2005-05-08 - 12:41 a.m.

First: And still they come. Over 600 hits in the last five days alone, pretty much without exception searching for P@ula R@dcliffe poop info. And this is about THREE WEEKS after the event. People, let it go.

While trawling my stats, something much more distressing came to my attention. There used to be 35 people who had my diary on their favourites list. Now there are 34. I can't tell you what a shock to the system that is. What a snooker cue to the balls of my ego. Someone, I don't know who, has gone to the trouble of taking my name off their list, of withdrawing their patronage, of disowning me. Someone - and I'm just guessing here, but perhaps someone who, improbably, has tired of interminable references to an athlete's waste functions - no longer wishes to be seen to endorse my output.

Of course, the number of people who have you on their favourites list is not important.

It is EVERYTHING.

It's well known that this single statistic is an perfectly accurate index of one's actual popularity with real people in the real world. Oh yes.

As such, I must appeal to the remainder of my loyal readership. Go to your own readers, to your fellow diarists, to diaryland passers-by if need be, and introduce them to the hilarious, tediously petty, grammatically inconsistent and infrequently updated world of mousemilk, in the hope that one of them will find it in their heart to add me to their own favourites list and repair the damage that has been inflicted on my soul.

Maybe don't direct them to the entries where I go on about a woman doing a shit.

Perhaps lead them instead to the one where I went on about pillows, or fireworks, or stars.

Oh, and if this all seems desperately needy, just bear in mind that if my favourites tally should by some chance drop to 33, I'LL JUMP OUT OF THIS WINDOW AND YOU'LL ALL FEEL GUILTY FOREVER.

Peace, out. x

Profilage - Previosity - Nextitude