When I grow up I want to be... an iconoclast!

ME: Mummy?

MY MUM: Yes, darling.

ME: When I grow up, mummy...

MY MUM: Yes, darling.

ME: What will happen to me, mummy?

MY MUM: Whatever do you mean, darling?

ME: What will happen to me when I'm older?

MY MUM SMILES AT ME. (I'M IMAGINING I'M ABOUT 6 YEARS OLD DURING THIS, BY THE WAY).

MY MUM: Oh, I wouldn't worry about that, darling.

ME: But, I'm frightened, mummy. Petrified in fact. (I HAVE AN EXCELLENT VOCABULARY EVEN BACK THEN)

MY MUM: What of?

ME: The future, mummy. The vast and terrible future. It's so horrid and stifling, mummy. I can't take my mind off it. I'm consumed, mummy. Consumed with doubt and worry. Can't you see the fear in my eyes, mummy?

MY MUM: Oh, Johnny-John-John-John-John, my little yoghurt-pot, there's nothing to worry about at all. Theres nothing to fear. Nothing to fear at all.

ME: But, mummy what will happen to me! I beg you, I emplore you; I order you to tell me!

MY MUM: Well. Exactly the same as happens to all of us. We end up grey and dull, frustrasted and sad. Your dreams are crushed and your potential suffocated. It's very bleak darling, but I assure you it's perfectly natural.

ME: I don't want that to happen to me mummy. I want to be different. I want to be... an iconoclast.

MY MUM: A what?

ME: An iconoclast! I want to smash everything up and start again. Build new things and have new ideas.

MY MUM: Sounds a bit postmodern to me young man. Your father won't like it.

ME: Fuck that shit, mummy!

MY MUM SLAPS ME.

MY MUM: This is heresy, Johnny. Heresy and treason and wrong. Very wrong. Now I want you to go upstairs and start blogging about graphic design or graffiti or brands or adverts you've enjoyed. People have spent a long time establishing these conventions, and you can damn-well go and adhere to them.

I GRUMBLE AND GO TO MY ROOM.

MY MUM: Little shit.

Warm-Up Act

If you're reading this blog so close to its inception, chances are you've been invited/asked/told/ordered/advised to do so. So, thanks for dropping by and sorry there isn't more here to hold your attention. We're still in the embryonic stages I'm afraid, so I'll have to insist on laboratory conditions for the time being: white coats are over by the door, as are your safety goggles. Come, let's make our way over to the microscope for a closer look. (If one of you would be kind enough to get the light)...

Ok. So. I know it doesn't look like much, squirming on the slide like this at X100 magnification. So far, there are no distinguishing features. There's a little picture and a profile and a silly name. It looks, acts, behaves much like any other (yawning, boring) blog. And in some ways I guess it's redundant; eclipsed and out-done by the billion and how-ever-many ad and design blogs, spaces, e-rants and web-wanks already out there. So to be honest, I just couldn't see the point of having one. But as I peer into the eyepiece now and see my blog wriggling, headless, limbless and blind, I'm already beginning to imagine what it might grow into. To be (uncharacteristically) poe-faced for a second, a blog is simply about communication. And as someone who (whenever I can) makes a living out of communication, I figured it'd be good practise to have somewhere to, well, practise; somewhere to experiment and reflect. Likewise, an agency MD once contended with me that copywriting is simply a poor man's creative writing. Hopefully I can disprove that once and for all.

So, my little zygotic bloglet. Let us plant you in Mother Internet's artificial womb and see what happens. I have high hopes for you. And if it all goes tits-up, no matter. I can always destroy the evidence in the incinerator...