Rumbled

I knew I’d have my cover blown eventually.

It’s just… that I was so sure I’d be the drunken architect of my own undoing. I could picture the scene quite vividly: me, pub, injudicious quantities of wine, blurtyblurtystumbleblurty. Consequently, I’d imagined it would be my internet-savvy friends that found me, and I was … reasonably ok about that. Braced for the possibility. I had a vague notion of standing bravely by every gynaecological and paranoical quirk I’d pegged to the public bloggy washing line, despite feelg that there are some things, particularly of the intimate mucus variety, that really do not need to be burning into your family retinas.

But lately, I couldn’t quite rid myself of a naggy feeling that the Bliss Just Giving page might come back to bite me in the bum somehow. I had stupidly given my dear old Dad instructions to crank open his wallet via the site in order to let Bliss reclaim the tax – why I simply didn’t go and print out a bloody Gift Aid form for him, I really don’t know; I was tired, I expect. And sure enough, one or other of my lovely ancestors (Hi, folks!) has (with impressive internet detective skills that I freely admit I had thought rather beyond their technological reach) tracked me down – if the fact that I spotted this blog in Favourites on their laptop earlier this week is any kind of clue.

But hey, at least I’m in their Favourites! They like me! Me, their only child! Who knew!

And I still left the posts up, unpassworded, because there’s nothing here that they aren’t aware of in any case, bar the eye-watering gynae detail, albeit I’m too grumpy and busy sitting on my bum and eating their food to deliver information clearly or concisely half the time. 

You see where this is going, don’t you?

I dropped Harry off at the nursery I am now calling Abacus on Monday, and explained that I’d been unable to get through on the phone regarding the last two sessions, which we had missed. I had lost their original details under the compost of paper, lego and coffee cups that forms our filing system, and had been obliged to google their telephone number – an old one, as it turned out; they enquired where I’d seen it.

‘Oh, just Google it!’ I breezily advised.

So they very conscientiously did, today. And came straight here, because I’m now the 14th bloody search result for the place. Harry attended this nursery in the first place because it was a family friend who co-ran it. More specifically, a friend of John’s mother’s.

The three great communication mediums: telephone, television, and tell family.

Cue knee-jerk passwording. And… I don’t know what to do now. At all.

I can keep blogging, and password the stuff I’m reluctant to broadcast, but I’ve used a password for the odd post here and there already and it doesn’t feel like the right thing to do, personally, although it would tick a lot of the boxes. (Incidentally, on the subject of protected blogs, does anyone have Akeeyu’s email address? Typepad hates my guts and refuses to let me beg her password.) Or I could not talk about things pertaining to family, friends or the aberrant sack of lard I affectionately term my body – but you hear virtually bugger-all from me these days in any case; if I start editing out the subject matter: I got nowt.

I think I’ve either got to publicise the damn thing and square up to the fact that everyone knows what my morning pee-stick said or disappear somewhere under a flickrless, twitterless pseudonym and stamp hard on the virtual fingers of anyone who links to me.

Of course, there’s a billion infertile bloggers with two uteri and a back-to-front heart out there for me to just blend straight in with.

I’m sat here slugging away at the whisky – because WordPress has been a proper arse about all this – and telling myself that two of my favourite bloggers, Amy and Antonia, both of whom have children, seem to manage this identity-known-to-all business just fine, so why am I making difficulties and getting in my own narcissistic way and being interminably precious about it?

I’ll… figure it out. Somehow. I’m (doubtless, naively) hoping to have some quality laptop, tea-drinking and cogitation time over Christmas.

Speaking of which festivity: Harry has now encountered Santa twice. Predictably, he has twice taken immediate refuge either in my arms or the far side of the room – although once the penny dropped that the dude was actually handing out gifts, he let me edge him close enough to snatch Father Christmas’s offering with the speed of a striking cobra, before rapidly backing off again, clutching his present close to his chest. Bless the child.

The hubby’s abdomen-to-groin ripped muscle is finally starting to bruise, and it has sent virtually his entire… package… black. This has been the subject of much domestic hilarity, but as I’m feeling a bit draughty in the gaping open door of my blog just at present, I’ll spare you the details. Although, come to think of it, if I wanted to solve my current blog problems, perhaps… I should just… post a photo?

That’d stop ’em dead all right.

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May I take your cloak?

There are bloggers out there – nobler, wiser bloggers than I, no doubt – who evince no interest in their blog stats. Either they switch them off, or they merely peek once in a while.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this is the type of person who doesn’t ask the baby’s sex during the 20 week scan; that never hunted for their Christmas presents early (hint to any 8 year olds that may be reading: try the top of the wardrobe, but then be prepared to school your face into a suitably surprised ‘Wow!’ expression on Christmas Day, unless you want to break your mother’s heart. Oh, and close your eyes whenever I write Fuck, yes?) and can keep a travel pack of sweets in the car for more than 2 days without scarfing the lot.

