A-a-a-nd we are back. As any of you to have added this site to the list of webpages you keep an eye on, I am horribly bad at this “updating regularly, or even at all” thing. In fact, notorious for it (ask my LJ-friends, though they may not remember I exist). Truth is, before I start doing something regularly, I have to force it into my lifestyle; and, since I am very conservative in my outlook on life, this can be quite a difficult thing. Still, not wishing to disappoint my occasional reader(s), I will do my best to get to grips with the following novel idea: I actually should update this blog. I should probably make it a habit of mine.

Which brings me to today’s topic: habits, and associated pleasures. Mind you, I am not talking about Drugs, nor even Tobacco (in fact, my parents smoke so much I wouldn’t need to even if I wanted). But there is a habit I wanted to acquire for a long time: to become some place’s regular visitor. I am not talking about places like McDonald’s, of course. No, what I’ve always wanted was to find some place where all the waiters would know me, my tastes and my peculiar ways. Where they would get me the same thing every time I come in in the morning, and raise their eyebrows quizzically when I’m in the mood for something different. This, too, has its root in my conservatism, but also in my bookish upbringing – because what can be more of a literary cliche than having a cup of coffee at the same place every day? Curiously, I have always been close to fulfilling this dream. I like chatting to waiters, who I firmly believe are people too, and have a tough job to do as well; and waiters tend to remember me when I return. What I am horrible at, though, is actually returning to that place I liked so much.

It can be for different reasons. Often, it is because the place I like so much is in a location different to any of the variety of towns I live in. There was this wonderful coffee-house in Prague, for example. Or may be it is in the same town, but is quite far from my usual routes (such places tend to be found during long walks, because it’s hard to drag me into a new place unless my feet are tired).

Now, however, I seem to have found just such a place. It has everything: a convenient location, books to read lining the walls, good food, reasonable prices and free Internet. The owner knows me by now and we shake hands and chat whenever we see each other; I spend lots of time there (partly because there is no-where else to go). Today, however, they have no Internet, which I need for work, so I relocated to a Starbucks-like coffee house, where coffee is more expensive and far less drinkable. Oh well… at least the Internet here works.

Oh… and I’ll get that Fido photo up soon.

A new weblog is in many cases a sad little thing – addressing the empty auditorium bereft of listeners, hoping some kind passer-by will hear its whisper. Starting a blog requires an effort, an enforcement of will: not because forcing oneself to write is hard (people will do anything to delay doing actual work), but because there are few things more embarrassing than to say something and not be heard. Thus, blogs grow on readers; indeed, the quantity of readers is the primary assessment criteria, and most weblogs follow the rule: “The more, the merrier”. Even more embarrassing is an exclusive “family” blog, whose three readers are mother, brother and the family dog (Hey Fido, have you seen those photos of yourself?). But one must always hope for the best, and the dream of a blogger is to attract a bunch of intelligent, sophisticated, admiring readers, who would be tripping over their feet rushing to comment: First post!!

This little blog will most likely go unnoticed on the high seas of the Internet; but here’s to the newborn, and to its future readers, however few they may be.