Blog Guilt over my Frankenstein's Monster

Blog Guilt creeps up on me unawares. It normally sabotages me at the most unlikely times, unsually when I haven't posted for three or four days.

I'll be standing there watching the beautiful trajectory of a packet of Lays falling from the machine in the empty chambers at work where we used to talk and it will kick in, sending pain through my solar plexus. A co-worker may occasionally ask me if I'm OK.

"Blog guilt," I'll wheeze through the agony. "I'll be alright. If only I can...post."

But in this most taxing of weeks a recurring thought has been nagging and pulling at my subconscious. What if I run out of things to write? What if my week was so nondescript that it's not worth describing. What if I end up having to write a blog about how I can't write a blog?

Or - worse still. What if I have to blog about the efforts I go to to get out of scooping turds out of the cat box?

"Ah, ah, Catbox Back," I scream as I canter round the room holding my spine like one of Degas' dysfunctional ballet dancers.

Paradoxically it was easier back in the day when nobody read my blog.

Except for my four foot-six tall great auntie Agnes in Largs who'd tell me I wasn't too old to be slippered for using bad words.

Not that I had to invent fictitious aunts in those days. Blog Guilt has turned me into a pathological liar, although there was an aunt of that name back in the day. I can't remember much, except being clinically bored and admiring her collection of knitted ladies who sat on toilet rolls in her bathroom.

What was that all about anyhow? Imagine going on a date and being asked what you do for a living.

"I manufacture woollen ladies who sit on toilet rolls."

Blog Guilt is not just about posting. Now it's about not having time to post on other people's blogs. It also involves some degree of wondering why you are following people who blog about their cocaine smuggling and stripping experiences (presumably not at the same time, unless the men in uniform were lending a gloved hand).

I can only think having a blog is a bit like being a famous actor or actress, although a lot less glamorous and well paid. You are only as good as your last blog, just as an actor is only as good as his last role.

And seriously guys - who would have thought Dustin Hoffman would not have got even better after Rain Man or Hopkins would have peaked with Silence of the Lambs and how come Kevin Spacey didn't keep on being uber brilliant after American Beauty?

These questions don't keep me up and night but they make me think. Do all of us hit a peak that we can never again emulate? Does the manufacturer of woolly toilet roll ladies hit a peak of excellence when he whips off a brunette in a nice yellow floral number, who fits so snugy over the roll he knows he will never see her like again? Just wondering.

And like Frankenstein's Monster will these blogs we so deftly create turn around and kill us? To be fair Mary Shelley's protagonist had a fair idea all was not well when he created his monster.

"How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips."

I've had mornings when I've looked like this myself, although those memories of parties that stopped when the sun came up are fast receeding.

Still the relief of the weekend, washed down by a couple of neat brandies, morphed into a crazy high speed cart ride round FarmFresh, with a six-year-old hanging off the back. After too many rushed lunches at greasy fast food joints, a craving for fruit kicked in and I recklessly unloaded the shelves of peaches and melons, sending geriatrics flying across the aisle in the wake of my reckless fruit quest.

By the time I reached the checkout my tiger blood had kicked in, with a satsuma trace. I could tell by the expression of the old biddy on the till, she knew I was winning.

But at my moment of greatest triumph as I held a pineapple aloft in my outstretched hand, I felt a spasm of pain ripple through my body and my tiger blood was transformed into that of a docile domestic cat. Blog Guilt had floored me again.