Bitch on the Blog

April 23, 2014

Dark

Filed under: Atmosphere,Errors,Ethics — bitchontheblog @ 18:11
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You know how they say inventions come about when something is missing in your life? Ask Dyson. He clearly detests vacuum cleaner bags. Or Edison. Edison reminds me of my father: Never ever give up. Eventually you’ll see the light.

What I’d like to know is what is missing in MY life. Whatever it is I’ll invent it. I’ll find an engineer to put it into practice. I have already found an investor. A photographer (the Angel). I’ll do my own prose, read the small print, wipe my brow and clean the toilet after hours. That’s the easy part.

The hard part: The idea. I have so many. Yet none. It’s why I hate choice: Be confronted with too much and leave with nothing.

I once invested an awful lot of money on someone else’s very good idea/invention. Don’t cry for me. It was well worth it. Not materially. As the loss adjuster would say: It was money down the drain. Problem was, and it taught me a ‘valuable’ lesson, I didn’t understand the product. Not for the life of me. Though I wanted to. Never mind. Once you find yourself on a steamer without a port keep steaming. Full fog ahead.

U

April 22, 2014

Laughing as I write

Filed under: Amusement — bitchontheblog @ 03:55
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Sweethearts,

I have just had the pleasure of the most hilarious half hour spent reading (and responding)  to some truly awful comments, opinions, atrocious grammar and general rubbish.

If these people knew how much pleasure they give me they’d hang me from the next tree.

U

April 21, 2014

Principle

Filed under: Friends — bitchontheblog @ 01:14
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There are immutable laws in life. Like … I don’t know. Lots. Don’t pin me down to one. I suffer enough flooding as it is.

Since – judging by the last paragraph – my keyboard is stuck on the letter L let’s say: Loyalty.

Loyalty – in my book – is one of the cardinal virtues. Obviously not to the point of lawlessness. But, say, to a friend. Sick and sin. It’s what I liked about Sundance Kid and Paul Newman. You are in it. You’ll be shot. Together.

Yes, friendship. Forged in so many ways. In unlikely ways. There are friendships which remind me of taking a horse to the blacksmith. Not for nothing is the horseshoe a symbol of good luck.

U

April 20, 2014

Stars in my eyes

Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 13:52
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I don’t like newspapers’ horror scopes. Not least because they typecast you as to which month you fall between the 21st one month and the 22nd next one. Mercury may be rising. Particularly when you have a fever. Leave me alone. I don’t want to know that everything will be not so good on Monday but the end of the week I’ll be pleasantly surprised.

A friend of mine, till she wasn’t any longer, incidentally same first name, used to say: “Better rich and healthy than poor and sick.” My sentiment entirely. How she dug that piece of wisdom I never asked. She once put me into a most delicate position. And that was before I had read that week’s horror scope. Not all does come out in the wash.

Having said that I believe in the first house. Dear dog in heaven. Aren’t I just so my first house. Only better. You’ll only know your first house if you know the exact minute you were born. My mother swears that all her children were born at whatever hour plus  exactly thirty minutes. What? On the dot? They don’t do midwifery like that any longer. Even when the cat had her three kittens the Angel (age eight or so) recorded each arrival to the second. I am sure he’ll make a good father one day.  I fled the room. One of a few things I am not good at – and it’s entirely selfish – is seeing others in agony. Not least a cat. Or myself. Coward. It’s why I like anaethetics: One moment you are terrified you’ll never wake up again, the next you are awake. The wonder of it.

You can tell, can’t you: This is one hell of a wash out of an Easter Sunday. Grey, fine drizzle.

So, as of this morning

If you are a Libra: “You are good at smoothing out life’s wrinkles.” Which I can confirm. One cannot have enough Libras in one’s life. Measured, balanced.

Scorpios may rest assured that they have “fared worse”. As comforts go it’s uncomfortable.

I wouldn’t wish to be a Gemini this week.

Sagittarius being pronounced as “quick thinking and good natured”. Not sure about that. Jupiter, underhand Pluto and Uranus hot on your heel. Watch it.

I like the horror scope’s advice to Pisces: “Do nothing.”

Aries, Aquarius, Leo best stay in bed. Don’t fall out. Or get out on the wrong side of it.

Virgo deemed a soft touch.

Cancer. A most unfortunate name. Still, they do move sideways.

If I were Taurus I’d emigrate. To never return.

U

 

April 19, 2014

Teeth

Filed under: Architecture — bitchontheblog @ 13:22
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Shall there ever be an end to my beauty? One of my upper incisors has cracked. Yes, I know my dentist told me that I clearly grind my teeth at night. Still, there are boundaries. Bit of respect won’t go amiss. First you clean them then they grind. Better them than me.

Good job I am not American. I wouldn’t pass muster. Though am better than your average English.

My sister-in-law and her grandmother have teeth like a horse. Or an American with help. Perfect. Not a filling in their lives. I have gold from when I was still in the motherland. British dentists in awe of it. Yeah, well. Whatever. Sometimes it’s better to invest long term than taking a short cut.

Since I like to shine light on things how they are my magnifying mirror has confirmed the worst. Next my gums will bleed.

Please do  look forward to many more life enhancing shots where this one is coming from

U

April 18, 2014

Comment ca va?

Filed under: Travel — bitchontheblog @ 21:58

I knew this before embarking on the adventure of a lifetime, namely  motherhood: You will worry, your hair will stand on end most unbecomingly so, and generally be a mess. Not, of course, that one can let on about it. Most certainly not to the apple of your eye.

Today and tomorrow the Angel is in France. Which is not as frightening as it sounds. Yesterday we revived his dormant French which gave both of us moments of hilarity (for different reasons). I promised him that if he comes back having gone to a Pizzeria (in Cherbourg) I shall disown him. Explained the difference between ‘de jour’ and ‘a la carte’, fish and chicken, viande, Madame et Monsieur. He laughed at me. “How will I ever survive without you, Mama?” He said. I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I won’t know – that’s the best bit.

Yeah, well, he is a fine one to laugh. Can’t remember now, must have been about two summers ago, when I got a call in the middle of the night. Dear dog in heaven. He was stranded in the middle of nowhere (in France)  along some god forsaken motorway- seriously pissed off with life and in need of directions. His mobile’s battery nearly dead. Those are the moments when you know that giving birth was nothing. Told him to put the phone down. Got map out. Phoned him back. Briefly. Take exit … Good night. Wiped my brow. Unbeknown to him. You must never ever worry your kid with your worry. It’s a no no. Die a thousand deaths if you must but don’t let on. As my mother says: “Little children little worries, grown up children big worries.” I’d package it slightly differently, but do know what she means.  Which reminds me: How does one sleep at night if you have more than your one and only?

Full of remorse as to my poor parents,

U

Needs tweaking

Filed under: Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 07:05
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I won’t quote Paul Newman. It’s old hat and he is dead. But age, even when old, is not for ninnies.

As some of you know, and not that long ago, I managed to break my arms several times in a row. Back to back. Once both of them. At the same time. Which left me not only penniless but with a lot of time. Pinned to the sofa. Oh, did my sofa and I bond. Revisiting all those Bette Davies films. Bouncer, that eight kilo cat of a softie, deliriously happy to have finally nailed me, purring away on top of me. Love does kill you. No doubt about it. Love of sunshine did kill him. I never knew that a cat could get skin cancer. He did. By the time he died in my arm (at the vet – they charge you £80 for euthanasia) he was less than half his original weight.

Where were we? Breakage. I am pretty fit. If pushed I’d outrun my mother. And she is 81. But, by golly, once upon a time I was fitter. My arms are shite. They couldn’t reset the left wrist properly, the right trying to be loyal to its owner. I can’t believe it: You go through life, say, half a century and suddenly your body reminds you that you are actually alive. Brill. iant.

I have said it before, and I never mind repeating myself: I shall be so crap at ageing I am already ashamed of myself. Even taking it on my chin is no comfort. My only comfort running to the mirror to confirm that I have the neck of a twenty year old. No bull. So no need yet to grow a beard like some people I could name but won’t.

