I am always behind on the times. I wait until crazes become a little less carzed and then quietly slip into the crowd.

Crocs - once there was a time when I would happy snigger at the army of rainbow clad feet until the eventful day that I borrowed my mum's pair for work and proceeded to spend a day's ages on my own pair without a second thought. Suddenly I was a hypocrite but one with very comfortable feet. (and now very warm one having just purchase a pair with fluffy insides for 30% off at Covent Garden).

I made no comment and neither did anyone else.

And now comes blogging...

Blogs were a way to express my poetry from a world of cultureless imbeciles - the kind to whom you'd breath the word poetry and suddenly the warnings on their fag packs seem worth reading.

For now my poetry lays dormat, whipped into submission by university degree lecturers who weld closed the spontaneous emotional outlet and install arcahic detectors. One did manage to squeeze a finger through the outlet and waggle it around until it caught my attention but I'm over come by a cold so I pushed it back.

Every Sunday the 'Mail' whaps onto our front porch and I find myself inspired by the 'your life' sections. Even 'Liz Jones'Diary' has me gripped every week even though I find myself infuriated by the short-sightedness of the attention-seeking witch who writes it. I find myself thinking "but I still read it...what is she doing right?".

I like to call myself a writer yet recently find myself picking around the basics of my 'screenplay'. Why not blog? Why not express my thoguhts and feelings over this electric mediums. My life is interesting, my thoughts are not banal so why the hell not?