It’s a chilly Saturday morning, and you’re hard at work enjoying the idea of a quiet, customer/writing-deadline-free day ahead. In no hurry, you get coffee and breakfast (a nicely gloopy banana smoothie) ready and sit down to catch up on all those blog posts that have been piling up on your RSS feed over several busy weeks.
Right around the point where you realise than you’ve been so tardy at reading other people’s blogs that some have actually had children in the meantime that have grown up and themselves had children – about the same time you realize your 30-litre caraffe of coffee is empty, something catches your eye. A familiar name.
What a coincidence, you say. *I* know a Mike Sowden, too! It couldn’t be the same Mike Sowden as yourself, because you live all the way over here in York, in the northeast, a stretch of England imagineably labelled “inhabited”. And there is some blog-addicted mischief-making crazywoman, there in dusty Nevada reading a local Reno rag and you’re over here, 5,000 miles from the RNR offices, in hurricane-force York, all while she’s whining about how Mike Sowden is always whining about something.
And so you keep moving until you’ve gone two words later to see Ecosalon, where you used to write from time to time. And you think I bet it’s about that ridiculous solar-powered bikini article. And it is.
And here’s where you know you’re destined for financial success, because your first thought is not an excited and amazed, OMG how cool, that’s MEEEE (and completely unlikely!)
It’s: what the hell is my lawyer’s phone number?