I couldn't give you the definitive answer, but I'll try...
It's an odd post from The Spinster, fresh back from her weekend at the Green Man Festival. On the surface, it's no more and no less than you'd expect from The Finest Writer Currently Working in Blog (© Bob Swipe, 2006) - the latest, much-heralded installment of the Spinster's Festivals of Britain odyssey turning out to be all rain and no parade. She didn't lose her bag in Newport Pagnell, it would seem - she forgot to pack it in the first place. You could be forgiven for thinking that the First Mistress of the Aimless Personal Narrative had possibly lost her touch - where are the cadaverous young would-be buckeroonies for her to swoon over from afar, as safe as we all are in the knowledge that whatever mutual desire there might be generated in the three or four paragraphs she will need to recount the not-very-much-at-all-happening, but-one-day-it-might story of her life, it will all come to nought in the end. As, indeed, this installment does - a sleepless and "very weird right now" Spinster seemingly as perplexed as the rest of us as to why she bothered to post it up in the first place. I mean, we can *all* **do** nothing much is happening right now...
But this is The Spinster so, naturally, different rules apply. Because, if previous posts are anything to go by, this is but a teaser, a Best-like feint, a pretence at falling over, before the slender legged pride of Ulster would nimbly sidestep the Ron 'Chopper' Harris-like lunge and go on to bend a beaut into the top right hand corner. We *know* that tomorrow's (or even tonight's) post will shed more light on what *really* went on, there among the damp fields of (wherever it was). But until then, we're left with a rather enigmatic scrawl - a knowingly inscrutable, intentionally impenetrable "can you see what it is yet" style close up of the work-in-progress that only the artist herself truly can know the playing out of.
This is the beauty of the brilliant blog. It's like literature. Only it has something that *bona fide* literature can never have. We have the same insatiable desire to know *what happened next* that we would expect from quality fiction and it will, we know, be gratified - tomorrow, the day after, in a month or so....whenever....
But there's also the suspicion that there *really is*, out there somewhere, possibly even in Bristol, a young curly-haired Ulsterwoman, with a mind seared by the regrets of the drunkenly done - someone for whom the reality of what we perceive as quasi-fiction is in all actuality pressing in like a hot coal on bare flesh.
*That's* why we care about Spinny.
So don't let anyone tell you shouldn't.
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