Analyse This

I know there's no reason for anyone who doesn't know me to read this blog - it's not, after all, about anything important, it's just me wittering on for my own entertainment, really. But that's not to say that I wasn't unreasonably excited when I received a comment from someone I didn't know (that wasn't spam written in Chinese! It was a bona fide comment!) I was giddy with pleasure - and Commenter, if you're still reading, then have no shame about being a thriller fan - I'm about to read about my fifth in as many days. Admittedly, three of them are for work purposes (not that I'm planning to 'retrain' as a serial killer or anything - I'm doing some freelance copywriting for a website), but I'm enjoying them thoroughly and have abandoned Proper Book Birdsong in the process.

But the other thing that gives me a geekish thrill is checking out the stats which Blogger helpfully provides. If you're the sort of person who Tweets like a canary, then you get all your thrills through seeing how many followers you have, and being re-tweeted. As I don't, I get my ego jollies through noting how many page views I've notched up in a week, and seeing where the traffic's come from. In the last few months, I've had hits from Russia, Taiwan, Latvia and Slovenia! Madness. Goodness only knows how they came across this and what they made of it. *Waves at foreign countries I've never even been to*

I'm imagining that most of them have looked up the poem I took my blog's name from, and that's the only reason they're here. Once there is no mention of me eating sausages or spitting, in verse form, they probably go back to reading Dostoevsky.

However, a recent new thing is that it tells you what search terms people put in, to find themselves washed up on these shores of waffle. The best one so far is this:
'Average women wearing purple bikinis'

I'm really hoping that that was a search put in by a Daily Mail hack. There's surely no other reason for it, is there? I think it's the 'average' that pleases me so much. I mean, that's quite a specific fetish, isn't it? I don't want to see any photos of one of the Kardashians wearing a purple bikini. Nor do I want a morbidly obese woman sporting a two piece in a regal hue. And actually, come to think of it, do I want Gisele or one of those Victoria's Secret models in their swimwear? No, I want an average woman wearing a purple bikini.

The internet has its drawbacks, for sure, but you can't fault it for delivering results when you're looking for something really, really specific. (Shame, in this case, that the average woman I undoubtedly am, chose, for her first ever bikini last summer, a black one. D'oh!)

Otherwise Engaged

Oh, how could he? How could he keep me dangling for years, practically as long as this very blog has been in existence, no less, letting me believe that there was a chance, that I could keep on hoping, that if only I laughed enthusiastically enough at his jokes and talked him up to all my friends, he'd notice me, ask me out and then marry me, thus completing my odyssey?

Only to dash my poor heart into tiny pieces on the stone-flagged kitchen floor of reality by ANNOUNCING HE'S GOT ENGAGED TO SOMEONE ELSE. IN THE PAGES OF THE BLOODY TIMES, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. DO YOU WANT TO HUMILIATE ME ON A NATIONAL SCALE, YOU SWINE?

Yes, David Mitchell - my comedy husband - is a cad of the first order. As long-term readers may remember, not only did he render me a tedious, mute numpty on the one occasion at which we met (by, um, tricking me into ordering a glass of water when he asked what I'd like to drink? Yes, that's definitely what happened), but he has also chosen to have a totally under the radar (other than to telly and newspaper types, presumably) relationship with fellow telly regular and Observer columnist Victoria Coren. To whom he is now engaged.

What chance did I have? They say [include random statistic of your choice here] percent of people meet at work. Not only do they both write for the Observer - which no doubt affords at least a drink together at the office Christmas party, as I presume they actually write from home, in their pyjamas (just as I currently am - oh, the cruel irony) - but they're both regular fixtures on panel shows, being funny, behind a selection of desks, playing for points. Together. 'Work' doesn't just mean an office, you know. That's only for us plebs.

I was *this close*. One of my friends is going to be working on his book later on in the year. (Launch party! Surely I could redeem myself at that?) I was getting used to the beard. (Ugh, beards - why are so many otherwise attractive, nice young men sporting beards these days? Is shaving really that much of a hassle? I don't understand why they all want to look so much like a dad from the late '70s - and 20 years older than they actually are in the process). I even moved back to London to be closer to him.

All to no avail. Ah well. I have come up with a new plan. Given that the only chaps I seem to come across these days weren't even born when I was doing my A-levels, I have decided to go full cougar and focus my attentions on someone altogether younger. I am playing the long game, marriage-wise. Yes, I am now going to start stalking trying to track down a junior, ganglier, marginally less beardy version of Mr Mitchell. I've stood across a crowded room from him at last year's Edinburgh Festival, so we're practically going out already.

Jack Whitehall, prep yourself for the attentions of a ginger, speccy girl who's old enough to be your mum. You will be mine.