Blonde's Eye View: The travel blogs
Angela Clarke doesn't want to know any more about the flipping dolphin
My heart falls when someone tells me they're going travelling. It's not them leaving, or that I have to stay here and work - though both of those aspects are distressing - it's the prospect of another travel blog.
There are few things as soul destroying as discovering your lifelong friends have the poetic grace and grammatical grasp of a meerkat dancing on a keyboard.
Unless you're the reincarnation of Hemingway (and trust me, you're not) I don't want to read your observations on whale pods off Norway.
The unfortunate side effect of the internet is that everyone thinks they can write.
Dude, I can't manage my bank account, sprint, or open bottles of Champagne (the cork frightens me). We all have our talents, and it's best we stick to them.
I don't send you paintings of the view from my holiday hotel room, because it'd look like a three-year-old vomited poster paint onto paper.
Please don't send me links to indecipherable descriptions of eating a guinea pig in Peru.
No one, not even your mother, wants to get a 5,000 word essay on New Zealand sunsets you wrote after taking mushrooms you bought off a hippy guy on the beach.
Facebook was made for travel updates. Nice, short status posts, accompanied by a photo of you doing thumbs next to a dolphin. Job done. We know you're alive. We know you're tanned. We know a diet of rum and rice has meant you've dropped a dress size. We know about the flipping dolphin.
Don't worry: we hate you. You don't have to try and rub it in with an artlessly worded blog. Sod off and enjoy yourself.
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