We've been to Colorado again, for a week. So there's lots of stuff I could be sorting out, and there's a mountain of laundry, but... I'm going to write a blog post instead.
There is something about mountains. You always feel better for having been in them. We had a week of idyllic weather, with blue, blue skies and temperatures in the 60s, and even the 70s. Of course if it had been freezing cold and snowing a blizzard, that would have been fine too. It was win-win, really, and actually, part of us had hoped for weather so bad that we'd get snowed in and be forced to lengthen our stay.
It was, as far as I can remember, my best birthday ever. We started the day with a couple of hours of sledding. Where we were, at 7,500 ft, there wasn't any snow to speak of, but half an hour away, at 10,500 ft, there was enough. No broken limbs, just a few grazes, and glorious moments of speed and adventure. Then we soaked in the local hot springs, and emerged smelling of sulphur, but relaxed and invigorated. I successfully negotiated the changing rooms, which is a bit different in this post-surgery era of my life, but I managed ok, and even got to hold a 6-month old baby for a mother who didn't have enough hands to get herself and her two children dry and dressed (been there, know that feeling). Holding a baby: a nice thing to do on your birthday. We went out for dinner in a Chinese restaurant (new departure, having children old enough and adventurous enough to manage a Chinese menu), and ended up snuggling under a cosy blanket on the sofa watching the film Father of the Bride together. It's always a challenge to find a dvd that can be enjoyed by everyone in the family, but that seemed to hit the spot. There was a bottle of champagne in there too, somewhere along the line.
Apart from birthday frivolities, there was, of course, Thanksgiving. I have much to be thankful for this year, so for me, it was more about that, than about turkeys and pilgrims. Not that I'm knocking turkeys and pilgrims. Anyway, we got scooped up for a Thanksgiving meal by a local couple, who take it upon themselves to cook dinner for about 25, and then open their home to people who aren't celebrating with their own families. This seemed to include friends, friends of friends, and stray British wanderers. The food was totally delicious, the kids had fun, the company was relaxed, and it all took place in a perfect setting - a large house right on the shores of a beautiful lake. Going out on the deck (remember, it was sunny and warm, with blue skies), margarita in hand, I had one of those "I feel like I'm in a film" moments. How did life bring me to be enjoying Thanksgiving Dinner with all these people who I don't know, in a lake house, in Colorado, and drinking tequila? I don't even like tequila. Life is a puzzle.
I have to make a brief aside here, and reveal to you all - and I know many of you will find this hard to believe - that the green bean casserole was completely delectable. I'm a convert. It's a worrying sign that I might have been in America too long. Actually, I think it's more that I got to sample what a green bean casserole CAN be like, which is as different from what I've experienced before under that title as a unicorn is from a horse (ie not really all that different in substance, but very rare and exotic, and a whole new beautiful experience).
Americans, I have to tell you, are very good at the whole 'being nice to strangers' thing. I don't mean to knock the British, but really, we're in a very minor league when it comes to this. It's humbling to be on the receiving end. We have now stayed in Colorado for three separate weeks, each time in accommodation for which we have not paid a dime, and via a connection of two removes. And this time, we were welcomed into a Thanksgiving celebration as if we were old friends. As we left, the hostess gave me a big hug, and insisted that if we ever wanted to come to Colorado and didn't have anywhere to stay, then we must come and stay with her. She has met us once. This generous hospitality really is America at its finest. I think it's a lovely quality.
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Monday, November 30, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Eye wonder
The differences in medical terminology between the US and the UK provide a rich seam for expat bloggers to mine. Have you ever thought, oh UK readers, how confusing it must be for Americans to hear they need to register at the doctor's surgery? What? There are plenty more, which I think I've blogged about before, but I'm not going to look for the link because (a) I'm not sure it's terribly interesting, and (b) I'm in the Honda customer lounge waiting while my vehicle to be serviced (I said "vehicle" not "car" - see how naturally I speak the lingo these days), and I'm determined to finish the post in the time it takes to do an oil change and a few other bits and bobs, with my new-found speed-writing skills. That's what blogging every day for a month does for you.
