And we’ve made it – the one hundredth post in binneyblog, and it feels like we should have learnt something.
I’m going to have a think for a moment.
People, although inherently flawed, are composed of memories; memories which might not even come from their own minds, we are all made up of thoughts and recollections.
Some of these stories can be useful, some provide a giggle. Some of us are taken as adopted mother to a bunch of nineteen year olds and might have some difficulty in accepting that indeed, we are in our mid-thirties and frankly, to be in the middle of thirty-something and not taken as the mother figure would make us seem desperate, perhaps a little bit vain. It’s surely better to be mother than weird thirty-something who hangs about with the youth.
As mother figure, I am required for advice when the proverbial hits the shitting fan. As not-actually-a-mother, my advice tends to come with swearing.
Thankfully, I find myself hugely influenced by my parents; now both deceased, but tremendous people who made a lasting impression on everyone they met. And continuing to do so, through me, and my prattling, blogging, chattering away at people who might even want me to move to another area of the bar, but the fact remains, my advice comes with jokes.
You might well note, in the coming weeks, that my posts are a little shorter than they used to be. This is entirely because of the novel. Knocking out a thousand words a day takes quite a lot of commitment. Pressing ‘Publish’ daily is heavy going.
Don’t get me wrong. There will be more binneyblog. And it will be here, daily, just shorter, because I think I’m onto something here. Maybe the novel will come to something. Maybe not. And maybe that’s something else we can pretend we have learnt: you have to try.
And on that note: I think it’s time for a Guinness.