Dear Blog,

I’ve got about five minutes to write to you now before heading off to take child to school and get on with what’s going to be a full on day that will likely not end until the wee hours once again. My cup of tea is on it’s third top up of hot water, having been left to go cold over and over again. Frankly it’s not worth drinking.

My new promise to write to you more often hasn’t gone to well has it? I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and feel better having read Jo Case’s post about her experiences yesterday. It was another blog/twitter link I’d followed, only to be left as a tab open on my web browser for days on end un-gotten to. But it made me re-think.

I get so worked up about blog posts. Shouldn’t they say something meaningful? Have a point? What if someone reads it, it needs to stand out as diffferent to all those other blogs? To be a writer you have to present yourself as a writer etc etc. But all that’s led to is this list of blog posts half finished because I’ve got bogged down in my own impediments about what it ‘should be’. As if they would be some literary gem given enough time. Of course that’s stupid and I’m missing the point. That’s not what blogs are about. And given that I hardly ever update this site this really is just my opportunity to talk to you. And you I hate to tell you are sort of me.

Thanks. I’m going to try and lighten up. I’ve had so many thoughts rushing around in my brain that I’ve wanted to blog about and but trying to make everything worthy of the Age’s opinion pages or some cosy column about ‘so, did you ever think it’s funny about cereal…’ blah blah..

Just you and me kid,

But now I have to take a brush to my girl’s hair before she goes to school looking like a scruff bag, and make important decisions about which is the stranger toy to take (her criteria not mine) a reindeer (It’s not a reindeer, Mum, it’s a dog with antlers) and a yellow cat.