Listening to: The Private Psychedelic Reel (Chemical Brothers)
Eating: Late-night cheese and tomato sandwich
Drinking: Earl Grey in the vague hope it will soak up all those lagers
Surf today: 3ft, would have been in the green room if a certain fat bastard could have got his suit on
The flame still burns: Padfoot
It is the most terrifying thing a blogger can hear.
"Oh yes, I've been reading your blog."
It's somehow a nasty shock to find that real people (the kind you live next door to) are reading the nonsense you churn out during tea breaks, lunch intervals and odd post-pub hours.
This started out as a sort of diary to myself with a couple of jokes thrown in, maybe friends and relatives back in the Midlands would read it.
Reg started me off, Arabella said she liked pigs, then I'LTV shimmered in from another dimension and said something sweet, the Birdwatcher added a comment that made him feel like an old mate, then the Americans invaded, Fathorse made me feel so old and so on and so forth. . .
Somehow, I never expected anyone on the island itself to have time/energy/interest to look at it. What on Earth would interest them in the views of an idiot newcomer?
So there I was, alone in the bar with 'D' (not his real name, by the way) and he uttered those fatal words. If you want to try the accent, think Auf Wiedersehen, Pet meets Rab C Nesbitt, with a bit of No Surrender thrown in. American readers should maybe at this point go out and pour themselves a large glass of something interesting.
Anyhoo. . . I'm in the bar. . . an hour ago maybe. And I'm burbling.
"Errrrrr. . . yep, blog. . . how did you know?", while mentally backflipping through previous posts to make sure I hadn't slagged off his entire family at some stage.
"Och, I had a look after the postman told me about it."
Oh holy f**knuts! That means maybe more than one or two of the island population of 600 are tuned into The Edge of Nowhere - CRAP! the title itself is a bit insulting. The Hub of the Universe - how's that for a new title? Edge of Nowhere? It's not even bloody original. Aw Jeez!
As it happened 'D' (one of the island's bigger farmers) seemed to reckon it was quite amusing and we settled down for a lengthy chat about townies moving to small islands, pigs, sheep and cattle.
The appearance of 'B' - my nearest neighbour - brought another round of drinks (whisky and water for myself), but some serious confusion for the trainee pig farmer. Conversation moved on to tractors and, frankly, they might as well have been speaking Bulgarian. I tried hard to look as if I understood, but nobody seemed to mind when I drifted back to the Independent sports pages.
I will pass this item on to you, however: always avoid the four cylinder Massey 135, the chrome plates are too thin. Go for the three-cylinder version instead. So now you know.