Who's counting?

Not me, not any more. I got rid of the stats counter that sat at the top of my posts when it began to assume some degree of importance - how many people have read my blog today? - which in itself made me uneasy; you know, that 'mummy says people don't like conceited children' sort of unease. So now I neither know nor care....*

Instead, I have a creeping suspicion, intensified by the complete dearth of comments received, that no one reads it, really, except Shelagh and Maggie in Canada, problem-solving Roger, who has neglected his own blog disgracefully for weeks, pretending that there is nothing to write about outside of Vienna, and sometimes my sister in Glasgow. And only two of them know how to post a comment.**

So, I shall stick with it, just for them, and because I am a bit addicted to writing something that no one red-pens or contradicts much. What do Canada and Glasgow, sorry, my sister in Glasgow, have in common? A fondness for tartan. (Vancouver has its own Tartan Army, did you know that?) I may consider changing the picture at the top in tribute to my small but select readership - Oor Wullie in a kilt, sitting on that bench in my sunny back yard, eating something deep fried, with maple syrup.

* that's a fib; I do care. But not a lot.

** this is not a brazen attempt to acquire comments; I have read other people's blogs' comments, and they can be very weird. And have lotts of typsos and spelinn mistackes which I couldn't ignore....