It seems that my blog posts are popping up a gadzillion times on other people’s blogs, under their posts. I have no idea why this is happening, and have asked Blogger HQ to look into it.
The only thing I think it ‘could’ relate to is that I follow a lot of blogs via the Blog List widget, which refreshes when people publish a new post on their blog. This blog list is in the frame of the template I use for my blog, so appears on every individual post page, and this seems to be what is throwing up tons of misleading ‘backlinks’ on blogs. But I’m not the only person to use the Blog List widget, so have no idea why it is just my blog that is showing up under ‘Links to this post’’. Why me?!
I have checked the settings of this blog and nowhere does it say ‘tick here for creating numerous annoying backlinks’.
As far as I can see, backlinks obviously don’t work the way they should, and I deselect them on here for that reason. They should only show actual links relevant to the post i.e. when someone had read a fab post, gone back to their blog, created a post about that person’s fab post, and published it saying ‘go read this person’s fabulous post!’ They should not be picking up everyone who links / follows a blog.
Is anyone else having this problem?
So until Blogger fixes it, I can only apologise. It is awfully embarrassing, but probably not as embarrassing as yesterday when I only realised in the evening that the zip on my dress was undone, which meant all day I was wandering around work flashing my underwear. Nice.
PS. While waiting for a reply from Blogger, I have decided to delete my Blog List and create a new one in the hope that the problem resolves itself!
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Identity Crisis
M’problem, m’Lord, is that my real first name is easy to shorten. So although I have the longer, formal name; I also have its friendly diminutive as well. Growing up everyone used the latter and the former was only uttered In Times of Dire Peril (e.g. by teachers when I was in trouble).
As I got older, it became completely associated with formality – banks and the like – and I tended to forget I had this longer name. Once, in an early job, someone rang for me using the full name and a colleague asked me if I knew a ‘__’, to which I gave a blank stare until recognition washed back a brain cell. ‘Oh – that’s me!’ I said, sheepishly taking the call.
It’s not like the real name is a fantastical name, like Petronella or Eglantine. It’s a nice, ordinary, name. But somehow I never associated it with me. I picture owners of that name as very confident, power-suit dressed females, who wear court heels every day and tap blackberries (phones. Not fruit. That would be wrong). They don’t wear paint splattered jeans, carry a Tabby cat on their shoulders, get lost in bookshops or trawl London in search of a cupcake. (And admittedly I don’t do all these things at once.)
However, there is a slight problem with the diminutive name. The worst problem at first was that other people with the name tended to sign off with an ‘ie’ and draw a little heart over the ‘i’. I do not sign off with an ‘ie’ or draw little hearts over my ‘i’s. One is not six. (Of course one is not six. One is one. But you get the gist.) The other problem, which grew into the worst problem over time, is that hardly anyone takes that name seriously. My diminutive name gets put on hold, gets lost in call queues, gets fobbed off by secretaries. My power-suit wearing name gets put through to the boss. It’s the same thing with email. Power-suit goes straight to your Inbox. Diminutive gets to play with Viagra in your spam box.
And in-between both these names, is Jayne. Jayne is, fittingly, my middle name, and was created purely to frolic online, un-tethered by power-suits and fwuffy puppies. There are reasons, boring self-esteem-ish reasons why I came here as Jayne, but here she is... I am, rather. And here be my problem.
Who the hell am I?!
Am I power-suit? Am I fwuffy pup? Am I Jayne? None feel quite right, yet somehow, inexplicitly, I am all three.
(Ferst is not my surname either. Oh how complicated I make things for myself!)
As I got older, it became completely associated with formality – banks and the like – and I tended to forget I had this longer name. Once, in an early job, someone rang for me using the full name and a colleague asked me if I knew a ‘__’, to which I gave a blank stare until recognition washed back a brain cell. ‘Oh – that’s me!’ I said, sheepishly taking the call.
It’s not like the real name is a fantastical name, like Petronella or Eglantine. It’s a nice, ordinary, name. But somehow I never associated it with me. I picture owners of that name as very confident, power-suit dressed females, who wear court heels every day and tap blackberries (phones. Not fruit. That would be wrong). They don’t wear paint splattered jeans, carry a Tabby cat on their shoulders, get lost in bookshops or trawl London in search of a cupcake. (And admittedly I don’t do all these things at once.)
However, there is a slight problem with the diminutive name. The worst problem at first was that other people with the name tended to sign off with an ‘ie’ and draw a little heart over the ‘i’. I do not sign off with an ‘ie’ or draw little hearts over my ‘i’s. One is not six. (Of course one is not six. One is one. But you get the gist.) The other problem, which grew into the worst problem over time, is that hardly anyone takes that name seriously. My diminutive name gets put on hold, gets lost in call queues, gets fobbed off by secretaries. My power-suit wearing name gets put through to the boss. It’s the same thing with email. Power-suit goes straight to your Inbox. Diminutive gets to play with Viagra in your spam box.
And in-between both these names, is Jayne. Jayne is, fittingly, my middle name, and was created purely to frolic online, un-tethered by power-suits and fwuffy puppies. There are reasons, boring self-esteem-ish reasons why I came here as Jayne, but here she is... I am, rather. And here be my problem.
