Imitation is the sincerest form of battery

My fiancé has become a blogger. This startling revelation became apparent after I spent a couple of hours setting up her account and teaching her how to navigate the CMS software, since when she has blogged variously about crap song lyrics, hating weddings, the subjectivity of humour and the process of ageing. These are all topics close to my heart as well, and I have discussed some of them at various points during my brief blogging career. Indeed, at first glance, it appears there is competition for my title of the best blogger nobody’s ever heard of, except my fiancé isn’t really eligible for that accolade, because her blogs are far more popular than mine. 

In fairness to me, my last blog about feminism was the most-read entry I’ve ever produced. If you missed it, it’s below this one, and if I do say so myself, it’s rather good. However, its readership figures are still dwarfed by anything my dearly beloved consigns to print, which suggests one of several things. Either (a) she’s a lot more popular than me, (b) people prefer to read the words of a pretty girl over anything written by the owner of a scrotum, or (c) she’s a better writer than I am. Or all three. Or any combination. It’s intriguing, and perhaps a touch dispiriting, to realise that the student is teaching the master a thing or two about how to be a successful blogger. And to think I wrote her university dissertation for her. 

It is quite odd reading something a loved one has written. You can almost follow the thought processes from sentence to sentence, but then something completely random and unexpected will appear, and you’ll think ‘crikey. I wouldn’t have thought of/had the nerve to say/questioned the illegality of/ever fancied that.’ It makes me realise that for the last eight months, my other half has probably been clicking onto my blog with the same mixture of enthusiasm, intrigue and slight trepidation I now feel clicking onto hers, in case some sensitive nugget of information has escaped into the public eye. And we’re hardly famous. How much worse must it be if you live your life in the piercing spotlight of publicity? 

Imagine you’re Brad Pitt. No, go on. Just for a minute. Now imagine that your wife’s breasts are trending on Twitter. Not a nice feeling, is it? But wait, it gets worse. Now imagine that their removal is trending on Twitter. A traumatic and deeply personal medical procedure, undertaken to avoid the risk of a life-threatening illness, has become the subject of countless tweets and comments by people you’ve never met, and never will. Can you even imagine how you’d feel going to bed that night, knowing that your life is being splashed across newspaper columns, and dissected on social media sites by avaricious and anonymous people from LA to Larkhall? 

You might have noticed that I don’t reveal too much about myself in these blogs. That’s because I have no idea who’s reading them, or what they’re looking for, or whether an unguarded disclosure might come back to haunt me one day. As a result, I tend to stick to acknowledged facts or general musings, rather than anything subjective or opinionated - I’m quite happy to keep my innermost thoughts, fears and predilections out of the public eye. I just need to hope that my soon-to-be-betrothed is of a similar mindset. Maybe she’ll write a blog about it, to let me know?

Incidentally, if you want to know more about the musings of this sultry wordsmith, her blog can be found at http://bloginstripedpyjamas.blogspot.co.uk. And no, you can’t have her. I bagsied her first.