September was something of a slow month (as is usual after my August Fringe sojourn); October is shaping up to be rather busier—we have well over 50% of last month's pageloads and visitors already.
Total Pageloads: 39,310
Individual Visitors: 30,525
I have now redirected my Blogger Atom feed through Feedburner, so the number of people subscribing is shown via the little button in the right hand column. As I publish the full feed, I assume that a good many of those subscribing do not actually "hit" the site, simply reading the posts in their RSS Readers?
There was something of a debate on whether there was a better way to distinguish who has written a particular article; I have not found an automatic one yet (I could make the author's name bigger still, but I think that no one actually reads the author's name anyway). We do all have somewhat different styles—not only of writing but also of syntax—which might send a clue though. Anyway, I shall continue to look into the problem.
I would also like to remind everyone that there is, as such, no particular writing policy at The Kitchen. The original team members were recruited partly because they had opposing views to those of your humble Devil. Although this blog has, in recent times, become the Home For Retired SwearbloggersTM, there are still occasional contributors whose views are not necessarily shared by myself. However, they are good writers and I hope that they do at least stimulate debate.
Anyway, as per usual, thank you to all of the contributors and, of course, to all of the readers of The Kitchen. We shall endeavour to continue the entertainment.
Now, back to the swearing. Or, rather, the gloating: the poor little Greek boy has drawn my attention to the fact that Polly has been rejected by her big Norse warrior...
And meanwhile, spare a thought for Polly - left behind in the great mansion with her mascara-stained handkerchiefs and her spinster's memories, slowly beginning to realise that he never loved her anyway; that he was just doing her for the column inches, every thrust cynically calculated rather than lovingly bestowed, his one good eye on the bedside clock all the while. Then, with a small dying shudder, it is over, and he quickly dresses; "Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit..."
Isn't it beautiful? I do love a bit of Schadenfreude...