Once upon a time (because all the very best tales begin that way) there was a bloke who lived in London. He lived a fairly simple, content life circulating between home, office and pub, with the occasional bout of inflatable fish waving & singing at the antics of several blokes chasing a small ball around a rectangular grass patch. (In Ye Olde Englande this past time is called Foot Ball which mostly consists of fellas falling over, TVs being shouted at and the occasional private tear.)
Must. Get. Photo. Of. Chandelier.
Things changed when this lad decided to chat up a foreign bar wench who served ‘one of the best pints in town’ (he never realised that she quietly grimaced at the hooligan antics of him and his friends.) One thing led to another which led to Wedding bells and a small Tabby cat invisibly meowing pitifully at him from a Harry-Potter style hall-cupboard at the pre-dawn hour of 4am.
Life was fairly normal up to this point, they settled into a work/home/feed cat lifestyle with the occasional holiday that was cozy and slightly blurred at the edges. Until (unfortunately) one day his Kiwi discovered the ability to put words and photos on the World Wide Web in a creative manner that amused her. Before he knew it (and long before the term ‘Instagram husband’ was invented) he was cast aside for the bright lights and endless gifs of the internet. Spending hours, occasionally days in thought, throwing covers aside at bedtime to hastily type errant sentences, photographing anything that stood still for longer than 5 seconds and arranging crayons in artistic shapes (true story) his wife was now a heart divided.
“Can I eat NOW? Too late…”
She exalted in charging around the world on quests to discover everything, proving fairytales about ancient cultures, spearing new flavours and racing up umpteen hills to capture the dying rays of multi-hued sunsets. This curse, now referred to IRL as #bloglife (because everything is now hashtagged – the sugar, his socks, emotions, the garden, LOL) settled slowly but surely. The symptoms of #travelbloggerproblems manifested in sunburns, hours in the same house without talking just share videos over instant messaging, and promises of a beer ‘at the end of the tour’ as they shuffled through yet another old manor house.
There would never again be another hot meal (well, at least until he life hacked it and began to take his own lovely images), his sleepy face would appear in photos all over the web and he would begin to develop his own mini-obsession for capturing the perfect photographic angle. His days of laddishly slaying dragons were over, but flatlaying tables has only just begun.
Between the piercing shrill of referees whistles, peace has descended upon the kingdom bar for the tap-tap-tap of a faded keyboard and the occasional Kiwi-ish tones of “pleeeeeeeeeeeeease can you grammar check my post before I publish it” ringing through the sleepy abode as he types his very own posts about life with his foreigner and how he dislikes his ‘Mr Kiwi’ handle…