Blog of the day.

The session at the chiropractor’s went quite well. Bad news, though. He might be leaving SA to go and work overseas. Bummer. Who’s going to ram my hip back into its joint every second month?
When I got into his office, he asked of me, “Same procedure as last time, Miss Sophie?”
To which I replied, “Same procedure as every year, James.”
(These are lines out of Dinner For One, for those of you unfortunate enough not to have seen it).
After that little repartee, I clambered up onto the bench. The thing I hate about chiropractics, is that parts of it are quite nice. You get massaged with a large electric massager. Then just when you are nice and relaxed, and your pressure points zinging, you have to lie on your side in fetal position, and take a deep breath. On the exhale, the practitioner, using his weight as leverage, crunches your hip bones into an alignment more pleasing to him. Then you have muscular pain for at least two days afterwards, as your muscles get used to their new placement. And I pay for this!
I’m thinking I’d better get myself (by hook or by crook) some sort of back brace, to keep the fecker in its joint. I know you get special ones for sacro-illiac problems. Where to find one though? Every time I stand up, just about, I can hear all sorts of uncalled-for clicking going on in my back. I’m starting to get the idea that I’m throwing good money after bad, going to the chiro. And I’m not yet ready for a screw. (A titanium screw, surgically implanted to keep my hip in place, that is, for those of you wallowing in the gutter).

My little niece (10) is getting so aware of fashion. It’s just adorable. And she knows what she wants! Bright colours, and plenty of bling. I’ve promised her a halter neck top (one of those ones that go ‘round your neck, as she described it to me). She’s already scouted one out at Foschini’s Kids. Can’t wait for her and I to go and buy it. She’s so darling. Definitely think of her as the daughter I never had. (Don’t tense up, I’m not going to use the opportunity to start bellyaching again about baby-stuff).

About that though, I had a re-think about my blog and packing out on it. Thing is, I need to pack out, that’s the way I’m programmed. And far better to pack out on my blog, than to a real, unfortunate person. I mean, I’m not forcing anybody to read my blog. Not like in real life, where they’re a captive audience for my tale of woe. In real life, you can’t hit that delicious exit button.
I’m not really a diary-keeping type of person. Not for want of trying. It appeals to the romantic side of me. But I could never sustain one for any length of time. Until the blog thing got me in its grip. I LOVE posting on my blog. Love reading blogs, too. I’m ashamed to say that I get a voyeuristic little thrill out of it.
But I’ve really been flabbergasted by the healing powers of posting stuff that is bothering me on the net. It’s even BETTER than offloading to a real person. Can’t understand it. Don’t want to understand it, just know that it works. Who needs psychotherapy when you have a BLOG? Anyway, the one time I went to see a councilor, she hardly said a word. She didn’t get a chance. I’d barely been introduced, when I sat down on her couch and bawled, gulping out bits of what was bothering me in between sobs. When the time was up, I felt loads better, blew my nose, smiled goodbye, and off I went. (She’s a lovely person, I’ve stayed in touch with her).
So obviously all I need is just to get whatever’s troubling me off my chest, and I’m good to go.
When everything is going well with me, I hardly go near my blog. As soon as there’s trouble, however, I’m at the computer as fast as my legs (and sacro-illiac joint) can carry me. I have no intention of stopping, either. I felt a bit shy of how boring my blog must be, when all I ever talk about is MS. Then it occurred to me: WHO CARES? No-one is being forced to read. And it’s not like I’m trying to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. I’ve met some great people, I feel better, what more do I need? And best of all: IT’S FREE.

Let me just finish this post by saying how much I love Marion Keyes. I’m reading her new book ANYBODY OUT THERE? for the second time. I think she’s the best writer ever, I want to BE her.
What’s strange, though, is that there are a lot of people that don’t like her. Obviously a lot that do, because she’s a bestselling author. But how can anyone not like her writing? It’s brilliant. Humourous and very insightful and touching, all in one go. I’d give my eye-teeth to write a book like any of hers. (Not my back molars, as I no longer have them. Long story).
Still, viva la difference! People can read, or not read, whatever they like.
I really like Chick Lit. But only the very good ones, like Helen Fielding (Bridget Jones), Cecilia Ahern (PS I Love You), anything by Carole Matthews and of course, Marion. Also loved Alison Pearson’s I don’t know how she does it. Don’t give me chick-lit written by a guy, though. What do they know? Chancers.
I have read a couple of more heavy-weight books in my life. Gone With the Wind remains up on a pedestal for me, and I did slog my way through The Fountainhead, and Pride and Prejudice (which was the chick-lit of its day, mind you). So I’m not a total flake. Even though I do love historical romance, from time to time. Okay, I’ll concede that point, maybe I am a bit flaky. Still, nothing wrong with that. It’s my favourite chocolate.
That was lame, sorry.But I’m not afraid to say Chick-lit ROCKS. I’m not one for academic, brainiac thrillers. I want to have a giggle and a good cry, is that too much to ask?