One of the new medical terms I've had to acquire is Pink Eye. When we lived in Scotland, it was Red Eye, but here it's Pink Eye. Aren't you glad you read my blog? Just think, you might never have known that fact in your whole life. And now, not only do you know why a pea coat is called a pea coat, but you know that Red Eye is called Pink Eye in America (or, of course, that Pink Eye is called Red Eye in the UK, depending on your point of origin).
On Saturday, 5-yo took a tumble, while she was running up and down some bleachers in a school gym. Bleachers are stands of raised seating, for my UK readers. Oh, it's just a new fact a minute over here at my blog today, isn't it? Anyway, 5-yo was running up the bleachers after her big brother and his big friend, and just at the point where I said
"This is such a bad idea. Someone will get hurt. No more running up the bleachers",
she tripped, and landed on her face. Stifling a desire to hoot "I told you so, why does no-one ever listen to me?" I picked her up, comforted her, and saw the beginning of what I sensed was going to be an impressive shiner. It would have been, I think, but for the application of arnica cream and the administration of arnica tablets when we got home. That stuff is miraculous. On Sunday morning, instead of having a swollen and deeply bruised eye, she had one that was a little puffy and a delicate shade of violet.
She looked in the mirror, and asked "Is this called Purple Eye?"
Ha. Finished the blog post, and car not ready. I win.
.
One of the new medical terms I've had to acquire is Pink Eye. When we lived in Scotland, it was Red Eye, but here it's Pink Eye. Aren't you glad you read my blog? Just think, you might never have known that fact in your whole life. And now, not only do you know why a pea coat is called a pea coat, but you know that Red Eye is called Pink Eye in America (or, of course, that Pink Eye is called Red Eye in the UK, depending on your point of origin).
On Saturday, 5-yo took a tumble, while she was running up and down some bleachers in a school gym. Bleachers are stands of raised seating, for my UK readers. Oh, it's just a new fact a minute over here at my blog today, isn't it? Anyway, 5-yo was running up the bleachers after her big brother and his big friend, and just at the point where I said
"This is such a bad idea. Someone will get hurt. No more running up the bleachers",
she tripped, and landed on her face. Stifling a desire to hoot "I told you so, why does no-one ever listen to me?" I picked her up, comforted her, and saw the beginning of what I sensed was going to be an impressive shiner. It would have been, I think, but for the application of arnica cream and the administration of arnica tablets when we got home. That stuff is miraculous. On Sunday morning, instead of having a swollen and deeply bruised eye, she had one that was a little puffy and a delicate shade of violet.
She looked in the mirror, and asked "Is this called Purple Eye?"
Ha. Finished the blog post, and car not ready. I win.
.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Alexander McCall Smith
I'm following the novel Corduroy Mansions, by Alexander McCall Smith, which is serialised daily in The Telegraph. I love Alexander McCall Smith as a writer, so it is a daily treat. He has an eye for human nature which is both incisive and kind. I imagine he is a terribly nice man, who makes brilliantly witty conversation. If you ever have him round to dinner, please invite me too, and sit me next to him.
Anyway, this morning's chapter contains this brilliant comment on a US/UK difference, which (if I'd written it myself - a minor detail) would make for the perfect expat blog post.
"Americans do not mince their words – it is one of their great qualities, and indeed one of the great causes of misunderstanding between the United States and the United Kingdom, where words are regularly minced so finely as to be virtually unintelligible."
Wonderfully put. It also reminded me of when I was about 14 and in a schools general knowledge competition (hasn't general knowledge fallen from favour? what a shame). The question was the name of the area in London famous for butchers, and I gave the answer "Mincing Lane", which, though precociously brilliant, was incorrect.
My favourite Alexander McCall Smith novels are the ones about Isabel Dalhousie set in Edinburgh, but I also have a soft spot for The 2 1/2 Pillars of Wisdom, which are just too perceptive about life in academia for comfort, if you're married to an academic. The scene in which a German Professor of Philology, by a misunderstanding, has to give a lecture to an audience of American dachsund specialists, made me laugh so hard I nearly fell out of bed, but it also contains observations about education which are wise and spot on. Husband occasionally reads it to his Philosophy students in the last class of their course.
