Voodoo? You do.

Last night.

Tired Mam begins reading my rubbish blog.

I'm not entirely happy, but it is the only thing to do. And it is strangely pleasant to have some real-life feedback.

I'd still rather it was my thing though. Never mind.

She is not entirely happy. About a number of things, in fact.

But most of all about Miss Fluffy.

Now. Listen. For those not familiar. Fluff is great. One of the good ones. Doesn't big herself up. Doesn't create some dreadful false persona. Doesn't think for a second that her life is more interesting than anyone else's, that her opinions or stories are somehow justification for her place in the world. She just writes. About her life, her thoughts, her feelings.

So What, you say. Have you not read any blogs? Yes I have. Most are puffed-up pricks attempting to make themselves sound interesting enough to give them the self-confidence to sustain an erection for more than three seconds. Those of you thinking that my own effort is identical please leave comments below. I fucking love it.

But for some reason - I can't put my finger on it - she is different.

Perhaps it is because hers is the first blog I ever read.

I had dragged my family at least four-hundred miles from everything they new. I wasn't worried about Favourite Daughter. She is strong. And she is.

Tired Mam was another matter. She gives people the impression she is strong. Even me sometimes.

But I worry. My family make her stupidly welcome. I have a sister and several brothers, none of whom I have seen for any length of time for half my life. They are good people. They take care of her, make her welcome.

I still fret. I Google. I find the blog of this woman. She has almost simultanously moved with small people to the North. For some bloke. Brilliant I think. Much-needed insight. (I know. As opposed to actually talking to Tired Mam. What am I? A woman?)

Anyway. I read for two years. Occasionally say nice things when I feel they are needed.

She replies on occasion. This is not important to me. The blog itself is evidence of such immense creativity, humanity and honesty that it sometimes feels a privilige to read it. Gay, I know. It sometimes feels intrusive.

I do not need to see photos of her children (they were removed). I do not want to hear about her daily - by the hour - movements at her place of study. Christ. If you wanted a stalker, this was the way to go. Do I say anything? I do not. I have my own life, my own family.

I'm rambling. Anyway.

Tired Mam is reading away. I'm quite pleased and genuinely quite cross all at the same time.

Laughs now and then. No idea at what, so this could be good or bad.

TM: So. This Fluff person? What's that?

I am unconcerned. Explain history and covenance. I am relaxed.

Transpires that whilst smoking cigarette in back yard TM has visited F's website and has discovered she is not ugly. No warts of anything.

TM: Bit flirty, isn't she?

Point out to Tired Mam that if I got a bit cross everytime she got a bit flirty I would have no skin on my knuckles and that every tradesperson in the North-East of England would be very sore.

As if I could take them.

TM: Yes. Well. We'll see. I'm going to sort this out.

I say nothing. Sort it out, I think. By doing what? A WhoIs check? That you don't know how to do? And then getting only Googles' details, because it's all anon?

The whole thing has been a bit jokey of course (wouldn't mention it otherwise) and I think no more of it.

The next day.

Me and two children have lovely day. We'll leave it at that.

Tonight. Fluff's latest incarnation is gone.

I mean. It is like she was never there.

The whole blog.

'We'll see' said Tired Mam. (She is actually quite nice. Sometimes.)

But I had no idea she had this sort of power.