Not mine, other people's. This is what comes of spending 5 plus hours watching episodes of In Treatment, which has fantastic performances by Dianne Wiest and Mia Wasikowska, and is marred only by Melissa George's trout lips.
A friend recommended a blog to me, a witty blog, an impolite and wild and eccentric and lively blog, a daring blog written by a an arty sort of wife and mother, a London sort of wife and mother. It's funny. And either Antonia ( it's alright to use her name as she doesn't know me, or this blog, from a bar of soap) has a devoted following because of her wit and sardonic take on life, or she has a lot of fond-of-commenting friends. Probably both.
Antonia lost me, however, when I read her very amusing post about recovering from post-natal irritation with her toddler by flying from London to New York for a weekend of cocktails with her gal pals. Suddenly, a blog that had read as subversive - of motherhood, art, suburban life, marriage - seemed to suddenly reveal itself as a blog of privilege instead, full of a sort of high class sneering.
Which is of course, a ridiculous thing to think, as anyone blogging for fun in the Western world is automatically writing from their broadband enabled position of privilege.
Yet somehow I prefer a blog like Helena's (it's alright to use her name because I'm about to say nice things) that isn't funny and doesn't mock but delves into our vulnerabilities as humans with compassion, hopeful images, beautiful and carefully chosen words. It's still a privileged form of writing but easier for me to swallow.
You can make up your own mind. I think I'm trying to make up mine about what blogs are for, what the best use is of this time we sit at our computers and write. And a deadly, earnest sort of work (much like this post!) isn't the answer to the mock-brave work of wealthy women, I know that too.
http://yetanotherbloomingblog.blogspot.com/ - please don't click on this link if you're likely to be offended by 'language' or 'themes'...