This is the ultimate post-modern, self-referential dilemma. I've just got back from M's fortieth, which was a fab party with lots of gorgeous looking deserts, which I couldn't really try as I've not had serious dairy for a week now and my excma is improving. But I caught up with lots of people I hadn't seen in ages, although it sometimes scares me quite how grown-up everyone is nowadays. I remember laughing uproariously for most of the night, but now I look back I can't remember quite what was so funny... one of those location jokes (AKA you had to be there). Or, conversely, libelous. But one couple regaled the late-stayers with a hysterical story about how they put in an offer on a cottage in Ross-on-Wye, only to have to withdraw it when they realised how far from London it was. What, were they, like, blindfolded/in the boot on the way to their fun weekend destination?
But first - how I met M. I was nineteen, I think, and staying in London in the Uni holidays, and late one night in Harts on Marylebone High Street, I met two guys by the vegetarian cheese counter, M and his then-flatmate, now-business partner. We got chatting, I don't remember about what, and they invited me back to their flat for coffee. An invitation which I accepted, not fearing their potential axe-murderer status, as it was the (very late) eighties and life was way less scary. And of course they weren't axe-murderers, they were nice guys who lived up the road, but still...
So: my dilemma. A couple of months back, I mentioned this blog in passing to someone I know. I forgot about it. I don't run into him that often. Tonight, he comes up to me, and says "I know all about you, now." Not in a scary way, just in a knowing way; one of those second-stage conversations I already talked about. And our conversation was about what I might write. Would I write about him? What would I say? Should I use his name? Just an initial? (answer: he plumped for his whole name: meglomaniac). Then other friends said; don't mention him - that'll get him. See, but, I'm damned-if-do and damned-if-I-don't. And now I'm writing about what I might write, ferchrissakes. How up-your-own-arse is that?
I also bumped into an acquaintance who's an editor on a major newspaper. I tried to pitch him my great idea about how technology is changing how we communicate. Except I've never pitched a story to someone in my life. He said they were more celebrity focussed. I said I lived next-door to someone who's got a major storyline on East Enders; now, there's a story.
Back to my dilemma: I open it to the floor; should I, like, take requests on my blog?