I, on the other hand, am narcissistic enough to be hugely interested in blog stats. Fascinated simply doesn’t cover it. Part of the charm is that I’m still reeling with delight that anyone would want to read this discombobulated morass of uterine anomaly, parental angst, feral parentheses and barbarous use of hyphenations in the first place. I applaud your… something. Whatever it is you have that keeps you here. Stoicism, possibly. 

(I thank you profusely, too, particularly for your comments, because the conversation therein keeps this blogger going some days.)

The actual number of readers doesn’t interest me so much, it’s how they arrive here. My WordPress stats page lists all the search engine referral terms, as well as links from other blogs and it’s usually quite straightforward to work out whom has come from where, and why – and if you can’t, then your clever chums can do it for you.

Sitemeter is playing silly buggers  – I have obviously set it up wrong – and will tell me nothing. (Sitemeter, in fact, says I have no readers at all, and you are all therefore a figment of my imagination.) I know little about what happens once readers arrive here, but occasionally I do achieve enlightenment. The one day I had had, at half-past midnight, a total of 4 visitors to my blog. 3 of them had arrived using the ubiquitous ‘hairy porn’ search term. One new arrival promptly took his semi elsewhere as fast as his mouse could take him (or… her?), but, undeterred by the obvious absence of explicit bent-over-a-straw-bale action, 2 of the new arrivals had conquered their aroused state sufficiently to read ‘About HFF Wifey’, and one of them was evidently so not in the mood that night that s/he then proceeded to have a wander through the tangled verbiage I call my archives. I was unsure whether to be perturbed or flattered.

This last month has piqued my curiosity even more. I am receiving increasing numbers of search terms for ‘hairy farmer family’ or hairy farmer family blog’. Yesterday, for instance, I had 10. So far today I’ve had 6.

Now, if I ever wanted to conceal my electronic tracks, I would simply google the name of the site I wanted to visit, which is what I think may be occurring. I hasten to assure you, I never generally feel a need to do this, being a little too busy these days to treat stalking as much more than an occasional hobby. 

Lurker by you.

A few possibilities have occurred to me. Family. The puzzlingly poisonous child-free. Friends. That sort of thing. I’m not too bothered who it is, exactly, as I have deliberately written, (since my Arrrghhh! Outed! wobble) as if all three of those categories were reading, but I’m really quite curious to know who you are, nevertheless.

Come forth and show yourself, do! It’s DEMOGRAPHIC TIME for the Hairy Farmer Family Blog.

Viscous Giraffe

In a desperate attempt to distract myself from A) the fact that John’s sister and BIL are selling their farm at auction tonight and the family is on tenterhooks, B) the fact that Harry’s Paediatrician’s appointment is tomorrow and I’m nervous already and C) Harry is resisting his nap today with OMG so much intensity and noise, I thought I would borrow an idea from the wondrous Geode and regale you with some of my more delightful search-engine referral terms.

The vast majority of my referrals make sense to me: over a thousand of my visits have been from people looking for Thelwell images, several of which I have featured here. They are absolutely and uniformly delightful, and I seldom need an excuse for another one.

Thelwell Pony

There you go. Most horses I try to ride react pretty much like this one.

As I say, most of the terms either appertain reasonably clearly to words and phrases I have used here – or originate from that dedicated little section of the population who have a constant and unrequited passion for hairy porn. I have had significant numbers of people arrive here packing (presumably) an expectant semi, in the hope of encountering 1970s pubes* being bent over the straw bales. Hairy porn. Hairy wife. Hairy fuck. Hairy groans. Hairy cunt. Hairy hot. Farmer’s daughter. Hairy Farmer’s daughter. Hairy pregnant. Grandmother hairy. Hairy insertion. Etc. Et-slightly-alarming-ceterae. I’ve had to look in the fabulous Urban Dictionary for some of them.

To my horrified disappointment, I recently realised that WordPress only retains referral summaries, and I have lost forever some of the stranger ones that tickled me pink. Hairy Granny Gash was probably the one that John and I theorised most about: we eventually decided that it was probably best if we thought of that particular surfer as a Hairy Grandad. I have just subscribed to site meter, in the hope of never losing another gem.

Hairy humongous bosoms

Viscous giraffes

Wifey anal play

Bust him in the mouth pics

22 euro hairy sofa

Farmer boobs

Rayol wedding

Hairy woman like big cook (I feel this one may, possibly, feature a typo)

Giant suppository

terlwell bilder (I have No Idea what this means, and neither do Google or Yahoo, but I’ve had 7 referrals for it. If you know, please do tell me!)

Uttering didelphys

And, my absolute all-time favourite orthography FAIL:

Nashnel Trust

*They’re closer than they realise on that one.

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