A Mess of Pottage

The weather has finally changed, comrades. It is sticky, the heat like a man on your back. Today my Fanny and I ventured out onto the battlements with a picnic and a pitcher of Benylin on ice. I managed to insinuate myself into a deckchair, a knotted kerchief atop my head, my pyjama bottoms rolled to the knee. Fanny got the paddling pool out and sprawled in the tepid water, columnar limbs akimbo, fanning herself with a copy of The Radio Times. A ratking of extension leads connected us to the ether and, as the sun flogged down and the sweat seasoned my Scotch egg, we poked our shiny snouts into the life of the fragrant Jennifer.

Jennifer is a thirty-something mother-of-three who lives in Kansas in the U. S. of A. She likes photography and god and organising things. I am a ravaged old clown who should never be permitted to breed. I like overindulgence and toads and other people’s prescriptions. This was never going to be my flagon of eggnog. However, I believe in giving people chances (if it weren’t for me, my Fanny would still be languishing in that Indonesian gaol) and so I bravely soldiered on.

I looked at photos of her children. I looked at photos of other people’s weddings. I looked at more photographs of wheat in one afternoon than I have ever seen in my life. I looked at photos of her kitchen being renovated. I read posts about her hair, posts about her bosom, more posts about her dislike of clutter, posts about things she likes that begin with the letter ‘C’, posts where she accidentally goes out wearing mismatched shoes, posts where she uses the word ‘vury’ instead of ‘very’. And then I reached calmly into the picnic basket, pulled out my emergency pistol and inserted it into my eager mouth. It was only the piteous mewling of my Fanny that prevented me from finding sweet relief. I stayed my hand, thinking she was distraught at the idea of losing her beloved Master. Turned out she had inadvertently swallowed a bee.

It was this post that broke me. “I have SO MANY THINGS TO BLOG ABOUT”, darling Jennifer begins, and then proceeds to discuss, in soul-rending detail, her purchase of some new bed linen. This blog is the most gratingly banal thing I have ever read. Everyone has the right to keep an interweb log if they so desire, and it’s probably quite nice for Jen’s chums to be kept up to date. I am just annoyed that I had to spend a goodly portion of my afternoon wading through this pablum.

I do like to try and temper my scorn with some positive comments. It would be churlish of me not to highlight the fact that sometimes our Jennifer tells mildly diverting anecdotes about her children, or says something a bit poignant. She writes reasonably well when she’s on a roll but overall, this is not writing, it is wittering. To write well you need to marry a unique, readable style with interesting, original content, or at the very least permit them to live together in sin. If you don’t care about writing well, if your blog is just for the personal amusement of you and your cronies, then for the love of Christmas, do not submit it for review.

Oh where are they, the bloggers who can satiate my soul? Where are the people who can turn bread and water into Trimalchio’s feast? Why must I soil myself with this prattle? Jennifer, my darling, I am sorry to have to vent my spleen on you. You seem like a decent woman. You work hard and keep clean and say your prayers (not that I have any truck with religion - I decided a long time ago that I was the only god it was worth my while to worship). I just don’t care about anything you have to say. I don’t care what your hair looks like or what colour your bedclothes are or whether or not you like scrapbooking. In the grand chronicling of the internet, your blog is mere bagatelle.

The clouds have come now, wandering in like grubby sheep, and no doubt it will soon rain. The hottest day of the year so far and I have spent it paddling in this mess of pottage. I suppose I should offer advice of some kind, but the only advice that springs to mind is ‘shut up and leave me alone’. I feel so weary and my head is so full of fripperies that I am going to have to spend the evening doing diabolical things to my Fanny just to cheer myself up.

Jennifer, take this flaming finger and tidy it away.