Who else has a favourite Alexander McCall Smith?
.
Anyway, this morning's chapter contains this brilliant comment on a US/UK difference, which (if I'd written it myself - a minor detail) would make for the perfect expat blog post.
"Americans do not mince their words – it is one of their great qualities, and indeed one of the great causes of misunderstanding between the United States and the United Kingdom, where words are regularly minced so finely as to be virtually unintelligible."
Wonderfully put. It also reminded me of when I was about 14 and in a schools general knowledge competition (hasn't general knowledge fallen from favour? what a shame). The question was the name of the area in London famous for butchers, and I gave the answer "Mincing Lane", which, though precociously brilliant, was incorrect.
My favourite Alexander McCall Smith novels are the ones about Isabel Dalhousie set in Edinburgh, but I also have a soft spot for The 2 1/2 Pillars of Wisdom, which are just too perceptive about life in academia for comfort, if you're married to an academic. The scene in which a German Professor of Philology, by a misunderstanding, has to give a lecture to an audience of American dachsund specialists, made me laugh so hard I nearly fell out of bed, but it also contains observations about education which are wise and spot on. Husband occasionally reads it to his Philosophy students in the last class of their course.
Who else has a favourite Alexander McCall Smith?
.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Pea coat, the song on everyone's lips
Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away, the King and Queen of Coats decided to have a party.
A good time was being had by all, but the festivities were getting a bit out of hand, and things were becoming wild. In an attempt to control the chaos, the King decided to get the coats into small groups. He hoped that getting each together with its own kind would calm things down, so he arranged them by category, shouting out instructions. Unfortunately, at this late stage in the proceedings, some of the coats were beyond even knowing for sure what kind of a coat they were.
So the King got his Royal Trumpeters to gain silence with a catchy little fanfare that they'd learnt way back at Trumpet Pre-school, and announced in his most regal tones:
"If you're a pea, and you know it, clap your hands".
I make this up as I go along, you know. I'm sorry. It's just what I do. I should get out more.
.
A good time was being had by all, but the festivities were getting a bit out of hand, and things were becoming wild. In an attempt to control the chaos, the King decided to get the coats into small groups. He hoped that getting each together with its own kind would calm things down, so he arranged them by category, shouting out instructions. Unfortunately, at this late stage in the proceedings, some of the coats were beyond even knowing for sure what kind of a coat they were.
So the King got his Royal Trumpeters to gain silence with a catchy little fanfare that they'd learnt way back at Trumpet Pre-school, and announced in his most regal tones:
"If you're a pea, and you know it, clap your hands".
I make this up as I go along, you know. I'm sorry. It's just what I do. I should get out more.
.
Pea coat, the question on everyone's lips
Why is a pea coat called a pea coat?
Several Google results say this:
The name 'pea coat' comes from the heavy twill material that the coat is made of. It was called pilot cloth, which became known as P cloth. The P coat became the pea coat.
I like my blog to contain educational content. Now you can all impress your friends next time pea coats come up in conversation.
.
Several Google results say this:
The name 'pea coat' comes from the heavy twill material that the coat is made of. It was called pilot cloth, which became known as P cloth. The P coat became the pea coat.
I like my blog to contain educational content. Now you can all impress your friends next time pea coats come up in conversation.
.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Pea coat
I bought a pea coat this morning. I'm very thrilled with it and with myself. Here is a picture of it.
(Ignore that spot in the middle - I was just sponging off a tiny mark and didn't think the damp spot would show up, but it does if you enlarge the photo.)
It's in a colour that seems to be known as teal, though who knows why. It was available in green, and that was tempting, because it would be linguistically so satisfying to have a pea green pea coat, but it wasn't really pea green, more of a muted lime, and anyway I preferred the blue. Though I did stop to wonder if the pussy cat was perhaps wearing a pea green coat when she went to sea in the pea green boat. That, too, would be linguistically satisfying, but I doubt Edward Lear ever gave much thought to it.
