How many days do you leave it before you call?
How long should you leave between relationships?
Can love survive over long distances?
How many dates before your first kiss? How many more before you sleep with someone new?
How big an age gap is too big?
How many sexual partners should you aspire to as a man? How many is it acceptable to admit to as a woman?
When I first began blogging, I never imagined it would get read, that I would become part of the ‘blogosphere’ or that, heaven forbid, I would actually have to meet anyone face to face. It seemed quite acceptable then to pick a photo for my header that showed me at my best, i.e. plastered with make-up and with twice as much hair as normal.
When I first met other bloggers in person, I got business cards with the same picture on, and had to keep taking my glasses off and pretending to talk into a phone so that people would believe it really was me. I’ve thought about changing the picture, but it’s too late now. I’ll just have to go with it, and hope that next year the MADS add a category for ‘blogger who looks least like their profile picture’.
The full photo actually includes all of us and I would love to have the full shot on the blog, but Bee is so horrified by her hair, which in my opinion looks rather lovely and sleek, that she would never forgive me. So I’m just going to show you it here once, and hope I get away with it: View Post
This morning I was listening to Tom Jones on Desert Island Discs. I love Desert Island Discs, a fact that leads me to believe I am officially middle-aged, and that it’s time to crack open the slippers and sweet sherry. But that’s another post.
Tom Jones is a man who has built his life around his voice. His voice is powerful, deep, commanding. When he talks, you take him seriously, he sounds wise. I on the other hand, do not.
When I talk, I do not command respect. My voice is high-pitched and childlike, adding to the general image I present of a teenager dressing up in her mum’s slightly out-dated clothes. It’s another reason why writing works so well for me and why I will never work in a call centre.
OK, I admit it! I’m a terrible mummy! I’ve been too busy working to even notice my poor baby lying unattended and unloved in a quiet corner of the study. For a while it whimpered quietly, hoping to attract my attention, but eventually it gave up, the tears dried on its cheeks, and it fell silent…
I’m not talking about my real children of course, don’t call Social Services, they are used to a bit of healthy neglect. It’s good for them. It teaches them to be independent.
I’m talking of course about my blog.
Bridgwater is generally a pretty crappy place to live. Somerset as a county has a lot going for it, but Bridgwater, quite frankly, doesn’t. Since the cellophane factory closed down a few years ago, it has even lost the one thing that people in other parts of the country identified the town with – namely the pungent stench of rotting eggs and fish as you drove past on the M5, on your way to somewhere else.
One thing Bridgwater does have going for it though – fair.
I have deliberately omitted the ‘the’s here. In Bridgwater, you don’t ask ‘are you going to the fair?’. No, no. You ask ‘are you goin’ up fair?’ It’s a subtle difference, but one which immediately marks you out as not being local i.e. none of your families members have married each other.
Recently I seem to have developed a rather worrying and shameful habit.
I think I have become addicted to Sex and the City.
As you can read here, I was a late starter when it came to Carrie and her oh-so-stylish chums, and have always felt slightly guilty about watching, but lately, thanks to Sky+, I have been making up for lost time, to the point where it’s almost a daily fix.