Recently a kind person had linked to this here site and called it a "travel blog". I liked how sexy and glamourous that sounded, and thought very smugly, "Why, woohoo. Indeed it is a travel blog. Long gone are the days of blogging about death, depression and supermarkets!"
But then I wondered if I had earned the title of "travel blog", and even though I am allergic to numbers I came up with some exciting statistics.
Out of the 557 days since I left Australia, I've been on the road for just 46 of them. This figure had to be fattened up with the inclusion the Mothership Visit, the night in Tongue and the involuntary Bristol stopover. What a fraud!
This blog is not an accurate reflection of how my days are spent. Where are the posts about kicking photocopiers, silent farts at the gym, failing to learn Spanish or staring down at my flatmate's tub of Lurpak butter for ten minutes trying to choose my Angle of Approach so she won't notice I've nicked some for my toast again?
There's certainly not enough posts about my weekend job at Geriatric Rescue. In the 279 days thus far of 2004, I have worked a total of 42 days at that place. I'm quietly confidient that 42 divided by 7 is 6, so this means I have spent SIX WEEKS at that hell hole this year, over 50% of total weekend time. That's not very Hip Young Traveller, is it?
My idea of a Travel Blogger is an unwashed youth writing entries on beer coasters or the bare buttocks of Swedish chicks then fashioning a laptop computer out of a stack of Lonely Planets, a transistor radio and string to transmit their tales of debauchery to the world. As opposed to a bumbling moron who worries they are boring everyone to death and spends their weekends getting yelled at by old ladies.
Last shift one called up just to tell me she had two bags of dirty laundry.
"What are you going to do about it? I'm old!" she said. "I've NAE KNICKERS, hen!"