Bitch on the Blog

January 30, 2016

Shades

Whilst I do believe that colour does not beat the starkness of a black and white photograph I do have difficulty liking those who paint the world in black and white. Those who indulge in generalizing instead of taking their magnifying glasses to the particular.

Yes, the general and the particular. What a marvellous subject. Lending itself to all FACETS of life. Today, going the way of least resistance, I shall focus on the soft subject of dog and cat lovers.

Please note that I said ‘and’ NOT ‘versus’. There is no law to say that you have to be either or. Or can’t be both. Sure, we may have affinities. Men, mice. Some even keep hamsters. A friend and neighbour of mine used to. I can’t say I loved them (I loathe anything on a treadmill) but they were living things (not that they knew it) so I looked after them when friend was on holiday. Even when friend was not on holiday I’d get those blasted things over to my garden and let them chew the grass. I’d have preferred a sheep or a goat but friends can’t be choosers.

If I were technically as adept as all of you I’d now attach to this post a photo of my fifteen months old self and Pongo. Pongo was my first body guard, an Alsatian. Sitting, at my side and on his hind, taller than me. And yes, the picture is black and white. Which is just as well because Pongo’s fur was black and it was midwinter and the snow was very very very white.

Where were we? Cats and dogs. Animals. By temperament I’d say I prefer cats, for purely selfish reasons. