Bitch on the Blog

October 14, 2014

In the chair

Filed under: Atmosphere,Cats,Formalities,Future,Human condition,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 17:12
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And now to something truly unpleasant. I don’t know in which order to put this: Teeth first, dentist second? In the medical profession there are lots of specializations. First you study for years, then – for even more years – you peer up people’s nostrils, up their birth canal, down their throat or – in the case of dentists – holes. Cavities by another name.

Dentists may earn a fortune. They do. But whilst you have your ‘client’ clamped down on your chair you can’t even have a conversation. Believe me I’ve tried – and I am the patient. The other thing – and this is why I won’t have my eyes operated on in December, the make merry season – dentists need a steady hand. Can you imagine a dentist with a tremor, even a slight one?

Some years ago I came across a statistic – on both alcoholism and suicide. Not that the two are related other than that alcoholism is a slow and sneaky way to kill yourself. So the statistic was startling: Journalists, Vets and anyone living in Vienna (that’s Wien/Austria) are more likely to commit suicide than someone doing accounts. Figures, doesn’t it?

Apropos of nothing: I once took our cat to the vet. Locum. I took one look at the guy. Alcoholics have nothing but my sympathy. Even if they are just about to operate on my cat. I made my excuses. Still remember that sad look in that guy’s eyes when I left the surgery, cat not having been touched. He knew I knew. Sorry I can’t save all of mankind from themselves.

How did I get onto teeth? Something is brewing. Usually on a Saturday afternoon. So, I’ll have another three days to go.


PS Other than that – currently not so much rewriting my will as composing a masterpiece – I am undecided whether to spare the Angel funeral costs by donating my precious body to medical research. Rationale tells me one thing. Squeamishness another. I do not wish to be slaughtered. Even if it is for the good of mankind. We’ll see. Considering that once upon a time medical students had to dig up graves to give them fodder …


October 6, 2014

The early hours

Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 03:49

Finding myself in a bind. An uncomfortable one.

All my life I have had premonitions. Usually in my dreams. Can’t say I recommend it – even if the premonition is a good one.

The last few nights my dreams are enough to put me off sleep. They are not nightmares, not at all. Far more disconcerting that the ‘story line’ is matter of fact, indeed plausible, with outcomes I can’t quite knit together on waking.  Strange, isn’t it: When you are a child you are afraid of REAL things like, say, the dark. Now my dreams won’t let me sleep. I sometimes wake like a diver will come up for air at the last minute. Audibly gasping.



October 4, 2014

Five minus four

Filed under: Amusement,Culture,language — bitchontheblog @ 19:46
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Need to wear hats in England notwithstanding, I sometimes wish I were associated with the Queen. Or Charles. Or someone. One could then go round using “one”  without being called pretentious. I like ‘one’. As one does.

Do you remember the film (Dudley Moore) “Ten”? One of those guys who proved that there is more to a man than height. I like men who scramble up hills to get to their woman. Dudley did it so well. I once dissuaded someone to climb a precarious slope to get me some cherries (Switzerland). As alluring as the cherries were ardour needs to be channelled. And sometimes one needs to know how to stem a flow and build a dam (think Holland). One did stay friends. One’s (that’s my) instinct proving right that it pays to not have that marsh mellow.

Marsh mellows – context: Instant Gratification – currently in the news big time.  So the deal being that your four year old self is faced with a choice: You can have ONE marsh mellow now or wait for twenty minutes and have two. It’s awful when you think about it. Particularly, when like me, you don’t even like sweets  So I sit there for twenty minutes hoping someone would take that damn thing out of my sight, only to then be presented with another one. Brilliant, don’t you think? How to get rewarded in life with things ONE does not want.


October 2, 2014


Filed under: Amusement,Food — bitchontheblog @ 12:05
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Sweethearts, yesterday I left an innocent remark on fresh basil. Yes, basil. The herb. Erb for Americans.

Remark on basil, the (h)erb, and you will be called “a British middle class male dickhead”. I am not easily stunned but slightly perplexed at this summoning up of me. Particularly the ‘male’ since in my experience, not that I’d ever call anyone one, dickheads are male. By definition. Mind you, and in all fairness, about a year or two ago I asked the Angel why men call each other …. never mind. Starts with c ends with t. As mysteries go it’s dense undergrowth.

A kind fellow commentator queried that maybe “assumptions” were made about me. Do you think that original fucker/fuckeress had the grace to apologize? Not on your nellie.

Let not any of you be put off your basil. As the Greeks say it’s the king of herbs. With a smell to die for. I don’t even have it in my heart, though wish I did, to will infestation of black fly on his basil.

Blisters on my feet,


September 29, 2014


Filed under: Fashion — bitchontheblog @ 12:33
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Have to do my blog name justice once in a while. Forgot it was all about bitching.

Yes, that dress. Forget it. Clooney may buy you a £460,000 engagement ring, a £22,000 wedding ring (does marriage come cheaper than a promise?)  but, by golly, whilst I think money brings  you contentment it sure can’t buy you taste.

Yes, taste. That most elusive yet so stylish accessory in the armoury of  life. The bride steps out (remember she is not a five year old flower girl) as what can only be described as a tulip on two long pins (her legs). Pathetic. I do hope, as my mother advised when I was three and wore short skirts, that she was wearing matching underpants. Not that it is particularly windy in Venice. And what’s with the flowers down the front? Giambattista Valli (designer of dress), shame on you. You are Italian. You should know how to dress a “tough lawyer”.

To put the icing on the cake Clooney was (allegedly) nervous to cut, his father-in-law declared the wedding as “more than perfect”. Either something is perfect or it isn’t.


September 18, 2014


Filed under: Amusement,Beauty,Health — bitchontheblog @ 18:31

Grow a beard.

If you are a woman – tough luck.


September 15, 2014

See through

Filed under: Atmosphere,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 03:11

To continue where I left off:  Sometimes I wish I were a character in a cartoon. My tastes being simple Tom, Jerry and Roadrunner come to mind. There is a lot of subterfuge, traps and running around. Whilst no good at subterfuge or wishing to set traps I am fast on my feet. Not to keep fit  (this is addressed to Jane Fonda and my American readers) or because I am in a hurry. Not at all. But because I CAN. Ha. Enjoy it whilst it lasts.

No bull. The sensation of a confident and fast stride is heaven. There is freedom in stride. My heart – being so soft it doesn’t have a shell – goes out to many people and their plight. Yet there is something particularly unnerving about the ‘elderly’. Reduced to a walking stick, inching their way forward, maybe round shouldered, bent forward. Breaks my heart to think of them not that long ago (if decades) skipping, tearing around.

Where was I? Cartoons and ghosts of the past and a future to come. My mine gripe, and as punctual as the yearly advent of Christmas,  the days are getting SHORTER. I don’t like it. Not because I don’t like the dark. I do. I am not afraid of it and dark gives you an excuse to light candles. Nevertheless,  as I am looking out of my window now, it’ll be another two hours or so till dawn dawns (as dawn does). Yes, dawn and dusk. If ever there was a melancholic alliteration.


September 9, 2014

Dream on: I have started so I’ll finish

Take it from me, Sweethearts, and I am the expert in falling into holes: Some projects are best never started.

Why? Because to finish them is the devil’s own job. One moment you amble along happily, the next I get a bee in my bonnet. When I, full of the zealot’s zeal, tell the Angel that I am on a “roll” he is happy. Two weeks later he asks me why I appear to be stuck in the jungle. I don’t know. Let’s leave aside that my eyesight is now so shit it’s like wading through fog. Let’s leave aside that I inherited (from my father) that most unfortunate trait of things having to be just so. Ever since part of my life and believes collapsed a few years ago I tell the Angel (correction, I tell myself by way of mantra and to soothe shattered nerves) that before order there is chaos. And it’s true. I have proven it so many times I’d qualify as something … a chaos expert. God. The Universe. Before it all went pear shape in paradise.

Back to “best never start anything”, particularly if you intend to bring it to a satisfactory end. I remember my great grandmother (paternal side). She was tiny even before she shrunk in her old age. To the last she was independent (she lived well into her nineties). She was the wife of a painter (my great grand father). He died early, and her daughter (a portrait paint) lived with her. My great aunt a person full of mystique. When I was young they lived in a mansion, rambling. An Aladin’s Cave for the very young me. Circumstances reduced them to move to a much smaller house. Yes, how to cram a quart into a pint pot. Have been there, done that. So, to my then, say, ten year old self, their abode right on the shore of the sea became even more of an Aladin’s Cave. Treasure (and cobwebs) wherever I nosed about. It was brilliant. It was phantastic. Then my aunt died, some years later my great grandmother. Enter my own father. Oh, my god. I still haven’t forgiven him – and we are talking decades. He ordered a skip. And made order out of chaos as only he can. Unfortunately, at that time I was freshly married and marooned in England, under my husband’s watchful thumb. So I couldn’t intervene. A shocker if ever there was one. Never mind. I am having the same conversation with my father now that, sooner or later, he’ll be on  his way out. I besiege him not to throw away all his files and folders of  “intellectual property”. Forget it. I know exactly what I’ll find: Zilch. He’ll probably scrub and desinfect the place before he takes his last breath.

