Especially For You

While chatting and having a quick catch-up with a friend on the phone the other day, we spoke briefly about my blog, which I know she reads regularly.

She, Libby, commented with a little surprise about how much I’ve written and what I find to write about.

I have to admit I’m rather surprised too, as when I started it a few months ago, I truly thought it would it would be a flash-in-the-pan affair and I’d lose interest quite quickly. The last time I wrote anything of any length, apart from shopping lists, was when posters of Starsky and Hutch were pinned to my bedroom walls, later followed by Adam Ant when I was at school twenty-*cough cough* years ago.

I had no idea at all what I’d write about. I knew I wouldn’t be writing about recipes as I only cook because I have to, and nowadays will do what I can to get out of it – even to the point where my oven packed up just before Youngest Daughter left in May and I didn’t bother getting it fixed. The hob is separate from the oven, so I wasn’t totally without means of cooking. Getting the oven mended was one of those ‘I’ll phone up about it tomorrow’ jobs.

What?

Look, it was summer and I barbecued. A lot.

And ate salad. A lot.

A couple of months ago  A month ago  Last week Yesterday, with the thought of Christmas dinner comprising of a visit to the local kebab shop, I arranged for someone to come and mend it. But Mr Fixit isn't coming until next Thursday, which means I’ve got a few oven free days left.

So, having established that cooking wasn’t going to be a theme, or gardening (like gardens, loath worms), scrapbooking, card making (that’s what shops are for), or any other innocent pastime, I just decided to go with the flow and see what happened.

Libby asked me where I get my inspiration from and I told her that while I don’t actively look for things to write about, something small may happen, or someone makes a tiny comment that tickles me, then the germ of an idea takes root and I start writing. The crap Ideas just seem to keep on coming, flowing out of my brain, via my fingertips and keyboard, into my computer.

I also use blogging as a way to occasionally let off a bit of steam, which you’ll have noticed if you’ve read some of my previous posts. I find it quite therapeutic and in one case it opened my eyes to a nasty situation, which was then dealt with.

Aside from writing, blogging has also opened up access to an online community that I had no idea of before; one that I believe I would have remained in ignorance of, if my sister hadn’t introduced me to her blog.

There are all manner of brilliant blogs out there; I’ve found houses I’d love to move into, places I’d like to visit and gardens I sigh over. I've acquired a slight case of chicken envy, as for a few years I’ve thought about keeping chickens, but it hasn’t happened although I’m not ruling it out (however I think the many local foxes would set up camp in my garden, tents and everything). Best of all in blogland, I’ve found humour by the bucketload. I admit I do a lot of lurking in the background and I read far, far more blogs than I comment on.

While I was talking to Libby, one of the cats – Grumpy – broke a plate in the kitchen. Not in a joyful Greek plate-smashing sort of way (opa!) but more of a look-I’m-on-the-worktop-whaddya-gonna-do-about-it-oh-shit-it-wasn’t-me sort of way.

So while I was holding the phone in one hand and sweeping broken bits of plate up with a broom in the other, she jokingly asked me if I’d write about it. I laughed and replied no. After all, how would I get a post out of a broken plate?

Well. Like this apparently.

So there you are Libby – just for you, I’ve written more drivel a post is born.