It is my birthday soon, and when Husband asked if there was anything I wanted, I said I would like to go shopping and choose myself some new clothes. This isn't such a treat for me as it sounds, actually, as I don't really like shopping. No, honestly. I can get into the swing of it, and then I have quite a good time, but the idea of a morning looking at and trying on clothes doesn't reach out and grab me. I have to psyche myself up. Odd, I know. I'm indecisive, and so I agonise over what to buy rather painfully. Plus I'm at that stage in life when changing rooms are more like confessionals. Today, for example, I discovered I have varicose veins on my right knee as well as my left. How did I not know that? And I haven't been shopping for clothes for six months, so there's the new body shape issue to deal with too.
For the past 12 years, whenever I've gone shopping for clothes for me I've almost always ended up browsing and making purchases in the childrenswear department, where it's much more fun. I do like new clothes and the nice feeling that comes with wearing them (phew, you're thinking), but the whole process of acquiring them leaves me a bit cold. One of the things I would do if I was overbearingly wealthy, would be to employ someone with excellent taste, who would tell me what I'd look best in, go and buy lots of outfits for me to try on in the comfort of my own home, and then take back the ones I didn't like. It would have to be someone who would encourage me to be more adventurous than I naturally am, and someone who could cope with indecisiveness in a client. I guess there are people out there who like that kind of career opportunity, and I'll tell you what. When I'm rich and looking to recruit, the first person who makes reference to this blog post will get the job. It will show either that they are reading my blog now and obviously you would all make fabulous personal style consultants, or it will show that they have done a huge amount of research into my past personal history, which would no doubt look good at the interview. Make a note, if you're a wannabe personal shopper to the rich. You never know when this might come good.
I wasn't on my official birthday shopping outing, but this morning, in Target (oh the high life) I spotted the pea coat. And I just knew it was ME. And it was $10 off. By the time I got to the fitting room, I had managed to acquire quite a few other items too. When I checked out, I found I had bought a pea coat, two pairs of cords (one in daring raspberry), three sweaters (and I didn't just consider how warm or how practical they'd be when I chose them), and two long-sleeved t-shirts (don't they make them deliciously soft these days?) I know this sounds extravagant, but (a) this was Target not some fancy boutique, and (b) you have to remember I'm not like you ordinary lovely people whose shopping instincts need to be curbed. I'm in need of encouragement, and this haul represents a healthy step towards making good a sadly lacking wardrobe. Plus it shows that I am capable of impulse-buying, which is an area where personal development is definitely needed.
You know what? I think I could develop a taste for this shopping lark...
.
(Ignore that spot in the middle - I was just sponging off a tiny mark and didn't think the damp spot would show up, but it does if you enlarge the photo.)
It's in a colour that seems to be known as teal, though who knows why. It was available in green, and that was tempting, because it would be linguistically so satisfying to have a pea green pea coat, but it wasn't really pea green, more of a muted lime, and anyway I preferred the blue. Though I did stop to wonder if the pussy cat was perhaps wearing a pea green coat when she went to sea in the pea green boat. That, too, would be linguistically satisfying, but I doubt Edward Lear ever gave much thought to it.
It is my birthday soon, and when Husband asked if there was anything I wanted, I said I would like to go shopping and choose myself some new clothes. This isn't such a treat for me as it sounds, actually, as I don't really like shopping. No, honestly. I can get into the swing of it, and then I have quite a good time, but the idea of a morning looking at and trying on clothes doesn't reach out and grab me. I have to psyche myself up. Odd, I know. I'm indecisive, and so I agonise over what to buy rather painfully. Plus I'm at that stage in life when changing rooms are more like confessionals. Today, for example, I discovered I have varicose veins on my right knee as well as my left. How did I not know that? And I haven't been shopping for clothes for six months, so there's the new body shape issue to deal with too.
