Have you heard of Nella Last and the Mass Observation project? The project recruited 500 volunteers (observers) to keep diaries recording daily life in Britain during the Second World War but actually ran until the mid 60s. Nella’s first entry was headed Housewife, 49, which was her age at the time. You might remember a TV version starring the late Victoria Wood from about ten years ago.
Back in 2009 I began to dip my toe in to blogging. We all chatted away like the internet was our living room. We looked through each other’s book shelves, saw what everyone else was having for tea. We exchanged knitting patterns and ideas for journalling. I remember my first blogging friend. I think she lived locally and we used to talk about our lives, our attempts at growing vegetables, what we were reading. We were going to meet up but it never happened. I don’t know what she is up to now but my interactions with people (I refuse to call it content) from that period contain a wistfulness for something more, I don’t think our lives felt that big. Maybe that’s why we were writing. The intimacy of social media was still novel. I had yet to experience the jealousy that comes when you catch a glimpse of a stranger’s life and immediately covet their Farrow and Balled dining room, Doc Marten boots or Kilim rug. Blogging was for connection not for the highlight reel. The goal was friendship, not to sell a lifestyle.
Now imagine if you fell asleep in 2009 and woke up today. A global pandemic, a massive civil rights movement, the resurgence of feminism and the climate crisis. TikTok for God’s sake. Seismic shifts in the world at large and the way we interact with each other. No one is wearing low rise jeans anymore and your flip phone is so obsolete it may as well be whittled from a piece of bog oak.
Everything feels big now doesn’t it?
I miss talking about small things. I have dozens of saved posts that I’ve never hit publish on. When I meander on to my various platforms, I feel like I should stand at a mic and address my followers on what I think about today’s news as if I have influence. As if i’m not preaching to the converted in the majority of cases. And I don’t want to think of them as platforms, they are my sofas, my tables laid with nibbles, wine and candles. A cake if I’ve managed to get to the supermarket.
I keep thinking that if I just talk about art or creativity, align my focus so intensely with my professional self, it will be easier. But that feels narrow and constricting. Really I just want to be Nella Last, sending pencil written missives out into the ether, sometimes downhearted, sometimes joyous, involved in my community and getting on with life. Last had no idea of the impact her diaries would have or that they would offer a valuable glimpse in to women’s lives at a time of great social and economic change. Her story unfolded quietly against a backdrop of air raids and rationing, ours are unfolding in face masks and latex gloves whilst we wrestle our personal narratives into consumable brands. I’m tired of wrestling so i’m going to stop. Make yourselves comfy, i’ll put the kettle on.