Is blogging a narcissistic indulgence?

If ever you find yourself suffering from an unexplained malady, the golden rule is don’t Google your symptoms. Because one thing is for certain: whatever you have, it’s bound to be terminal. According to the internet, anyway.

No, I haven’t been looking up strange medical curiosities – I am perfectly fit and healthy, thanks for asking – but having re-launched myself into the blogisphere, I have been trawling the web for examples of great writing. And it’s a scary place. Who knew there were such, witty, eloquent and down-right smart people out there typing their thoughts with such skill? I don’t need Dr Google to tell me that I have a severe case of performance anxiety!

I don’t, you see, have any deeply philosophical or astutely political observations to offer the world. I regularly buy a Sunday paper – in what can only be described as an intellectual panic attack, I bought two this past Sunday  – but I must confess, most of the time I just look at the pictures and rummage around for the lifestyle supplement. I may put on a guise of intelligence but please do not ask me to comment on Iraq, the Euro economy, or the rise of China because I’m afraid I will only disappoint you. Don’t ask me either for my views on religion, the welfare system, third world aid or the like because while I do hold some views, I am so conflict averse that I am unlikely to be able to put pen to paper – or finger to keyboard, as it were – with sufficient conviction to encourage debate. The untimely death of Amy Winehouse, now there’s a piece of recent news I can comment on, but does that really count? (Terrible waste of an immense talent, by the way)

Fine, you might say, but there’s more to life than the news, so just write about things you are passionate about. Write about theatre, vintage fashion, food, words – whatever. Good advice, to be sure, but quite frankly, I don’t have one or two big stand-out passions. I like the theatre, but I don’t go often enough; I love food, but I’m no gastronome; and for someone who claims to favour vintage, my wardrobe is surprisingly devoid of such class. I do, however, like a good word – spelunking is my favourite word, in case you were wondering – and I suspect you will be ‘treated’ to a blog post about words at some point. (Brace yourselves.)

So you see when all is said and done, I’m pretty boring really. Why on earth, then, would anyone choose to read my blog? Is blogging purely a narcissistic indulgence or does the equality of publication afforded by the web provide the world with ramblings that can make for quality reading – even if only between games of Angry Birds?

Answers on a postcard.