LOGGING ON

And as if all that weren’t enough – as if onslaughts from bank managers, outgoing spouses, horse dentists and general computerised tele-hecklers weren’t enough, as if 2009 hadn’t got off to a tempestuous enough start, what with frozen pipes, missing lovers and dying potplants - Bloggiana opened up her inbox this morning and found that the internet dating game was back on the agenda.

Ohmigod, she exclaims out loud, causing the poinsettia to shed the last of its leaves, it’s someone called IluvBigKnockers.

Now it so happens that tonight Jollyosa, Gluggyella, Chumsky and a Spanish friend of Chumsky’s who seems to be known as ¿Que? are coming to dinner. This means that Bloggiana, far from scouring her inbox and playing with her facebook, should be In a Total Panic. She should be peeling things and chopping things and working out exactly how many bottles of PG go into six and exactly how many of her sister’s pheasant breasts she should be defrosting. Teener and I have watched Bloggiana closely over the years and we know well that if she is not In a Total Panic, that means that the dinner A. may be a triumphant success or B. may not be served at all. We also know that if Bloggiana is In a Total Panic, at the very least, the table is likely to be laid before the guests arrive.

Of course, it is a moot point which frame of mind we prefer the Old Girl to embrace. Total Panic can equate to Total Rudeness, followed hotly by Plentiful Swearing and Much Banging of Pans. For my nerves, this is trying. For Teener’s too. For Our Dog’s, the experience amounts to the canine equivalent of a pre-brain-haemorrhage migraine. On the other hand, Total Absence of Panic means that Bloggiana can spend the entire morning moaning over her inbox, batting her virtual eyelashes and generally e-flirting with some wag from cyberspace who imagines that IluvBigKnockers is a reasonable or indeed attractive moniker.

As usual, of course, it does not matter what we would prefer because Bloggiana is her own woman and the internet dating game is intoxicating by anyone’s standards. Ok listen to this, listen to this, my alter ego hails out loud, as I juggle packets of cumin, jars of harissa paste, bottles of rape-seed oil and handfuls of dates (I know, I know). IluvBigKnockers says he thinks I’m fab. No, we trill. Yes, Bloggiana trills back. And not only that, she carries on triumphantly, he wants to meet me. No, we trill again. Yes, Bloggiana trills back.

Teener and I are worried about the hors d’oeuvre. If Bloggiana intended to make something with eggs, it’s too late. They become literally free range when Bloggiana reads out something ILBK has said about her thighs being the texture of chicken nuggets. If she planned a little bon-bouche with roasted vegetables, she needs to crack on because the oven is cooling, there are not many peppers and the day is fast easing its passage towards six o’clock. If there really is a plan afoot for the breasts (the pheasants’), perhaps now would be a good moment to launch said plan? I venture somewhat warily.

But my entreaties fall on deaf ears. ILBK has obviously hit the turbo button on his flattery output. Now it seems Bloggiana is receiving praise not only for the texture of her thighs and the substance of her breasts; but for her piquant sauce, her dressing, the way she handles a sausage. I would like to stuff your ravioli with pumpkin, she reads out. Are your scallops hand-dived? she reads on. Finally, when the old girl’s hot banana brownies receive a mention, I decide it is time to ring our guests and warn them – dinner will be very haphazard indeed.