Blinks Twice, Looks Around Suspiciously

When returning to consciousness, there are a few precious seconds in which the brain takes stock of the situation. While the eyes are still closed the mind is trying to make out where the body is and what's happening around it, checking to see that it's still getting the signals from the toes and other extremities, and looking for clues from the ears:
"Hold still, mate, I've got you" is good.
"Geez honey--you were amazing, and my sisters each left a big wet kiss for you" is better.
"You two hold his arms" is no good at all.

In this case, the Metroblog has undergone a sort of body swap. That's right. For all my bitching about being forced to migrate to Der Neue Blogger (Schnell, schnell, Bloggischer Schwein!) , I've done it. This blog is now on Blogger II, as you can obviously tell, right?

My reasons for doing this are multiple, but the main ones were:
"Metroblog" on WordPress has been squatted. I wouldn't mind if it was actually in use, but the site as constructed seems to serve no purpose other than to annoy yours truly. The user name "Metro" has also been taken, which matters not so much, but just makes things more difficult. There may be a way around it, and I'm looking into an idea or two.

On exploring WordPress, I found I "kind-of" liked it. Yet the alien feeling never quite wore off. In the end I decided that I'm more comfortable in the Blogger environment for now. I'm going to build an anonymous little nothing blog somewhere on WP and play with it to see if I start to enjoy it more.

At the time I moved the blog I had over 600 posts. They seem to have arrived here all right. I'm still looking around, in particular to see whether Blogger finally has some way of tracking my stats. And I have a WordPress blog on standby, just in case. But so far I cannot say I have any complaints, except for being pried from my former comfortable spot.

Quote of the day. From P.G. Wodehouse:

"Will you inform her that I called? The name is Psmith. P-smith."
"Peasmith, sir?"
"No, no. P-s-m-I-t-h. I should explain to you that I started life without the initial letter, and that my father always clung ruggedly to plain old Smith. But it seemed to me that there were so many Smiths in the world that a little variety might well be introduced. Smythe I look on as a cowardly evasion, nor do I approve of the too prevalent custom of tacking another name on in front by means of a hyphen. So I decided to adopt the Psmith. The p, I should add for your guidance, is silent, as in phthisis, psychic, and ptarmigan. You follow me?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"You don’t think," he said anxiously, "that I did wrong in pursuing this course?"
"N-no, sir."