Recognition

As many of you know, I am one of Britain's most respected writers and I spend a lot of my time editing my posts, time and time again, until I can make them more writerly. As a knoted grammatarian I have to keep my standards up and I try to do my humble best for my besotted readers. you are so important to me. But I feel proud when I can write such sweet and simple sentances like "Is this Copperfield business insightive exposure, or attention seeking mutterings from a lot of PCs?"

Happily nobody I've met believes the vicious wombat lies or the tales of extraordinary dastardly writings and thoughts attributed to me. Those who have met me, listen with awe too my story, their eyes widening with every atrocity committed to me and, when I've finished, they stop yawning and vigorously assure me they believe me completely, with all their hearts as they slowly back out of the room, never taking their eyes off me. Many are even shaking.

It's hard coming to terms with being Britain's best blogger, I knew that I would be recognised as such, but when it happens, thrust upon you, then the only thing to do is accept the honour humbly.

Not to brag, blab, blub, bluster or blether.

I suppose it's my brilliance and modesty that have made me a target for such hateful sprites. It's the price of fame, I suppose. Do not pity me, I know it is a price to be paid by those as gifted as I. To be such a recognised writer as I, to have reknown for your mastery of grammer, spelling and those underrated adverbs, is both a blessing and a curse.

My readers get the blessing every time I post, but it is I who have the writers curse, the constant worry that my work could be improved never stops and I pore over every sentance, every word, every sylabble, constantly, making sure everything is correct, and more importantly 'just right'.

But I suffer in silence. My readers never know of the toil tears and sweat (hey, that's good, I'll use that as a post title soon!!) that goes to make each post a tiny gem in a world full of gibbons and hippos.

Yesterday, just as I was in full writerly concentration, I saw two lonely bloggers, probably conspiracy theorists, definitely Leo with Uranus rising, looking at me, alarmed. Finally one of them came over and in a hesitating voice asked if I was Felicity.

I feigned modesty for a short while before fessing up. I went to give him my autograph, but he'd already become so overawed at meeting me, in the flesh, that he had made a dash for the exit. I gave chase but they ran faster than I could.

Baby look at me
And tell me what you see
You ain't seen the best of me yet
Give me time I'll make you forget the rest

I got more in me
And you can set it free
I can catch the moon in my hands
Don't you know who I am

Remember my name
Felicity Jane!