Ok, if we’re going to do this thing we’d better establish some ground rules. Managing expectations, the buzzword of the modern workplace, comes in handy in blogging too.
Here is my contract with you, setting out what you will and will not find in this blog of mine.
Let me start, a touch diffidently perhaps, with what you will not find.
You will not find any celebrity gossip and or pictures of famous cellulite and double chins. Should Kim Kardashian, in an arguably stunning development, renounce all worldly sex tapes, take the veil and sequester herself among cloistered nuns for life (or, say, at least 74 days) I promise you I will be the last to know. My 62 year old boss will blog about that before I will.
You will not find any provocative fashion statements – in words or pictures. I could not give a flying saucer if gold lame gladiator Ugg boots are in, out or upside down this season and as for hems, when you get to my age and thigh girth there are only two lengths: longish and trousers.
Despite my deceptively interesting-sounding former and current professions you will not find any political or diplomatic scoops in here. Hell, I couldn’t manage that when I was actually paid for it so I’m not going to bloody well do it for free, am I, out of some crazed instinct to compete against such stand-up guys like Guy Fawkes and other honourable, fair minded gentlemen of the interweb.
You are not going to find recipes, decoupage tips or addresses of wicked salsa clubs, out of the way jazz cellars, exclusive venues of any kind. If it’s exclusive I’m ideologically opposed to it and boycotting it. If, on the other hand, it’s inclusive, it’s likely to be quite crowded and noisy, isn’t it, and full of people I would not want to mix with, so I’m not going there, reader, not even for you!
So what on earth will be in it, I sense you wonder.
I’ve decided to follow my own basest instincts and go with (my internal) flow. Here is what you might reasonably expect to find on my blog:
Not particularly well-argued, slightly ranty feminist tirades,
Manic melancholia tinged with nostalgia, occasionally degenerating in soppyness,
Musings about ‘loife’, its meaning or lack thereof, and the increasingly decreasing quality of it..
Meringues (must have meringues),
Amusing family tales featuring intellectual, mild-mannered husband (IMMH), little (or Ugly), sister, her son the Leopard , aka the Mouse, plus Scary Italian Mamma.
Some quirky travel pics, when I cannot resist showing off,
Unaccomplished film criticism,
Some tedious work-related moans, which you can skip,
Highly unliterary literary criticism,
The occasional paean to Sandra Bullock. I just love the woman. So shoot me.
In short, dear reader, I will never wake up with a new face, a millionaire racing demon lover, on a boat in the middle of the Channel with a terrible headache and no idea how I got there, seven different passports and an uncanny knack for martial arts, wearing a to-die-for "this season" jumpsuit and on trend nude wedges.
If that’s your thing you’re going to have to get your kicks elsewhere.
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