On Not Actually Being Here

I’m not actually here, and I’m not actually writing this blog.  I’m on holiday in a cottage in the North East of this country, with no internet access and no real motive to seek out an internet cafe.  This blog is an imposter and a fraud.

The fact is,  for completely childish reasons, I found myself attracted to the idea of writing a blog whilst not actually being here/there.  And this is easily enough done by playing with the Timestamp; the blog then lurks in cyberspace until it’s scheduled to appear.

If this were a detective novel, this could be my alibi. I couldn’t have possibly been in the Billiard Room wielding the candlestick with such deadly effect, because my  vast (!) internet community of blog-readers were sitting at their screens reading when these very words appeared.  This means I effectively have carte blanche to commit a heinous murder at precisely 21.00 on Wednesday 22nd August.


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