For the past 12 years, whenever I've gone shopping for clothes for me I've almost always ended up browsing and making purchases in the childrenswear department, where it's much more fun. I do like new clothes and the nice feeling that comes with wearing them (phew, you're thinking), but the whole process of acquiring them leaves me a bit cold. One of the things I would do if I was overbearingly wealthy, would be to employ someone with excellent taste, who would tell me what I'd look best in, go and buy lots of outfits for me to try on in the comfort of my own home, and then take back the ones I didn't like. It would have to be someone who would encourage me to be more adventurous than I naturally am, and someone who could cope with indecisiveness in a client. I guess there are people out there who like that kind of career opportunity, and I'll tell you what. When I'm rich and looking to recruit, the first person who makes reference to this blog post will get the job. It will show either that they are reading my blog now and obviously you would all make fabulous personal style consultants, or it will show that they have done a huge amount of research into my past personal history, which would no doubt look good at the interview. Make a note, if you're a wannabe personal shopper to the rich. You never know when this might come good.
I wasn't on my official birthday shopping outing, but this morning, in Target (oh the high life) I spotted the pea coat. And I just knew it was ME. And it was $10 off. By the time I got to the fitting room, I had managed to acquire quite a few other items too. When I checked out, I found I had bought a pea coat, two pairs of cords (one in daring raspberry), three sweaters (and I didn't just consider how warm or how practical they'd be when I chose them), and two long-sleeved t-shirts (don't they make them deliciously soft these days?) I know this sounds extravagant, but (a) this was Target not some fancy boutique, and (b) you have to remember I'm not like you ordinary lovely people whose shopping instincts need to be curbed. I'm in need of encouragement, and this haul represents a healthy step towards making good a sadly lacking wardrobe. Plus it shows that I am capable of impulse-buying, which is an area where personal development is definitely needed.
You know what? I think I could develop a taste for this shopping lark...
.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Mulkar
It's a rum deal when you can't even understand your own children's accents.
8-yo was talking to me about a film he wants to see, called Mulkar. Now, I'm quite used to movies, books, games and toys with odd names. It goes with the mother-of-small-boys territory (if you have boy babies or toddlers, you are right to be feeling nervous at this point). I don't know where it all started, but I suspect the Three Wise Men had something to do with it. It's impossible to keep up. Just as you've mastered the use of a few words of the world of Yu-gi-oh, along comes Pokemon, and just as you've mastered a few Pokemon words and are feeling smug about knowing there's an accent over that e in the middle, along comes Bakugan. Is Bakugan out in the UK yet? And in case you thought you had Bakugan sussed, your son will develop an interest in Star Wars and all its spin-offs, or Bionicles.
Do any of you remember Lego Knight's Kingdom? Perhaps it's still current, but I haven't noticed them in any stores round here recently. That was the worst. In days of old, knights were called knighty names like Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot. These days they have names like Sir Nasdaq and Sir Indesit. From the mighty realm of Vorsprung Durch Technik.
So yes, I'm quite used to made-up names being bandied about. For example, we own a DVD entitled Picachu. We really do. We have another entitled Squirtle. We also have The Battle of Metru Nui. See what I mean.
I've learnt that the thing to do with these names is to abandon all hope of remembering them, or of making any sense at all of how they relate to each other. It's very irritating for small boys to be interrupted by a keen parent with "ah, how's that Toa doing, there?" when he has a Visorak in each hand. Or "can I be Yoshi?" when you're not even playing Wii Mario Super Sluggers (okay okay, now I'm just showing off). No, the best thing to do, is to sound very interested, nod wisely, and let the names flow right through your brain without even attempting to stop them at a memory cell somewhere. Then you just have to bluff (what do you mean, you can't bluff? It wasn't THAT long since you were in the workplace.)
In my defence, I was driving while we were discussing Mulkar. As you all know, the average Midwestern mom vehicle is only a whisker shorter than a London bus. If I'm in the driving seat (which, being safety conscious, I always am when I'm driving) and your child is in the back, you really need an intercom system or some hands-free walkie-talkies to communicate with each other. Speaking of London buses, I'm thinking of running a string down the side of the car interior, with a bell, so that the children can indicate to me when they want me to stop. Anyway, I was driving, and the conversation went like this:
8-yo: Can I see Mulkar?
