So I'm standing in the kitchen in a vague sort of way, and it occurs to me that I made a cup of tea some time ago. Not proper tea, more a sort of camomile bedtime thing. I distinctly remember making it. I wander around vaguely inspecting all the places that a cup of tea might profitably wait for me, beginning with By The Kettle, and On The Kitchen Table, then getting a little more desperate, I checked The Islandy Thing In The Middle Of The Kitchen You Can Put Things On, and even, without any hope of actually finding it in there, The Fridge.
It was at this point I started wondering if I had actually made said cup of tea or merely imagined it, and what the likelihood was of it having been stolen by gnomes if I had really made it.
I then remembered that today was the blog's eighth birthday. (Here's the first real post. It's number two because number one was a test post.) I thought, I'd better go and post something about that, and wandered back to the sofa I've been mostly inhabiting for two days, and there, beside where I had been sitting, ignored and undrunk, where it had probably sitting for at least an hour, was a cup of very cold camomile tea.
And I thought, eight years ago, when I began carefully charting the progress of American Gods, nervously dipping my toes into the waters of blogging, would I have imagined a future in which, instead of recording the vicissitudes of bringing a book into the world, I would be writing about not-even-interestingly missing cups of cold camomile tea?
And I thought, yup. Sounds about right. Happy Eighth birthday, blog.
(I expected in honour of the birthday month, the Oracle is now a turbanned me, and indeed, it is: http://www.neilgaiman.com/oracle/)
This post was brought to you by a cup of cold camomile tea.