Why?

Blogging is a funny old thing. Collectively we must waste HOURS reading them. Some of us also waste hours writing them. Why do we do it? Why do we sit in front of glowing screens, staring blankly at words and looking at pictures, when we could be getting on with jobs round the house, or in my case, actually getting a job? Is this simply modern life?

I would like to think that someone, somewhere, bypasses all this, and just has their butler print out blog posts whilst they consult a weighty tome. Reclining in a creaky old leather armchair in their library, they ring a small bell.

"Perkins!"

"Sir?"

"Perkins, bring me the latest from that chappy in Wanstead, wotsisname?"

"Lethbridge, Sir?"

"Ah yes, that's the fellow, Leftwidge. Splendid. Oh and Perkins?"

"Sir?"

"About time for a large scotch, don't you think?"

"Indeed Sir"

A short while later the flunky appears bearing one of those small silver platters, upon which is a sheaf of paper and a tumbler.

*Sup*
*cough, splutter*

"Perkins! Have you read this?! Nonsense! Garbage! Not even about birds! Tripe I tell you, absolute tripe! Delete it from my favourites forthwith, and bring me something else. What about that, er, um, oh god, wotsisname, er, oh. Oh nevermind, just bring me another scotch, bloody internet, don't know why I waste my time reading such rubbish anyway, if wasn't for the downhill slide of the bloody wireless...."

At this point, and in the spirit of all that is blogging, I was going to go through the minutiae of my life from about last Tuesday onwards, but even I can't bear the thought, so you're spared until another post. In anticipation of what will surely be thoroughly scintillating, and a propos of nothing at all, here is sunset on Canvey Island yesterday whilst dipping a Savi's Warbler.