Who the hell am I?!
Am I power-suit? Am I fwuffy pup? Am I Jayne? None feel quite right, yet somehow, inexplicitly, I am all three.
(Ferst is not my surname either. Oh how complicated I make things for myself!)
Sunday, 24 July 2011
Isle of Wight
Oh I do like to be beside the seaside
Oh I do like to be beside the sea
I do like to stroll upon the cliffs and take pictures of things
And then play silly machines until I win, win, win
So let me be beside the sepia seaside
I’ll be beside myself with glee!
Oh I do like to be beside the sea
I do like to stroll upon the cliffs and take pictures of things
And then play silly machines until I win, win, win
So let me be beside the sepia seaside
I’ll be beside myself with glee!
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
Limbo land
Thank you for bearing with me over the last month of sporadic blogging (apart from the Two Lost Followers. Oh dear. *waves*). I now have a computer that doesn’t crash, although I fear the bad old computer has led me into nasty habits, such as:
You can see there’s a pattern emerging here and it’s not congruent with writing (straight onto the computer, at any rate). It also doesn’t help that I’m living in the land of limbo.
For various reasons, this and that, la-la-la, limbo land has been a nice place for me to be. Och (she says, reverting inexplicitly to Scottish), it’s hard to explain. I’d have to sit you down with a glass of wine and flail my hands for a while. But the easiest explanation is that nothing changes (very much) in limbo land and there can be times in life when this feels attractive. The sun rises; the rain falls. The train is early; the train is late. You go to work; you come home. It is a place to regroup energy, a safe haven, a retreat. But stay too long and that energy will sap, the haven will suffocate and the retreat will pull up its mossy time-heavy drawbridge and dim the exit signs.
I need to get out of limbo land. It’s time for bold decisions – decisions about where to live, what to do. Ever read those Choose Your Own Adventure books? The ones where page 16 leads to happy-ever-after and page 20 leads to being eaten by a Minotaur? That is exactly what I need to do. (But not the Minotaur bit. I’m done with Minotaurs.) I need to start choosing my own adventure again.
- Turning computer on and wandering off to do something else while it slowly rumbles into life
- Watching computer freeze on the Internet/Word/Everything and wandering off to do something else
- Looking at computer, sighing, and wandering off to do something else
You can see there’s a pattern emerging here and it’s not congruent with writing (straight onto the computer, at any rate). It also doesn’t help that I’m living in the land of limbo.
For various reasons, this and that, la-la-la, limbo land has been a nice place for me to be. Och (she says, reverting inexplicitly to Scottish), it’s hard to explain. I’d have to sit you down with a glass of wine and flail my hands for a while. But the easiest explanation is that nothing changes (very much) in limbo land and there can be times in life when this feels attractive. The sun rises; the rain falls. The train is early; the train is late. You go to work; you come home. It is a place to regroup energy, a safe haven, a retreat. But stay too long and that energy will sap, the haven will suffocate and the retreat will pull up its mossy time-heavy drawbridge and dim the exit signs.
I need to get out of limbo land. It’s time for bold decisions – decisions about where to live, what to do. Ever read those Choose Your Own Adventure books? The ones where page 16 leads to happy-ever-after and page 20 leads to being eaten by a Minotaur? That is exactly what I need to do. (But not the Minotaur bit. I’m done with Minotaurs.) I need to start choosing my own adventure again.
Monday, 4 July 2011
Automated Service
Hello readers of Jayne’s blog. Jayne would like to apologise for her absence, which she blames on a spongy home computer. Usual fixes of defragging, masking tape, a swift kick, imploring to the sky, and The Slow Silent Wail of Despair are no longer working. All the home PC (computer, not policeman) can do at the moment is open Word, and occasionally it unleashes Jayne on Twitter. Sometimes she can open other websites, and when that happens her joy is unconfined, until Blogger crashes and joy is once again locked away in a deep dark box.
However, there is a small glimmer of shining hope on the horizon, and this is called Payday. Payday (sing it like a gospel choir - Oh Glorious Day!) will mean funds for a new computer, and then this Giant Heap of Sticklebricks Jayne types upon can be laid to rest. It would work so much better as an ornament. Or perhaps a cat perch.
Until then, you may see Jayne having a Tweet. Her twitter ID is here – do say hello and sympathise on Computer Woe. (Kraftwerk had it all wrong – it’s not Love at all.)
From, Jayne’s Blog.
This automated service comes to you direct from Jayne’s Work Computer while Jayne is studiously and diligently working very, very hard.
However, there is a small glimmer of shining hope on the horizon, and this is called Payday. Payday (sing it like a gospel choir - Oh Glorious Day!) will mean funds for a new computer, and then this Giant Heap of Sticklebricks Jayne types upon can be laid to rest. It would work so much better as an ornament. Or perhaps a cat perch.
Until then, you may see Jayne having a Tweet. Her twitter ID is here – do say hello and sympathise on Computer Woe. (Kraftwerk had it all wrong – it’s not Love at all.)
From, Jayne’s Blog.
This automated service comes to you direct from Jayne’s Work Computer while Jayne is studiously and diligently working very, very hard.
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