Me: Mulkar? Is it a good movie? Have any of your friends seen it? (buying time here)
8-yo: Yes, it's good. Can I see it?
Me: (thinks: darn it, I still don't know what genre we're in here) Um... I'll have to think about it. What's it called again?
8-yo: Mulkar. Mul-kar.
Me: Mulkar. Yes. Is that about... Mulkar?
8-yo: Mom! Mul... Kar...
12-yo: (joining in the exasperation) Mom! It's Mul... Kar... You know. As in Mul... Kar...
Me: Mul... Kar...? As in Mul... Kar...?
12-yo eventually spelt the words out for me. Have you guessed what it was they were talking about?
Click here to find out.
I'm wondering if it stars John Mulkarvich.
.
8-yo was talking to me about a film he wants to see, called Mulkar. Now, I'm quite used to movies, books, games and toys with odd names. It goes with the mother-of-small-boys territory (if you have boy babies or toddlers, you are right to be feeling nervous at this point). I don't know where it all started, but I suspect the Three Wise Men had something to do with it. It's impossible to keep up. Just as you've mastered the use of a few words of the world of Yu-gi-oh, along comes Pokemon, and just as you've mastered a few Pokemon words and are feeling smug about knowing there's an accent over that e in the middle, along comes Bakugan. Is Bakugan out in the UK yet? And in case you thought you had Bakugan sussed, your son will develop an interest in Star Wars and all its spin-offs, or Bionicles.
Do any of you remember Lego Knight's Kingdom? Perhaps it's still current, but I haven't noticed them in any stores round here recently. That was the worst. In days of old, knights were called knighty names like Sir Galahad and Sir Lancelot. These days they have names like Sir Nasdaq and Sir Indesit. From the mighty realm of Vorsprung Durch Technik.
So yes, I'm quite used to made-up names being bandied about. For example, we own a DVD entitled Picachu. We really do. We have another entitled Squirtle. We also have The Battle of Metru Nui. See what I mean.
I've learnt that the thing to do with these names is to abandon all hope of remembering them, or of making any sense at all of how they relate to each other. It's very irritating for small boys to be interrupted by a keen parent with "ah, how's that Toa doing, there?" when he has a Visorak in each hand. Or "can I be Yoshi?" when you're not even playing Wii Mario Super Sluggers (okay okay, now I'm just showing off). No, the best thing to do, is to sound very interested, nod wisely, and let the names flow right through your brain without even attempting to stop them at a memory cell somewhere. Then you just have to bluff (what do you mean, you can't bluff? It wasn't THAT long since you were in the workplace.)
In my defence, I was driving while we were discussing Mulkar. As you all know, the average Midwestern mom vehicle is only a whisker shorter than a London bus. If I'm in the driving seat (which, being safety conscious, I always am when I'm driving) and your child is in the back, you really need an intercom system or some hands-free walkie-talkies to communicate with each other. Speaking of London buses, I'm thinking of running a string down the side of the car interior, with a bell, so that the children can indicate to me when they want me to stop. Anyway, I was driving, and the conversation went like this:
8-yo: Can I see Mulkar?
Me: Mulkar? Is it a good movie? Have any of your friends seen it? (buying time here)
8-yo: Yes, it's good. Can I see it?
Me: (thinks: darn it, I still don't know what genre we're in here) Um... I'll have to think about it. What's it called again?
8-yo: Mulkar. Mul-kar.
Me: Mulkar. Yes. Is that about... Mulkar?
8-yo: Mom! Mul... Kar...
12-yo: (joining in the exasperation) Mom! It's Mul... Kar... You know. As in Mul... Kar...
Me: Mul... Kar...? As in Mul... Kar...?
12-yo eventually spelt the words out for me. Have you guessed what it was they were talking about?
Click here to find out.
I'm wondering if it stars John Mulkarvich.
.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Commercial and competitive?
There’s been a bit of a discussion going on in the blogging world about whether mummy blogging is getting commercial and competitive. I thought I’d throw in my pennyworth.
