Mood: hungover/possibly still slightly pissed. Internal jukebox: $1000 Wedding – Gram Parsons. Insert terror alert/moon thing graphic here.

In which our hero attempts to write a ‘proper blog entry’.

OK. Something different today. A stream of consciousness of FEELINGS and STUFF ABOUT THE BLOG that I never normally do, rather than your usual daily dose of ATTEMPTED PROPER WRITING and COMIC BOOK OBSERVATIONS that are my BARRIER AGAINST LAYING MYSELF OPEN TOO BARE.

So if you’re here for the first time, better skip this one. Go and read an old post. One of the funny ones.

What’s brought this on? I’ll come to that.

A while back I mentioned that I’ve got a couple of rules. And Torturette left a very polite comment wondering what they were, and I ignored him. That was rude and arrogant of me, for a new reader whose blog I love – check it out, he can WRITE.

So in answer to your question, Torturette, I never write about blogging. Quite happy for others to (big of me), but it’s not for me. Too self-referential. Too easy. Too dragging-me-in-further.

Too worried about being presumptuous.

And while I’m on that subject, I love your comments. Thanks. I really do. And I’m sorry I haven’t been replying to many recently. Email if you like, and I’ll guarantee a reply. Probably. But I love you lurkers as well, lurking away, lurk, lurk, lurk. Lurk. What a great word!

(If anyone can tell me why Haloscan pretends there aren’t any comments on posts older than a few weeks then I’d be very grateful).

Anyway. I digress. Broken that blog thing rule. What else? Well, here’s the big one. The absolute killer, never-to-be-broken. I DO NOT MAKE THINGS UP, NEVER, NEVER, EVER, OH NO. I paraphrase sometimes, but I don’t make up events or situations, or put reported speech into people’s mouths. I did put a small fib in a very early post to make something funnier, but I felt soiled and cheap, owned up in the comments box and never did it again.

Where there is a joke it should be obvious that it is a joke. Clearly, Ms Jones did NOT buy me a five grand Internet fridge for my birthday. The tight cow. I have transcribed her name onto the list of death.

What’s brought this on?

Well – an attack of paranoia, self-doubt and insecurity following the latest big personal disaster that has happened to me. So I get through this disaster, heart pounding, sweating, that horrible feeling when you have REALLY FUCKED EVERYTHING UP and sit down to write about it. And I’ve completed the first sentence (“The rabbit has escaped!!!”) when I look back over the previous two days’ posts, building up the rabbit business, take a deep breath and admit to myself that you really, really can’t be expected to believe that the bloody thing got loose without some sort of formal statement of intent.

It would have been just too... neat. Too convenient. Too slick. Things like that just DON'T HAPPEN IN REAL LIFE, even though it did.

It would have made a great post. The rabbit escapes. Not even the one that was expected to die at any moment. It runs off at speed. Me chasing it, a feeling of horror welling up inside me at what I’m going to tell Tony, and, more to the point, what he’d have to tell the kids.

Me crawling for twenty minutes in the hedge and undergrowth that Tony chucks the dog shit into, actually – get this – WAVING A PIECE OF GREENERY and cooing ‘come on! Come on!’

The almost-grabs where the long-eared rat thing veers in and out of reach coyly, before bounding off in a different direction.

And my final struggle where I apprehend it – not quite picking it up by the ears, but near-enough, struggling with its legs going nineteen to the dozen, throwing it back into the cage and then that huge post-adrenaline rush that makes you feel sick and say ‘fuck’ a lot.

Anyway, the rabbit escaped. I assure you.

Perhaps I should have had more trust in you all. I guess you wouldn’t have really cared. But it matters to me, and it’s my blog. I demand the right to be pompous occasionally.

Have a good weekend, everybody.