I quite like blogging. No, really I do.
I enjoy the lively interraction with my fellow bloggers; I like the discipline of organising my chaotic days at home into nice neat posts; I love the free advice and recipes that I keep getting.
But there are times when it all goes sour; when the dream becomes a nightmare. Things can get a little out of hand. I was on holiday when a spat developed round the Indie's 50 Parent Bloggers feature; so many folks have wrung their hands about reviews (and you can read what I think here); and the Totties sorry Tots 100 index seems to be a special source of angst among almost everybody. And that's just in the daylight hours.
But what happens when you start to dream about your fellow bloggers? I don't know what Freud would have to say (and please don't tell me) but the other night I dreamt that an entire post (that must be the collective noun?) of bloggers had descended on our house, each armed with a lap-top (some of which had names!) and trailing family members after them like a cast of opera characters.
I'm not sure I'd invited any of them. But that didn't matter. They were sleeping on the floors and arguing about what we'd have for dinner. And they didn't show the slightest sign of wanting to move on. No. They were staying, stopping me from blogging and generally creating mayhem.
I'll not name names. But if you were tweeting between the hours of about ten in the evening on Monday and three a.m. on Tuesday morning, then you're probably in the frame. And you can forget all that 'repressed desire' and subliminal psycholanalytical stuff. I can explain. And it's perfectly simple. What happened was this. I woke at 3 o'clock. I reached for my iPod as a means on finding out the time. I couldn't get back to sleep. So I turned to Echofon and read some tweets before my head felt ready for the pillow. And somewhere, in the hours between five and six a.m. you all descended on me.
Of course, what I should've done was read Marsha Moore's book 24 Hours: London. Then I could have enjoyed vicariously whatever delights the capital had to offer so early the morning. That particular pleasure now goes to Claire Curran having won the signed copy of Marsha's book that I was giving away recently. Congratultions Claire! I could even have gone on to the panto site and started organising the family Christmas panto. (The deadline to win free tickets has been extended, btw. You've now got until the 14th December. Read all about it here, and then send your entry in asap!) But no, I read some tweets, then fell asleep, then had a dream.
Like I said, I won't name names. It would be invidious. But I will tell you this. Someone out there in blog-land has superhuman powers. They (not I) cleaned up the mess, settled all the arguments, got blog-posts posted, and returned the house to normal. (Someone eats a lot of take-out pizza...). They made sure that everybody's offspring got adequately fed and watered, entertained and educated, that the older children were all perfectly turned out for school, the shopping done, the ironing, even sewing. If my name were Joseph and I owned a fine and dandy coloured coat I might put money on this blogger suddenly becoming Prime Minister or World President or something. The more I think about it, the more I see the sense of this person being in pole position. They might not be number one at present in the Tots 100 index but they've clearly got their blogging head screwed on. And personally, I'd like to thank them, if they're reading.
Because without you, the whole dream thing would've been a nightmare.