I’ve been blogging since May 2007, and I will confess that when British Mummy Bloggers was set up, I did have my reservations, and they were along those very lines. I have been browsing in my gmail archives, and I’m going to be brave and share with you a little of what I thought then, and what I think now.
Back in February, I joined BMB at its inception. At the time, I was e-chatting to another blogger about it, and said:
“… I read that blogging is now the key plank in customer-orientated PR in America. If you browse the American mommy blogs you can see why. They take forever to upload, because they're so full of adverts and pictures and links. Yuk. V tempting to think, as a stuck-at-home mum, that you can make a bit of cash on the side, but it does take a bit of the fun out of it, I think. I like all the quirky oddbods you meet in blogland (oops, hope I haven't been offensive there), and the last thing I need them to do is to be telling me what "must have" I'm missing out on…”
I said to another e-chat blogging friend:
“… I know we British bloggers are a bit backward, but I like that. I fit right in! Blogging isn't nearly as commercialised in the UK, and I really do think that is a good thing.
Of course you can say "you don't have to have ads just because everyone else does", and that is true. But once something becomes commercial, it is harder to exist on the edges. And the more the culture is about stats and income, the more that will affect who blogs. It will be more intimidating to start a blog, more difficult to get readers, the focus will change. I think it's inevitable, and I don't really mind because I’ve already found my place in the blogosphere, but it's a pity when every single area of life has to be about product promotion, advertising, marketing, etc...”
Do I think I was right? To a large extent, yes, I do, but not entirely. In becoming more organized, courtesy of BMB, mummy blogging in the UK has become more commercialized. Part of that is because we’re more easily available to the commercial world, and the Tots 100 list has helped that considerably. But I think it’s worked backwards too – if I can put it that way. People - mums - with business interests to promote, have started blogs as a way to do that. The range of interests is huge, from handmade crafts to PR consultancy. I’m not implying that their blogs are any the less valid. Not at all. My point is that it’s not just a question of mummy blogging becoming more commercial. It’s also the case that internet commerce has become more bloggy.
Has that made the scene more competitive? The two usually go together. Well, perhaps a little. Do I mind? No, I don’t. The way I see it is this. The blogosphere is a huge world, and there is room for us all in it. You just have to find your own space. If it’s all about the writing for you, then, great. If it’s a tool to promote your crocheted baby socks, then, great. If it’s a way of letting off steam when your toddler is driving you mad, then, great. If you want your blog to be on a list of top blogs, then you can find out the criteria and aim for that. If that’s not what you blog for, then don’t worry about it.
The bit I was wrong about was my prediction that it would make the process of starting a blog intimidating, and that somehow we existing bloggers would all be fighting harder for the same pool of readers. In fact the opposite is true, as the explosion in the number of parent bloggers testifies. There are more blogs and more readers than ever before. More fishermen, but a whole lot more fish too – because the fishermen are the fish, when it comes to mummy blogging.
For me, blogging is like going out for a drink with a bunch of mates. You can have a fine old time catching up on what’s been happening in their lives, and sharing what’s been happening in yours. You can have a rant and get a sympathetic hearing. You can have a joke. One of the group might have brought along a friend, and then you have an introduction to a new person. Meanwhile, the rest of the pub will be full of all sorts and you know, it might even be a bit competitive out there because we humans seem to do the competitive thing rather a lot. People will be worrying whether it’s the cool place in town, or whether the pub down the road is better. People will be talking in loud voices about themselves, and generally strutting their stuff. If you want, you can join in. No-one is stopping you. But if you prefer, you can just sit in your corner having a cosy time, and cast your eyes around every now and again to see what else is going on. You’re all contributing to the atmosphere. If there is room for all sorts within the four walls of a pub, how much more is that true of the wall-less internet?
I’m heading back to my virtual corner with my virtual drink now, though I’m a bit worried I might find myself on my own, since I have publicly confessed to describing you, my lovely bloggy friends, in private correspondence as “quirky oddbods”… I didn't mean ALL of you, of course. If you don't feel that title fits you personally, then you can rest assured it must have been some of the others I was talking about.
