Granny Lost The Plot

I had a terrible dream last night.

You - yes, all of you bloggers - were sat in a circle in a dark dank room in St Patrick’s Institution for the Bewildered. I was your therapist sitting in the centre and holding forth on the addictive nature of blogging.

Some of you were cured and back on the outside leading productive healthy lives, involved in the I.C.A., the C.I.A. and the mini-marathons. The cured also volunteer to help you on the outside when you feel a blog coming on. They will take you to the nearest pub where you will get rat-arsed, so that by morning, you won’t even remember your own name, let alone your password.

There you were, in the company of gamblers, drug addicts and kleptomaniacs, quivering, shivering, dribbly shadows of your old selves! The girl with that beautiful red hair was down to one blog a fortnight, and has stopped photographing us altogether in our pyjamas and fluffy slippers. The flirtatious one was doing one a week. The religious one was down on his knees praying for forgiveness.

Grandad was sat sulking in a corner with his back to the group. He’s still doing one a day. The staff had confiscated his laptop and several Blackberries. We found out later that during visiting hours, Grannymar was passing him more Blackberries mouth to mouth like they do with drugs. She was attempting to curry favour with the old git.

Grannymar was exempt because she now has an exciting job writing romantic novels for Mills and Boon. She also does part time work with the Fire Service.

The only safe bloggers are people over 80. They can never remember who is in government and mostly blog about the dim and distant past, their great-grandkids A-levels results and the price of butter.

Grandad is marking the years off on the wall in front of him, with a nail.

Or was it a dream? And what is that white coat hanging on the back of my bedroom door?