Having waited until the 1970s for poor young Annabelle Jones to be freed from the possessive shackles of being known as Mrs Frederick Bloggs, just twenty short years later poor old Annabelle Bloggs-Jones suddenly found herself right back where she started: widely and humiliating referred to as firstname.lastname@example.org FAO-Annabelle
By the end of the 90s, with Fred totally fed up with please-tell-Annabelle-it's-now-Wednesday, email finally arrived in the home and Annabelle Bloggs (well, it's easier for the children if we all have the same name, isn't it) finally achieved her own e-independence. Well, sort of: email@example.com
How things change.
In the brave new world of the 21st century the boot is on the other foot: firstname.lastname@example.org is now almost incommunicado. He has had to tell his mates not to email him that stuff at work any more - compliance get a copy of everything, now - and IT Security blocked access to email@example.com nearly three years ago.
Meanwhile firstname.lastname@example.org receives 10,000 hits and 14 comments every day at www.myrottenlife.blogspot.com
Is it a genre?
Anyway, here's four blogs that I've been thoroughly enjoying reading: all by women with their own email address and everything, all witty, all a mixture of domestic, the external.....and the surreal.
In no special order here they are, writing on domestic topics...
Arse End of Ireland by Swearing Lady
It's said that all women eventually turn into their mothers. You know how it is: one day you've got your nose pierced and you're painting her wallpaper black, the next you're choosing high-waisted jeans and gardening and tutting.D-Flat Chime Bar by Surly Girl
I’ve been studiously avoiding my mother since Christmas. This makes me both very happy (no mother! Woo!) and slightly guilty (Fifi Sis gets all the gubbins. Boo). However, mother has now thrown a large spanner in the works by instigating (potentially) her own financial downfall, and wanting to discuss it in detail with everyone.Wife in the North by Wifey
A bit of background for anyone who’s still reading despite this being another post about my mother:
At least I didn't fall for the obvious trap laid by the nurse who shot the baby up, after I had been chatting to her about how violent boys can be.Petite Anglaise
"All you can do is say to them, 'I don't hit you, so don't you hit your brother'."
Nope. Wasn't falling for that one.
I am sitting in bed, watching episodes of Desperate Housewives back to back and feeling sorry for myself. Despite the Christmas tree sparkling winsomely in the corner of the room, I have never felt less festive, or more hungover. That’s what happens when you go to a party for grown up singles on Christmas day, instead of more traditional activities such as watching the Top of the Pops Christmas special in the front room of your parents house, or sulking when your mother refuses to put any alcohol in her Christmas pudding.
(A tree really did fall on our car on Thursday)
Addition- there's a discussion about women blogging on 18DoughtyStreet on Monday 22nd 9pm featuring Rachel from North London