Where was I: My own shambles. I need people, say,  a secretary, an IT wizzard, my sister-in-law (if ever there was Ms Efficiency no barrels held it’s her), a cold compress, and most of all, and dearest sweetest hearts, count your blessings if you have it: SPACE. Apart from time,  SPACE is the ultimate luxury.  The less space the more organized you need to be, the less forgiving daily life is.

To be continued … If you can find me that is.

No hugs today, only a hiss from underneath the mountain,


September 4, 2014


Filed under: Communication,Despair — bitchontheblog @ 15:14
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Let me throw myself at your collective shoulder. I have declared war on a British paper.

It is a paper – of repute – which appears to specialize in feminism. So far, so boring. Today I left two comments in reply to an inane (not that I used that word) article written by an ardent feminist. You know the sort: The sort you’d pity any son they might have. Remember, I am a woman. So, I, woman, gets moderated at the rate of knots by answering (see above) another woman for critically questioning her take on men. There was not a swearword in sight, just reason. The “moderator” threw me out. Twice.

I am only telling you this because I am frustrated. I am an (investigative)  journalist’s daughter. I come from a hugely argumentative household. Exchange of  opinions, outlook on life, welcomed. And then you get some of the great names of what once was Fleet Street to shut you up? Forget it. From now on I shall follow the Angel’s somewhat tiresome but probably good advice: “Why are you doing this to yourself, Mama? Just leave it.” Yes, indeed. Why engage when one could just keep shtum? Swallow shit, die of colon cancer later.

So very disappointed with mankind. No, forget MANkind. So disappointed with ‘feminists’. Next they’ll burn books (written by men). For fuck’s sake …



Belated PS, this is what I wrote:

“I am a woman. Sorry, [name of columnist], but sometimes one needs to make clear what gender one is. Not least in your column when every slightly questioning response is assumed to be that of a man.

I have clicked many a recommend on previous, and critical, comments – possibly made by men. Who knows. With women commentators jumping down the throats of sa(i)d guys. Let’s just say I am glad that, currently, I am not a man. Which is not the same as saying that I am not ashamed about some aspects of my gender. Can you, so called feminists, just for once shut up and listen. No one is after your hide. Shit happens. Sure. But stop generalizing, stop measuring all men with the same yard stick. It’s so tiresome, so embarrassing (to me as a woman). Just get on with your day job, your life, stop being so resentful whilst expecting YOUR man (poor sausage) to read your mind and know when to put the rubbish out and
generally making himself useful. Be an example to your daughters AND sons by stopping whining. Just DO as you want to be done by.

Don’t widen the gender divide. Close the gap. And don’t lay all the work to do so at men’s thresholds.”

On being ‘deleted’ I sent the following. Naturally deleted too.

“Do not be a woman (as I am) and write a somewhat critical comment in reply to [name of commentator] take on feminism. You will be modified. Nay, moderated. Nay, deleted. So much for “feminism”: Fit the hole or you’ll sink without trace.”

Cloud Nine

Filed under: Pencil and Paper — bitchontheblog @ 00:18
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I know the necessity of sleep and the science behind it.

However,  I don’t like sleep. Let’s forget how much time one may waste. Though am sure that some people waste a lot less time by being asleep. My main grievance with sleep are dreams. My dreams are god damn awful. All night (well, all five hours of it) I live another life whilst I am supposed to rest and regroup for another day full of folly and adventures I’d rather avoid. Can’t a woman have some peace?

I don’t know about you. I go to bed (only because I am tired) and then I lie there. Thinking. About stuff. Two minutes later I am asleep. It’s annoying. I’d rather think than sleep. Then I dream. These days I have taken to talking in my sleep which means I am woken by my own voice. So startled on waking I promptly forget my dream(s). As cost benefit goes it’s an accountant’s nightmare.

Some years ago I bought a Sony voice recorder. I don’t know why. I never record my voice. If I have something to say or on my mind I’ll write it down. Still, and may Sony listen, if a contraption were devised trapping/recording my dreams I’d work overtime.


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