Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness - part 60

It's late morning on a sunny saturday, but before I rush out to search for 18th century candlesticks and wineglasses from our flea market here in town, I had better keep all you 82 insatiable, Stephenson-hungry followers happy by putting up a post so that you don't have to fend off the shakes by resorting to drugs and alcohol before the sun is over the yard-arm. With power comes responsibility.

In the evening, my role is reversed and I become a living example of the dangers of drug and alcohol abuse - a graphic warning to you all of what can happen to ordinarily sane people whose lives fall apart as a result of untrammelled hedonism - i.e. having about 2 glasses of wine more than the government health guidelines recommend.

I have a mental image of the 50 or so followers who hide behind anonymity on my site, tut-tutting as they walk past, in the same way they would when they circumnavigate a drunk who is lying on the pavement, shouting foul (if justified) abuse at them whilst a suspiciously dark stain spreads across the front of his filthy trousers.

Maybe I'm being a bit harsh on myself. As Cro has pointed out, the incidence of comments on everyone's blogs drops sharply over the weekend, and I can only think that this is probably because most of you lot actually have meaningful lives.

There again, it could just be that the majority of amateur, weekend-drinkers get so plastered on fridays and saturdays that they simply cannot focus on the screen, let alone operate a keyboard. Us professionals just keep it up, nice and steady, 7 days a week and are well-practiced - like the old Fleet Street hacks - of churning out (as I have just been accused of) 1000 word apologies where a simple 'I'm Sorry' would have sufficed - under any circumstance whatsoever. Well, every one of the 700 odd posts I have put up over the last couple of years have come with the warning that I tend to go on a bit, and this one is no exception.

When the rest of you are trying to prepare for the beginning of the busy week by abstaining from anything other than a light supper on sunday nights, us unstoppable old-hands just chug along as normal, only resorting to posting You Tube video and audio clips if our fingers have refused to respond to commands given out by our burnt-out brains at bedtime.

H.I. hardly ever reads any of the guff I put out on here for the entertainment and edification of the masses, and is constantly complaining that I spend too much time at the computer. I tell her that my blog is my 'art form', and all other activities (such as eBay) are 'business related'. She consequently wonders why I am not rich and famous, and I respond by telling her that I have suffered for my art and now it's the turn of my 82 followers, all of whom seem to suffer in silence at the weekend.

Sometimes I lie awake at night wondering how it can be that - with all I have to offer - I only have a mere 82 followers, but I usually placate myself with the reminder that I have always been shy and reticent in the self-promotion area, unlike some more heavily-followed bloggers I could mention.

I have considered increasing my ratings by raising money for charity; reading my market and posting up more stuff about chintz curtains; putting out recipes for the busy house-husband; keeping a vast array of fun-sized furry animals in our compact but adorable city apartment; commenting on the changing seasons just before they change; commenting on the changing seasons whilst they are changing; writing poetry on the changing seasons - before, during and after; reviewing books; reviewing films, etc. etc. but the one thing that I find produces more comments than any other is a straightforward, uncalled for and abusive, open-ended insult.

So fuck you. (lol ha ha !!!!!)