Can’t wait for the day I lose a tooth.

Other than that: Today, many years ago, Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross.

U

April 17, 2014

Big chill

Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 21:11
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I need to defrost. A long winter has left me frozen to the bone. Between my shoulder blades. I feel colder than I ever thought possible. Not my feet, not my hands. Between my shoulder blades. I am nothing without layers round my shoulders. Ridiculous state of affairs.

Yes, so here I am lamenting, at your assorted shoulders, with my duvet wrapped around me. How much more pathetic is it possible to be? Answer that question at your peril.

God damn it. Is this what life boils down to? Simmer at a chill?

U

April 16, 2014

Authenticity

Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 17:58
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There is discussion on the use of child models and the authenticity conveyed by the consequent photographs used. I have no stand on this. Particularly as I was once one of those ‘stand-ins”. When I was under ten. At at time when people were less squeamish.

Exhibit number one, possibly the one that will shock some people: My father, at the time an investigate journalist, and his prize winning photographer colleague needed a photo to go with an article on how television frightens children. My father asked me to join them at the table – as if for a friendly chat. Out of nowhere he blew cigarette smoke into my face. Naturally, such was my surprise, I did all the photo needed: Eyes wide open with shock, my little hands raised to my mouth in horror. Perfect. And no, we didn’t have a TV.

Another one (remember this is under cover photography): Children in traffic. I was told to weave in and out of traffic jams. A story about children and traffic. Terrified me. Not least because my parents had actually taught me to always look left and right before crossing a road. Still. Needs must.

What else? Yes, there was one on children abused by pedophiles. So my father took his eight year old daughter by her hand. I was asked to call him ‘uncle’. As we crossed many a road in the city he asked several police men and pedestrians for directions. To test whether they’d questions him over his legitimacy to me. Not that I told him, but that was probably not his finest hour of reportage: Of course no one questioned him. For heaven’s sake we look far too similar. Like father and daughter. As young as I was I knew that no one think me in danger. A few years later the milkman mistook my father as my older brother. I rest my case.

There are other examples. One which I still blush and squirm at. I have never been particularly shy. But  one assignment – out there in the public – did test my mettle. Still, they got the photos they wanted. No, nothing sexual. Charity. Red Cross.

What were we talking about: Authenticity. I’d rather be told that the child in an advert is a model than the real thing. Not that that makes the “real thing” any better.

U

Sperm count

Filed under: Amusement,Ethics — bitchontheblog @ 06:03
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Sweethearts, you can’t beat this for entertainment value:

Made today’s headlines: Iran to ban vasectomies. Aiming to double the country’s population.

I am fond of children, indeed any people. Very. However, leaving all politics aside, who does actually carry the baby? To shine a light on the dubious: Women (mothers) are NOT a production line to supply cannon fodder. Back in the dark days (World War Two) there was a saying: “Frauen macht die Beine breit, der Fuehrer braucht Soldaten”, loosely and crudely translated as “Women, open your legs, Hitler needs soldiers”. Which reminds me, and as an aside: Apparently, when there is war looming on the horizon more boys are born than girls. Yes, I know it sounds like folklore but there is a correlation. I am not going to go into the biological detail of boy/girl sperm race to the egg’s finishing line (remember it’s Easter).

Come to think of it, here is an egg for militant feminists: A woman’s egg’s X sitting there patiently, waiting for the troops to advance, it’s the man’s “input” which will determine gender of the as yet to be conceived. So much for equality. And choice. And before any of you come up with old wives’ tales about the acidity level of the recepticle I know I know.  Just to make you even more miserable: The more manly a man the more daughters he will have. Yes, really. Little consolation for my (very manly) father who had three daughters and one son.

Going back to cannon fodder and the theory that the more war there is in the offing the more boys will be born: My parents have twelve grandchildren. Ten boys, two girls. WW III on the horizon, no doubt. Mind you, how my nieces are supposed to keep up the supply I do not know.

U

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