Bloggin' heck

Has anyone else been having trouble with Blogger? Has anyone else lost the lovely pictures of their followers, only to have them replaced by a big blank space of blankiness? Has anyone else tried to publish a comment on a friend's blog only to find they are requested to 'sign in' when they are already 'signed in' and when they send off the comment they find they are recognised as 'anonymous' and not the person with a cat on her shoulder. Me, anonymous?? Ridiculous!

Not to mention the weird spacey paragraph thing, and the sudden loss of Blogger just as you've written a blog and pressed the 'Publish' button and a red message appears saying that Blogger cannot be contacted and it's also doubtful whether your writing endeavours have even been saved to the edit page?

Cor, it's causing me consternation, this current shoddy Blogger hoo-ha. I've been blogging with them for, what, well over three years, nay, nearly four, and I'm beginning to think that if they don't get their act together and sort out these annoying little annoyances I may have to find another blogging....er...whatever you call it....machine/ company/ doo-da.

Anyway, bloggin' hecks aside, this post was going to be called 'The Eyes of a Child,' but then I realised I wasn't in a particularly sentimental frame of mind and therefore wouldn't be able to do the occasion of taking the grand-daughter out for the day yesterday the appropriate 'Aaaaah factor' justice.

'What about doing one called 'The Eyes of a Chicken,' says Mrs Slocombe.
'Hmmmm...' I say. 'Well, that'll be worms, grass, digging and kneecaps, won't it? Not wholly inspiring, is it?'
'Aaah,' says Mrs S, 'but it all depends on whether you are reporting what you THINK the world looks like through a chicken's eyes, or whether you KNOW what the world looks like through a chicken's eyes.'
'Good point,' I say. 'I apologise for jumping to a hasty, narrow-minded and imperceptive conclusion.'
'Apology accepted,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Are they chocolate-covered caramels you've got there?'
'Yes,' I say. 'Would you like one?'
'I'd like three,' says Mrs Slocombe, and because I feel slightly guilty about assuming what a chicken can see, I let her take the rest of the packet.
'So,' I say, 'tell me - what is it like to see the world through the eyes of a chicken?'
Mrs Slocombe holds up a wing whilst she finishes her first chocolate caramel. She swallows.
'Well, ' she says, 'worms, grass, digging and kneecaps, basically.'
'But that's what I said,' I say, indignant because a) I was right all along and b) that crafty hen has had a good half packet of chocolate caramels from me.
'Ah, yes,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'But the sin was in the assumption.'
'Which was a correct assumption...'
'Even so....'

I sigh. I find I am feeling even less sentimental.
'Where's Mrs Pumphrey?' I say.
'Wimbledon,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'Got a call last night. They're short of ball girls.'
'Isn't she a bit old to be running around on a tennis court?' I say.
'Maybe,' says Mrs Slocombe, ' but she's got the necessary selection of frilly pants and she can double up as a line judge if her legs give out.'
'Well, that's all right then,' I say.

Wimbledon through the eyes of a hen, I think. Watch this space! (Providing there's no more bloggin' heck!)