The Day my Blog was Born

The day I decided to start a blog belonged in a gothic romance, the sort of day that would have my english teacher overexcited. It was one of the worst days the sleepy little town in deepest darkest Oxfordshire had ever seen, and to top it all, it was halloween. If Charlotte Bronte had lived to see that day in that sleepy little town she would have said something like this:
"A waft of shivering winds came sweeping down the laurel walkways, and trembled through the great boughs of the horse-chestnut. There soon commenced a pantomime of writhing and twisting oaks and Hawthorns, whilst the wind began to roar down the laurel walk, and came ctampeding towards us. The moon watched through its gossamer veil, and the clouds began to plunge through the indigo skies. I though of Bessie's nursery tale..."
And you get the idea. So, this day was wet, and cold, and windy. I was at my Dad's new house, staying with him for the first time since he'd moved, and it still felt bare with gaping walls. There was no hot water, barely any heating, and so I pulled on a few of my warmest jumpers - I'm loving this years trend for the biggest, cosiest ones around

URBAN OUTFITTERS £75.00

and stepped out to discover whether the only other people we knew in the whole village could offer me more warmth or food than I had experienced over the weekend at my Dad's. But before I go on, I need to get a few things straight:
1) the only other people we know in the whole of the sleepy little town are my cousins. So that's the extremes of our popularity there.
2) BUT the said cousins are the nicest people you could find...
3) ... AND their house is the most beautiful cottage I have ever been in. A combination of beautiful vintage details, antique wallpaper and quirky retro fittings, in addition to some simple, swedish-style furniture, makes for a house that I truly love.

So, on arrival to this temple of all things cool (and seriously, this family make everything look cool. Even the muddy wellies and football boots stacked by the door seem to ooze laid back country chic) I was told that my aunt and cousin were in fact asleep, and that my uncle and cousin were off to play football nearby. But where was cousin number 3? I settled myself and the large table, on a suspiciously beautiful chair, and began to read. I tried to ignore the Louise Body wallpaper, my favourite (although it was not the one displayed

here) and contrated on the times. But who should turn up but... cousin number 3! Known to those lucky enough to know her personally as Agnes, she sat down and we began the sort of conversation you have with 10 year olds, about bullying and boys and weight and the shallowness of tv. Becuase that is the sort of 10 year old Agnes is, extras mature, pc, and incredibly compassionate. Before long aunt and cousin number 2 turn up. Age 6, kitty is almost everything Agnes is not. So, it turns out that a girl is appearring in a few minutes to talk to the aunt about journalism. My response? Perfect. Time to take advantage of the fact that all my relatives do the same sort of things that I dream of doing. It means I have to put up with my Grandmother calling me a "chip off the old block" and have my dad tell me everything he does every day because it should interest me, but I want to be a journalist. To cut a long story short, my aunt recommended starting a blog. This is supposed to show how keen I am on journalism, and when I go to my interview I can say

"I have written a blog for 6 years and have over a million followers."

... or at least that seems to be the idea. So here I am. Online. I have now officially joined the internet revolution. I have no followers, no understanding of how to use a blog, and not much practise at casual writing. But it's a start, isn't it?