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I’ve been blogging since May 2007, and I will confess that when British Mummy Bloggers was set up, I did have my reservations, and they were along those very lines. I have been browsing in my gmail archives, and I’m going to be brave and share with you a little of what I thought then, and what I think now.
Back in February, I joined BMB at its inception. At the time, I was e-chatting to another blogger about it, and said:
“… I read that blogging is now the key plank in customer-orientated PR in America. If you browse the American mommy blogs you can see why. They take forever to upload, because they're so full of adverts and pictures and links. Yuk. V tempting to think, as a stuck-at-home mum, that you can make a bit of cash on the side, but it does take a bit of the fun out of it, I think. I like all the quirky oddbods you meet in blogland (oops, hope I haven't been offensive there), and the last thing I need them to do is to be telling me what "must have" I'm missing out on…”
I said to another e-chat blogging friend:
“… I know we British bloggers are a bit backward, but I like that. I fit right in! Blogging isn't nearly as commercialised in the UK, and I really do think that is a good thing.
Of course you can say "you don't have to have ads just because everyone else does", and that is true. But once something becomes commercial, it is harder to exist on the edges. And the more the culture is about stats and income, the more that will affect who blogs. It will be more intimidating to start a blog, more difficult to get readers, the focus will change. I think it's inevitable, and I don't really mind because I’ve already found my place in the blogosphere, but it's a pity when every single area of life has to be about product promotion, advertising, marketing, etc...”
Do I think I was right? To a large extent, yes, I do, but not entirely. In becoming more organized, courtesy of BMB, mummy blogging in the UK has become more commercialized. Part of that is because we’re more easily available to the commercial world, and the Tots 100 list has helped that considerably. But I think it’s worked backwards too – if I can put it that way. People - mums - with business interests to promote, have started blogs as a way to do that. The range of interests is huge, from handmade crafts to PR consultancy. I’m not implying that their blogs are any the less valid. Not at all. My point is that it’s not just a question of mummy blogging becoming more commercial. It’s also the case that internet commerce has become more bloggy.
Has that made the scene more competitive? The two usually go together. Well, perhaps a little. Do I mind? No, I don’t. The way I see it is this. The blogosphere is a huge world, and there is room for us all in it. You just have to find your own space. If it’s all about the writing for you, then, great. If it’s a tool to promote your crocheted baby socks, then, great. If it’s a way of letting off steam when your toddler is driving you mad, then, great. If you want your blog to be on a list of top blogs, then you can find out the criteria and aim for that. If that’s not what you blog for, then don’t worry about it.
The bit I was wrong about was my prediction that it would make the process of starting a blog intimidating, and that somehow we existing bloggers would all be fighting harder for the same pool of readers. In fact the opposite is true, as the explosion in the number of parent bloggers testifies. There are more blogs and more readers than ever before. More fishermen, but a whole lot more fish too – because the fishermen are the fish, when it comes to mummy blogging.
For me, blogging is like going out for a drink with a bunch of mates. You can have a fine old time catching up on what’s been happening in their lives, and sharing what’s been happening in yours. You can have a rant and get a sympathetic hearing. You can have a joke. One of the group might have brought along a friend, and then you have an introduction to a new person. Meanwhile, the rest of the pub will be full of all sorts and you know, it might even be a bit competitive out there because we humans seem to do the competitive thing rather a lot. People will be worrying whether it’s the cool place in town, or whether the pub down the road is better. People will be talking in loud voices about themselves, and generally strutting their stuff. If you want, you can join in. No-one is stopping you. But if you prefer, you can just sit in your corner having a cosy time, and cast your eyes around every now and again to see what else is going on. You’re all contributing to the atmosphere. If there is room for all sorts within the four walls of a pub, how much more is that true of the wall-less internet?
I’m heading back to my virtual corner with my virtual drink now, though I’m a bit worried I might find myself on my own, since I have publicly confessed to describing you, my lovely bloggy friends, in private correspondence as “quirky oddbods”… I didn't mean ALL of you, of course. If you don't feel that title fits you personally, then you can rest assured it must have been some of the others I was talking about.
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