I've fallen in love.....with myself - A sign of thinking too much.

Today is the dawn of a brand new day, well, actually it's a rather piss poor January morning and I don't have much to do, but just lately have noticed I've been talking to myself slightly too much.

Which makes me wonder, how much talking to yourself is too much? a little? a lot? when you start replying? arguing? or falling love with yourself? I'm inclined to believe that when you're still laying awake at stupid o'clock in the morning having discussions with yourself instead of sleeping then maybe, just maybe you're borderline.

Of course it could be that what you have to say is incredibly important and totally worthwhile but that as it is four o'clock in the morning there is no-one around to listen to you, and what if someone was,but didn't agree? Would that make it worse or better?

It's these type of thoughts that worry me about starting this blog. Yes, you read right, I'm worried about starting to write a blog. I have only written a couple before on myspace that were pretty paltry to be fair but on there I felt I should write things that someone would actually want to read, now, I'm falling into a trap of just wanting to write what I think and not caring about anyone else's opinions or if anyone reads it, which could mean I become addicted.

I should request now that no commenter ever disagree with me, it could be, and most likely will be very detrimental to my health.

I think I've come to the point where I decide what I am going to write about now, this is where any readers I have so far decide to disappear never to read again. Subjects I feel strongly about will obviously be top of the list, but those subjects change on a daily basis, though I suspect a large part of it is going to be centred around my Britishness, something I have only recently noticed. How on earth it slipped by me all these years I will never understand, but I am British and conform terribly to the stereotypes.

I love to queue, and at the same time tut and pull faces and close ranks if it seems anyone might dare break the unwritten rule of queue-jumping, which of course, unless you're a gobshite from the Chatsworth Estate must never be confronted ever. Hence the tutting and maximum distance of around 2 feet between each queuer, which miraculously becomes about 4 inches when the queue gets threatened by someone hoping to squeeze in and not willing to wait their turn.

I also adhere to the rule that we do not talk to people we don't know, except to pass judgement on the weather or the failure of the local sports team. Imagine my horror when the woman next to me at the bus stop (in the queue) decides to start talking to me, about personal things! The total ignorance she displayed towards the Rules of Britishness was bad enough, but to think someone you have never spoken to before wants to discuss their medical history with you begs the question "Do you have no manners?" Again, thought only in head but portrayed as a wry smile so as not to be rude.

What else makes us Brits so noticeable to one of our kind? Maybe it's the solitary carrier bag hanging off our arm because we cannot possibly carry anything without a bag, or the unexplained umbrella and heavy raincoat in the middle of August, the way we ask 'Tea?' as soon as someone is through the door, placing their umbrella, coat and carrier bag on the floor? No, I don't think it is, I think it's the way that no matter how messed up a certain accessory seems when we can see how practical it could be then we know we have met one of our own.

Forward thinking is an admirable quality surely? would you rather get wet or carry a brolly? and would you rather have your brolly in one hand and whatever it was you needed to buy from the shops in your hands or in a carrier bag? As for the coat, when it rans, it often gets colder, so that would be needed too, and if it does get warm then you have your carrier bag to put it in.

Texting or calling someone when we are waiting is not purely a sign that you wish no-one to talk to you but a good use of those few minutes in which the stranger could've tried to engage you in a pointless conversation.

Using swear words instead of adjectives isn't just laziness, it is to save ourselves from embarrassment if we use the wrong word, us Brits must not be seen to do anything out of the ordinary or cause a scene, and using the wrong word would be a big no-no, so instead we say fuck/fucked/fucker or fucking.

So now, in fear of using the wrong fucking words, and to fulfil my need to prepare for my venture into the outside world at some point today, I shall end this first entry to my blog, and off I'll trot with a notepad to jot down everything that I want to talk to myself about today, and save it for you, the unknown, and possibly non-existent readers.