Almost caught her out yesterday. Had another day off. Went on internet, scoured the news, booked tickets to Spain, checked Iain Dale’s diary. Went in garden to read book in sun. On returning to living room mid-afternoon saw sharp movement from desk area. Indigo at computer looking guilty. Ask what she is up to. Don’t get straight answer. Realise she’s writing a diary - online. A blog.
Indigo is now savvy to my ways and locks her Word documents with bizarre passwords. It’s a terrible shame. If only she’d just go back to trusting me again. Five years ago I read her computer diary and found it so cute. Sweet little lady typing out her thoughts on life about new curtains, fluffy kittens and the whether to paint her toenails red or pink. When Rosie was born the diary shifted to Penelope Leach and Gina Ford – she was so torn, poor girl. I’m sure now (if I could only catch a glance) I’d find reams about shrivelled eggs that would instantly make me switch to something else. Still, my prying nature is getting the better of me and I’m curiously curious about what she’s hiding.
So there she was and I pushed her off the seat and typed in blogger.com and whaddya know. She went beserk, shrieking like a loon, telling me to respect her privacy, covering my eyes with her hands. But I’m much bigger and stronger than her and succeeded in holding her at bay until she switched the PC off.
She’s called it “Dashboard” – maybe it’s her dashboard to happiness. A wheel to steer her life this way or that. Levers to indicate which way she's heading. Buttons to melt away icy moods; a temperature gauge to keep check on hot tempers.
She’s convinced I’ll not find it, but with netwise guys there is no disguise.
