You probably remember a few months back me whiffling about this blog being shortlisted for the Cosmopolitan blog of the year award. The whole thing was a bit of a shock seeing that I was being very tardy with my posts and even more hilarious, the blog was shortlisted for the best food blogger of the year award. In an earlier post, I talked about how I didn’t feel that this blog was particularly just about food, but more that food is a common ground that all my experiences tend to share.
Like most things that I struggle to do well, blogging is a love/hate thing. I love the discipline that it requires. It’s a tricky balance of baring your soul, offering up access to your personal diary but maintaining enough awareness that while I am happy to take the piss out of my private life in the blogosphere, the lives of others (like my physical life friends and family) are not to be treated as fodder for my hastily hatched and half baked literary attempts at blogging.
The Cosmopolitan Blog Awards, if I remember it right, was on a Thursday. Thursday is my day of the week when I work at Wayside Organics from 10-2. I had my train ticket bought for a little after 3 which would get me into London with just half an hour spare to get myself to The Rose Club.
Let me just enlighten you to my Wayside Organics work attire. Cord jeans which used to belong to Slaveboy (I don’t own any trousers as such, except for one pair of jeans). Industrial strength granny knickers in white. Perfect for cold weather conditions. Warm vest with two pinholes in it. Tee shirt (random B52s band merch). Sweatshirt with hood (the last I checked, Slaveboy swore blind it was his but he doesn’t want it back anymore). Knee socks for extra warmth. A pair of ghastly black trainers with neon pink laces.
Oh. And a land girl style head scarf.
I couldn’t even romanticise the description of how I look on Thursdays if I tried and I studied English Literature at uni.
So take that image with you (I’m sorry) and realise the mere hour I had to get dressed before needing to catch the train to London. Add to that mix, the realisation that the shortlisted beauty bloggers will be looking fucking shit hot. And probably fifteen years younger too.
So by the time I got off the train in London, I had already fallen asleep twice on the train.
The award party, in the words of youths today, was immense. In old Sponge talk, it was overwhelming. Free flowing cocktails and loud music pumping. Beautifully dressed people with Colgate advert worthy sparkly smiles. It didn’t take long for me to realise that this was supposed to be a big deal.
And there I was, with crippled feet and a girdle hastily put on twisted that a chafe was rapidly developing.
I didn’t stay for the afterparty. I tried to catch up with some other food bloggers but it was desperately hard to spot anyone. I was pretty chuffed that a few non-food bloggers recognised me and took the time to say they loved reading my blog. Even the doorman chortled at my blog’s name.
I took a taxi all the way to London Victoria station and was pretty much spotted pinging and twanging my girdle through my skirt all the way down platform 19.
Overwhelming as it might have been, it was an eye opener. I got to see just how much effort these deserving shortlisted bloggers put into their blogging. I came away wanting to develop skills that I know would improve me as a blogger. I mean, let’s face it, my blog will be out there forever. Perhaps for longer than I will be around. It might disappear in the background, descending lower and lower in the rankings but the trail to it will remain. It’ll be in some way a matchbox-size representation of what my life is all about. The last thing I want is for it to go down as literary masturbation that should have been left in the confines of some grubby ink stained notebook – cathartic for the writer but bloody well awkward, cringeworthy and tedious for the onlookers.