Dear Wingnut

Dear              [tick preference box] 

Andrew
Mr Marr
Wingnut

(Well I once had a cat who was a dead ringer for you, except he was much fluffier, and his name was meant as affectionately as yours. And some people actually burst out laughing when they saw him, poor mite. His official name was Goonhilly Number 6. Sorry. Satellite dish joke. But you can see why Wingnut was easier. Also sounded better when yelling it from back doorstep.)

As I arrive late to this blogging lark, I am very out of the loop to the recent buzz which surrounds the medium. (There you are – for absolutely no reward I’ve given you a sentence you can pick holes in all day. Unwieldy, possibly ungrammatical, not witty, not pertaining to anything of any interest to anybody, and devoid of comment on what an arse this government’s making of its job, which is your area of expertise, and I leave you to it.)  

I hadn’t even read a blog until a couple of months ago. It was only because of favourite Squirrel’s book that I fell into this whole big puddle of delight. I wasn’t wearing wellies, so you can see how immediately I was soaked to the skin. I’ll even get some photos organised soon. Be a proper blogger.

I didn’t know about the furore until a few days ago, long after the catfight had died down. Maybe you’re right. Maybe there are such cauliflower–nosed ranters, pissed and bored, with easy access to a keyboard. Free speech and all that. I could even be one when I grow up. Why were you reading it, then?    Right, now we’ve got that out of the way….

They are absolutely irrelevant to me, your scathing remarks, as they probably are to hundreds of others who have little interest in Fleet Street, what’s left of it, or Wapping. Or the Daily Star, National Enquirer or Fox News. Those are the people whose bed you have to share, my poor friend. I am not a writer, nor a budding writer, nor do I have any pretensions to journalism. I absolutely abhor the idea of asking people questions which are none of my business. I do not want to know who they slept with, or who does their make–up, or where they are going on holiday and who’s paying for it, as long as it’s not bribery on my taxes. That’s your forté, so that’s why the likes of me pay the likes of you. 

I subscribe to the philosophy that if you are meant to find out about something, crazy or serious, it will be plonked in front of you somehow. It’s worked well for me so far. Meanwhile I sew, stroke the cat, play the piano, drink red wine, watch Wallander and think about next month's rent. And have the privilege of looking after the Matriarchal Crone*, much as one would look after the family silver – with care, not polishing too hard in case you hurt her tender shins putting the cream on. There you are – ending a sentence with a preposition. Don’t you just love it? I might even drop in a spelling mistake later if it keeps you happy. But don’t hold your breath, because generally speaking I am anatomically unable to complete such a task deliberately, tempting as it is. When I tell you more about my father one day, you will understand why. It would be easier to leave a typo for you, because tons of them erupt spontaneously, but even those I find impossible to ignore. You’d have to remove the backspace key and I just couldn’t let you do that. There’s only me allowed to fuck up my keyboard, remember?

So. This blog is quite simply to get it all out of my head, if and as and when. There is no theme. I am a wall full of pigeon holes, every one of which is still struggling to get its label printed.  There exists a RAFT of diaries, some on old CDs , some on flash drives, and two cardboard boxes full of lovely notebooks. When there is a visceral need to scribble, it’s the choiceless choice. So it’s a matter of not just getting some of this stuff extracted from my ponderous overloaded brain, or even out from under the stairs, but out there where somebody else can look after it for a change. And yes I suspect there will be plenty of stuff from when–I–this and when–I–that. (There’s a weird one in the pipeline right now.) But it’s MY stuff, so there. And, in the process, some of it may come very close to bending, but never actually defying, the Official Secrets Act which I have signed four or five times in my life. (Wouldn't you think once was enough? Isn't everything pretty much covered the first time?) Just in case you were wondering if you could get me on that. Nothing you couldn’t learn from public record or listening to maritime radio or from visiting any RN ship on Open Day or a Coastguard station Operations Room any day of the week. Remind me to tell you about HMS Cornwall one day. A right howler, that was. And, once again, nothing you couldn’t find in Jane’s International Defence Review if you knew where to look.

I’m a serious little soul, really. Even when I was little. Strange daughter, says my mother dreamily. I did have three older brothers, so she didn’t have daughters to compare me with. (Hurray! Managed to do another ending–preposition for you.) My point is (though laboured it may well be) I’m not trying to be a pertinent commentator on the Zeitgeist, or the funniest wittiest blog on the circuit. Or on any circuit in particular at all. If it strikes someone a certain way, great. I’m not trying to be anything. There’s enough of me already without trying to tinker away at the internal gubbins. And it’s too tightly packed. It would certainly explode on contact.

The blog was primarily intended for family and friends – more of whom later but not today. Suffice it for now that they are scattered widely across the globe, and we have already used Picasa. But emails are difficult because they pertain to different subgroups (Shetland, Cambodia, Geneva, Phillipines, Nepal, Maine etc) and, anyway, really personal stuff is really personal stuff. Divorces, Alzheimer’s, all that. We had thought about a communal website for us all, the World Wide Wood family, but the update mechanisms were just too complicated to share across continents. I am already gobsmacked at the stats telling me there is somebody in Morocco, Russia, China, Greece, Thailand, and the other countries which pop up regularly. For you, Andrew the Household Name, this is normal. For me, it is awesome.  

Getting an email from someone who’s read me is wonderful, frankly. I have done the usual thing and added a few blogs to my sidebar who are definitely my kind of bees–knees, and a few other sites I follow for various reasons, usually map or weather–related. And that’s it. End of. 

When I have something to share, out it will go into the ether.

Now I’ve had my little rant, which should satisfy your original argument no end.

So see you soon, Andrew, or not, as the case may be.

As they say in telex–speak,

Bibi for now.

PS  Did you spot it? Did you? I’m so proud of myself for committing a spelling crime, for once. It’s a long, long time since I did that, to my knowledge at least. The policeman coming down the path may have other ideas. 

* As in Wise One, Oldest Living Family Member, Fairy Godmother to all.