The one where I pretend I know what I'm talking about...

James at The Ink has shamelessly stolen other people's ideas (alright, asked nicely for people to give their ideas... I'm just sore because mine wasn't chosen) and written a post of his top tip golden blogging rules.

For what it's worth, here are mine...

• Blog interesting
• If you don't think you're very interesting, invent a new persona... Contortionist? Burlesque dancer? Accountant? Whatever floats your boat.
• Don't worry too much about blogging regularly. Real life does happen. You will have other things that keep you busy. It's not your job. Like all hobbies, blogging can't take over your life.
• Be part of the community dude... that means reading other people's blogs, that means commenting and that means actually be interested in other people - it's not all about you, despite what you might think.
• Make sure your writing is readable. No txt spk hr - I dnt udersnd it (is that right?). I understand l33tspe3k even less. i \/\/3\T t0 tH3 5h0p2 t0d4Y 4\d 80U9hT 4 l04f 0F 8r34D just won't cut it. Remember what your teacher taught you.
• Realise this is the internet - you never know who's reading. No matter how much you try and keep your blog quiet, it's likely that someone you know will, at some point, read it. Write accordingly. Don't censor your work, just think how it would feel if you found your name blazed across some internet site. Use pseudonyms.
• Don't let the bastards grind you down. Occasionally in the big bad world of the internet, you're going to come across people you don't like. Solution? Easy. Don't visit their site again. It's ok not to like people, you don't have to beat yourself over the head about it.
• If you're having a bit of a brain-freeze, look at the news, look at other blogs, look up random words... or, if all else fails, go and find a meme to answer.
• It doesn't matter what you blog about as long as it's your own perspective on something. The reason people read your blog is because they want to know what you think... not what Norma Major said about Edwina Currie (or whatever)
• No matter how dull you think a subject is, I bet you can make it interesting.

Gosh, that's all a bit too serious for me. Sorry.

Normal service will be resumed once I a) start following all my rules from above and b) think of something worthwhile to write about.

About another 3 days then...

Never respect a man who can salsa

I've never really been one for hen nights. The prospect of being forced to wear sparkly willies on my head and the "you must have fun" attitude makes me go cold.

Groups of them stream out of clubs in the early hours, cackling manically, acting like harrassing strangers is ok, just because they're wearing a white veil and L plates (aside: why L plates... they're not learners. If they were going on their first date, then maybe. But hell, they're getting married, you'd think they'd know what they were doing by that stage in the relationship!)

The hen "day and night" I went to on Saturday was an amalgamation of the best and worst. The good. Twenty intrepid explorers went on a treasure hunt of sorts. Things we had to find included the bride, a man in uniform (hoorah!) and the other teams. We then trooped to the pub and watched the rugby* and drink a lot of beer. And cider. And other things.

And the bad? We made our way to Charing Cross (not the most salubrious of surroundings you might say, and you'd be right) to a nightclub/bar where we were to learn Salsa. 13 hungry hens (not including ours) had already descended into this pit of despair. Around the dancefloor, swarthy, sweaty, Spanish types peered through the gloom, picking out their victims. The air was heavy with the smell of Lynx (probably). The words "meat market" sprang to mind.

I bumped into a friend with her new boyfriend, I idly watched them (as all around me scoffed the worst tapas known to man - think a tortilla chip and a spare rib followed by overcooked chicken).

The couple were dancing on the edge of the dance-floor. Not your normal shuffle-your-feet-and-windmill-your-arms dancing. No, salsa dancing. They looked like they were having fun. He span her around. She dipped. They did that whole swaying thing with their bums as they did the forward and back footstep jobbies. I almost envied her. But then the thought struck me... could you ever find a man who could salsa, sexy? To me, it's just a bit too... desperate.

Aren't they trying a bit too hard? Throwing away their natural man-dance lack of talent and bucking the trend? Shouldn't they be stood round the dancefloor scoffing at the girls dancing with each other while their mate (the "mad" one) attempts to chat up a whale on the other side of the room?

Give me a man who can down a pint, sing rugby songs very loud and doesn't mind the fact that I tend to get beaten up over the weekend (while playing rugby, not by him) and I'm a happy bunny. Which is just as well really since that's exactly what I've got.

Never respect a man who can salsa.



* on which I am not commenting. If anyone talks to me about the rugby, I will disown them, delete their bookmark and jump up and down on the spot in protest. Although, for what it's worth, I don't think BA should be sacked. Yes, he made some hideous decisions with selection (Iain Balshaw, really?) but it's the players who have to perform on the day. And they didn't. At all.

You already knew this but...

I'm way ahead of the game.

Wanted: Mrs Mop

As I tip myself out of bed my foot connects with with something long and hard. And painful. Surely a hairbrush doesn't belong there?

I survey the room. A "clothes to be washed" pile. A "clothes to be put away" pile. A "clothes that belong in the dressing up box" pile. Walking through to the sitting room, a wine glass from last night stares accusingly at me from the table. A pile of mail which needs to be re-directed to wherever Ms Ida Green has moved on to.

I can't face the kitchen.

I am not slovenly by nature but I'm increasingly finding that I'm having less and less time to do the things that a good housewife (*ahem*) should. When I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is merrily don the marigolds and spend the next half hour underneath the loo, scrubbing away to my heart's content. I'm not some old scrubber y'know.

I've always seen myself as more of a sit-with-feet-up-watching-other-people-do-the-cleaning kind of a gal. So that's why I've come to the decision that I'm going to have to get myself a lady what does. I'm sufficiently right-wing in outlook not to have pangs of guilt about this, however, I do have a number of stipulations.

1. Mrs Mop must infact be a Mr Mop
2. Wearing a small pinny
3. Topless
4. Oh, and I'd have to vet him before he starts for "ease on the eye" credentials.

Apparently there's a market for this sort of thing...

Where's my manhood?

Always disturbing for a chap to find he's lost his dangly bits.

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

... why can't you make me look thinner than I am.

I'm going through a fat and ugly stage at the moment. The ubiquitous facebook means that photos which should never see the light of day are slowly creeping into my friends' consciousness. There I am, large as a whale, wobbling my double/triple chins to the world.

I can only untag photos so fast.

Respite

The cold wind whips the cobwebs tangled in my brain.

A head rush from the hastly snatched cigarette.

An aching body from Sunday's exertions.

It's been a bit of a strange weekend but I think we've sorted it out. It's not something he can just get over. But we're talking about it.

And I'm grateful it's not me making him feel like this.

*no title*

It comes on suddenly. I never know where from. I don't know what triggers it. All I know is that it changes you. You become someone from a different place. I can't talk to you. You can't look at me. Your words hurt me. I cry inside. I know you don't mean it and I know you can't help it.

I want to help you but don't know where to start.