lives. We tell you about our day, our angels, our shoes, our politics, our children, our dinner and our cats. Life rarely gives us the opportunity to get our thoughts in order, edit them, and delete the stuff that just doesn’t work. It’s therapy. It’s arrogance of course, but it’s therapy.
On Saturday my son gets married. Here are my words of advice.
You’re all growed up! Not really, you little caccamuffin. Obviously as far as I’m concerned you’re still 4 and making car noises. You still have fat little legs and chubbly knees and you still tuck your feet under your bum. You still give each micro machine it’s own little voice and no matter how nicely you play there’s still going to be a crash. You still pretend to be a cat and lap your milk from a saucer. You still draw people with long legs and big smiles and no arms. You still get cross enough for the stork bites on your neck to flare bright red and you still laugh so much you have an asthma attack.