The atmosphere was tense, crackling with expectation and sexual electricity as we made our way across the hotel lobby.
A blog convention with a difference, and not just in the smouldering intensity of the attendees' long lashed limpid eyes. No, this room, this gilt edged bejewelled velveteen palace was to hold a select panel for the next few hours.
The anticipation was already unnerving us all, and introductions proved somewhat hurried and flirtatious. All eyed and sized and appreciated the intellectual and physical prowess on display. This was no mere blog meet. This was to be a Convention on the Future of Vanessa's Blog.

First, the attendees: Harv, a six foot darkly intense young executive of a mid European marketing firm, known for his artistic dilletantism, and his culinary skill. Debonairely dressed from head to toe in discreet armani, travelling businessman Harv felt very much at home in the expensive hotel surrounding. Harv was first to arrive, and, noticing the youthful yet stooped, serious professorial figure entering after him, Harv registered an interest with a flash of his mahogany eyes, and was quick to order drinks for the party gradually gathering. His smoothly delivered choice of mojito cocktails all round was approved of by all, save he of the defiantly radical tastes, cutting a pose reminsicent of early Kerouac as he slouched against an ottoman, scuffing it carelessly against his artfully distressed footwear, Vic.
Vic had travelled down from his academic pursuits in the frozen wastes of the north, where he had tensely allowed his underlings to pursue the guarded secrets of the universe, of extreme physics. His intelligence and learning shone through his blue-gray hooded eyes, and his hunched, Beat poet manner, as he crouched edgily over a cigarette. Vic's attention wavered from his pursuit of a more manly aperitif as six foot swedish intellectual and artiste Rose Madder made her accustomed dramatic entrance to the lobby. Rose Madder's faded dark clothing lent her a boho chic, while her long sinuous blonde limbs were given vitality by a sharpness of gesture, a directness that revealed itself as she sat, brusquely greeting first the sophisticate, Harv, then the saturnine Vic, and crossed her legs beneath her.
Rose Madder's entrance was quickly and loudly followed by a bright energetic explosion of a woman, bursting into the lobby in a hurricane of wide full lipped smiles, breathless apologies, as she leant in close to allow her widely set and strikingly brilliant aquamarine eyes to make her introduction for her. This was fmc, and her sudden, insistent familiarity broke the tension briefly. She busied herself darting about the group, between long folded legs, and insouciantly crossed ankles with an ease and near arrogance - if arrogance can be drawn as a form of perfection, a perfect confidence that invites a trust - which instantly set the group at ease. An illusory trust, perhaps, as she reveals in her perceptible distaste for th mojitos the keen eye and I turned to the little band of artists, radicals and the sharp tongue of the engineer.
It was time for me to reveal myself, and establish why we were gathered. I turned to the company from the lobby desk where I sat, calling gently to the company of five to focus their assembled incisive wit upon the gleaming flat screen inlaid into the low carrera marble occasional table nestled tastefully by fmc's perfectly contoured knee.
Five, you say? Yes, five. The deep, dark chesterfield recliner creaked steadily about to face us and the strong silent presence it contained (which had hitherto gone unnoticed as we fluttered and jabbered our suburban introductions) made himself known with an imperceptible truculent nod from his craggy manly features, cast into shadow by his sinewy taut frame. Looby was among us.
Looby's deep set, inscrutably masculine visage eyed the two other men warily. Harv's elegantly manicured hands, his dashing long legs were noted, as was the contrast of Vic's rugged furrowed complexity, his rough hewn yet simple clothing belied by the affectedness of the Gitanes in his hand.

A clicking sound on the onyx tiled floor of the PomPom Hotel Lobby distracted Vic from his nicotine crutch, as a latecomer arrived; jatb, renowned pentathlete, tapped in her choos across the icily reflective inlaid stone flags. Wordlessly she took a seat on the arm of Looby's chair, the gold flecks in her clear, deep indigo eyes acknowledging us with the briefest of nods.
Rose Madder's attention snapped towards the screen, eager to interrogate the mystery placed before us. fmc paused from her effusive, intensely physical greetings, and Looby restrained the impulse to suck meditatively on his cuban cigar, as Harv's discreet cough directed all attention on me.

Vanessa: Do you read my blog at all? A lot? A little? You just skim? Why/not? Does my blog embarrass you?

Looby: Every entry, entirely.
Vic: I skim unless I hit across a post that grips me, like when you get livejournal to say your cat got run over, I almost prepared another "my rabbit has died" reply :-/ I'm not embarrassed by it though, it's only a blog.
Rose Madder: I read it a little.
jatb: I read almost every entry because I enjoy reading it. It doesn't embarrass me at all.
Looby: 1) Curiosity to see how you're doing, 2) for the pleasure I derive from reading, because you write well (oops, sorry - that was a bit supportive, wasn't it :) 3) curiosity at how someone else negotiates the privacy/revelation balance. I look to you and other bloggers for some examples about how to do this and 4) to see who'll be the first amongst us to find a point for the bloody thing. Oh yeah, and to click randomly on your blogroll to find interesting blogs.
fmc: I don?t read it much ? in fact, today is the first time that I have successfully managed to get onto the site (last time I looked was admittedly around 6 months ago because you threatened me with publishing my supersonic squeals). I skimmed a little. There were a lot of words ? now don?t laugh ? if you are a wordy person and have time to sit at home, on your own computer and read a blog in the same way as you would read a letter or a book then you will be fine. If however you are at the other end of the spectrum ? only use the web for speed dialing for flights, get bored if a connection is made in less than a millisecond, and get interrupted by your boyfriend every time you try and read a book, and keep finding washing and ironing and lawn cutting and STUFF to do instead - then reading reams and reams of pages about someone elses life, whilst sitting in the office ? is a bit unlikely. No your blog doesn?t embarrass me ? should it? Should I be embarrassed that my friend pours her heart out on the page or should I be worried about what she says about me?
Harv: Don't read the blog because I keep forgetting to. What's the web address again?

to be continued . . .