I'm calling this one Jeffrey. It seems like a good name for a blog post.

I suppose I'll write something, because if I don't do it now then I never will and I'll look back in a year and think, hey, I used to have a blog but then I didn't look after it and it died just like all the plants I've ever had. This will leave me with a feeling of failure and inability to commit to anything or to take on anything remotely resembling responsibility. In other words, if I don't write a blog post right now, my sense of self-worth will be irreparably shattered.

I think I'll try writing a story someday - not today though. Lately I've been living very much in world of fantasy thanks to Neil Gaiman. I think he is probably the cleverest person in the world. Living in stories is fantastic but I have very little real life to write about when all I ever do for fun is read books. And god knows no one wants to read about, and I certainly don't want to write about, what I do for not fun. Reading stories can make you feel so wonderful that I wonder what it would feel like to write them. I'm not sure where my imagination is, though. I know I used to have one. I used to concoct glorious tales when I was a wee baby and they forced us to write stories in school every morning. The protagonist was usually Tigger, who is the king of all my soft toys. He was often accompanied by his wife, Sealy. Clearly my imagination didn't stretch as far as the naming of my toys, but I swear it was there. They went to the end of the world and had to race against time and got blown out of volcanoes and then sometimes it was just household issues like when Sealy thought she was ironing Tigger's spare stripes but it was actually him and he ended up flat... and that horrible time that Tigger weed in Whaley's drinking pipe and Whaley died so Tigger had to go to toilet jail and everyone hated him. Poor Tigger. I also seem to remember something about a rainbow cat and a machine that ate teachers. I could do with both of those things right now.

I don't know why it never occurred to me to write something that doesn't rhyme before. I don't even like poetry an awful lot, and though I quite like the songs I write, I can't sing and I don't give them to anyone else so they just disappear into the void.

I'm rather glad I wrote this now. The thing is, it doesn't matter if not a single person reads it. All that matters is that I wrote it. I kind of hope no one ever reads it, because they might laugh at me and say that I have no imagination and suck at writing. I'd rather live in my safe protective bubble of fantasy, thank you very much.