There is a hitch about being me. Well, actually there are lots of hitches about being me, but quite specifically I mean there’s a hitch about people knowing who I am when it comes to blog-writing. A huge great whopping hitch that hangs over me like a big, heavy cloud of frustration: I can’t write about friends, neighbours, my man or my family without being nice. Or at least careful. And I’m not very good at being nice, or careful. In fact, being nice and careful often makes for pretty dull writing, so in general, I just don’t write about these people and the things they do and say. It is a shame as these people provide me with strange and funny stories, insights into human foibles and my own twisted way of seeing the world. If I could write about, for example, the little cross-eyed lady who screeches at the top of her voice just to say good morning and catches flies in her mouth, or the village floozy (she’s pushing 70), or the zillions of moments of total machoism when I conclude that L’Homme must be the love-child of Rambo and Schwarzenegger, then I would write something everyday, as I have a ton of material. But I can’t. Despite L’Homme reading my blog about as often as France experiences a total eclipse, and the locals probably thinking a blog is a joke with an accent, I can’t risk it. I can’t risk hurting anyone’s feelings. Here in the village they would truss me up and burn me over hot coals alongside a sheep. And L’Homme would never change another lightbulb ever again. I just can’t take that risk. So I’m thinking of starting up another blog, totally incognito. Then I could write about who I want, when I want. But then probably no-one would find the blog which would mean no readers and so what’s the point in writing a blog? Hmmm. This means I have to write in code. ommeHL si a ckid. Ym bourneigh si a tucks-pu lomen-uckser. A tad laborious. For me and for you. The other option is to simply lie a bit. Change names and places. The only person resisting this ruse would of course be L’Homme as there is only one of him. I only have one partner, although I often wish I had a few and that I could rotate them throughout the week depending on my mood and their willingness to bow to my every desire and do the shopping. Well, in any case L’Homme probably won’t read this. But our friends might, and this could create embarrassing and potentially relationship-wrecking possibilities when they drop bombshells into the conversation about L’Homme’s tendency to disappear twice a day for 45 minute sessions of sitting on the loo and reading the news on his iphone while I clean up after whichever meal we’ve just eaten and juggle small children into clothes/baths/wellington boots. Oh well. I’m ready to fight fire with fire. If he doesn’t like it, I shall simply write more. And as for all the other people in my life, I’ll be writing about you but using names like “Miss Flossy” or “Reginald Tweet”. We’ll see if you work out who you are and if you keep sending me Christmas cards or not.