I appear to have arrived at something of a blogging crossroads. In my head it looks like one of those very confusing intersections that you get in the US where there are pedestrians crossings going in every direction, like a herd of squashed and bewildered zebras.
You see, this blog was meant to be my musings on everyday life. It's my outlet for when my brain feels like a pressure cooker with steam fizzing out of my ears. It was meant to be anonymous so that I could be cuttingly honest, revealing my deep thoughts that I don't really want to tell anyone in person but need to air them - sort of like the pensieve in the Harry Potter books, where Dumbledore uses a magic wand to syphon out memories (and yes, I am a very sad Harry Potter addict).
But it's not anonymous anymore. It's linked all over the place and people who read it largely know who I am. They most likely already think I'm barking for doing it the first place. And now I find myself at a point where I really, really need to write something deeply personal. I have an issue. A big issue. An issue that would make fabulous blog material and would ease the chatter in my head. An issue that other bloggers probably blog about, get a book contract and make millions from. But I can't blog it. Not without risking an awful lot. Not without airing dirty laundry for all to see. And so I stand at my zebra crossing muddle and wonder if I step off the pavement in the wrong direction, will I get struck by a large bus.
The answer is probably yes. So I won't. I shall simply stew. Or call my sisters. Although one's in New Zealand and probably won't appreciate being woken up at 6am for this and the other is on holiday somewhere hopefully having a more relaxing time that I did.
I shall instead leave you intrigued. That way I come across as mysterious and enigmatic, which isn't something someone in tracky pants and marmite smeared on her top from a small child's hands is normally described as. But there you go.