outpourings

Alarm bells ring out. It's been less than an hour since my last blog. Does this mean I'm becoming addicted to blogging? After all, as I'm seriously addicted to chocolate, to the Weasley kitchen game, I have to accept I have an addictive personality.

Thoughts are haemorrhaging out of me. Is blogging the equivalent of standing in front of a mirror for hours at a time or taking innumerable photos of yourself to display on your website or mobile phone ( fortunately - or unfortunately as the case may be - I'm too disgusted by my current appearance to do that) ? Why is this becoming appealing, blogging, that is? Why not just keep a diary, which I did for many years? What is more worrying is that my dishwashing was interrupted to return to the laptop. And even more concerning is, that in the absence of breakfast, I've just consumed half a packet of ham which means that due to a high salt intake I may well be dead by this evening, which is probably why I should continue writing just now. It may be my last communiqué to anyone who has nothing better to do than read my ramblings.

For some time I've identified with Bridget Jones, in so many situations hearing her filmic voice. I wonder how many of us, and I'm talking about women now, actually do the same, if we're honest. My first identification happened several years ago. My partner and son had gone camping and I was 'on my own'. I'd experienced the usual emotional journey: bereft feelings on their departure, busying myself for a few hours until I felt reconciled to their absence, then a rush of excitement at the prospect of a week to myself.

The first day, a friend, horrified by my admission that I'd never been there, took me to the newly installed Harvey Nichols, for afternoon tea. I hadn't been there for a reason - I'm not impressed by grand shops. However, as we entered the tea room/dining room - don't know the appropriate word for such a place in such a shop - I found myself looking round, wondering if there was anyone there who would recognise me. (Actually the whole experience was yawningly unimpressive and I haven't been back. I've no desire to spend £500 on a coat, or even to own a coat.). So, that was the first of many BJ moments.

Last night I had another, when I realised I had two followers of my blog. The first thought was that I'm becoming 'known' (dream on...), the next was to check out the second follower's blog which resulted in my sinking into a slough of self-analysis when realising again the mainstream blogger's tendency to allude to scholarly, funny or otherwise funky things/people/ books/ ideas etc. and my belief that I should be doing the same, although I'm determined to be me in these writings rather than pander to my perceptions of the norm.

I wonder if growing older is less about becoming adult and more about being aware of when we're being children: either the child who needs to please or the one who thrives on rebellion, to use transactional analysis language.

Anxiously (because of recent high salt consumption) yours


Jane