…and now I’m not so sure. When I decided to start this blog I fully intended to litter it with regular, concise posts about all kinds of stuff that make up my world. So far I’ve only managed dissertation length pieces, none of which I imagine have been read by anyone in their entirety except me. I’ve treated the blog a bit like a January membership to the gym; all full of good intentions and enthusiasm for the first week, but then slowly pushed to the recesses of the mind while still convincing yourself that next week you’ll pick it up again. It’s surprisingly difficult this blogging lark and I need a lie down just thinking about what to write about. But the beauty of being an unknown writer is that there is no eager audience just waiting for you to unload your creative juices all over them so you can be as prolific as JD Salinger after Catcher In The Rye and no one actually gives a shit. However, I’ve paid for this sodding thing so I may as well use it. One such thing I had wanted to write about was conversations I have overheard. I’m a terrible eavesdropper, although most of it isn’t difficult as I’m convinced a hefty portion of the population are wanting the rest of us to hear what they have to say. Now that I get to hang around schools and coffee shops on a daily basis (because of my children, so let’s leave it there…) I am consumed with overheard conversations. Most are brain achingly dull, some are painstakingly annoying, but every so often a tiny gem emerges bringing about unintentional hilarity, briefly dissecting the humdrum of every day conversation and bringing a passing smile to the face of someone it was never intended for. To be honest I could just make these up, but that would require an input of imagination on my part and besides – as I’ve never (over)heard anyone say – truth is funnier than fiction.
While watching my daughter to make sure she didn’t decide to freefall from the top of the climbing frame in a kid’s playground in a pub recently, a game of footy between four previously unacquainted children broke out. As the game developed a short conversation emerged that had me smiling like a simpleton.
“What’s your name?” Said one boy to his new team mate.
“Lucas,” the other boy replied.
“Woah! Quality football name.”
Alan Shearer could only dream of giving such inspired insight on the Beautiful Game.
And with that I shall stop. I feel exhausted