Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Please
I have a grave problem. You see, Mr. Holmes, I have a report card that hits my inbox once a week, bearing facts I cannot comprehend. First it says I have fifty visitors a week. Then it says hundred. Now it says I'm averaging fifty hits a day. Where are these people coming from? More importantly I want you to find out why they aren't commenting.
Now I know you're first thought is to accuse me of obsessively checking my blog for comments. No, I outlawed that habit. In fact it wouldn't matter if I hadn't. I made sure my counter ignores my visits, I even gave it my IP address.
Are these just random Google people? I really didn't think my blog could turn up on that many searches. My friends alone have a hard enough time remembering how to spell "cafe de flores". My mother, in fact, still makes me e-mail her my blog address everytime she wants to read my posts.
Am I famous? I can see you're smirking already. I don't write political or controversial stuff. I'm not even humorous enough to be counted a regular humour column.
What then, you might understand, I wonder. Am I a curiosity? This could bear thought, but only if the general lay people are so short on life they find it comforting to snicker over the misfortunes of a toilet-paper-sample-collecting fruitcake.
No, there must be something more. I'm sure of it. The FBI must be tailing me, drenched in belief I must be an undercover Russian spy. Or it's MI6. Mr. Bean has been into their records again and mistakenly mixed my files up with those of a notorious French bombing agent.
Me? Throwing bombs from the middle of nowhere? I tell you, sir, it's preposterous. I can't even throw a cricket ball straight.
No? You think I'm a paranoid toilet-paper-sample-colleting fruitcake? Ok, I admit it...the impulsive blog checking goblins from the INGOC support group must have targeted my blog again. Dang it. I would have liked to have been famous--or a Russian agent.
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