OK, I admit it. I enjoy reading my own blog. Self-absorbed? Narcissistic? Maybe. I enjoy reading the chronicle of my life, and the little flashbacks I have when I read each entry. The entry, you understand, is simply a wordy snapshot of what was going around  me and inside my mind at the time I was writing it. For example, take a post completely at random: Cranberry Bread Without The Cranberries. Reading the post, I go back to baking with my daughter, the shopping, the aroma, the disappointment with the actual result, the slabs of indigestible crumbly messy stuff which remained untouched, for days and days later, finally swearing me off baking for good.

But something else which amuses me is simply how much my blogging has changed. Ergo, how much I have changed. Or not? Prominent themes in those early posts were my make-up, my clothes, my food. These have vanished over the years from my blog, though I assure you, Gentle Reader, not from my mind. I still think obsessively about food, make-up and clothes. Only I don’t blog about them anymore.

Daily lived moments. I blogged them then,  I blog them now. I blogged those moments since I was eleven, only in those days, it was called keeping a diary, and it was written on paper using a pen. In those days, my uncle had gone to the UK to study. He wrote huge sprawling letters, photocopied them at some freebie photocopy machine he’d found lying in a corner of his university, and send copies to his siblings back in Iran. The siblings would get together to read them, and would group-read their responses as well.

Thankfully blogging is free, as the days of scrawling with a pen and free photocopies are over.


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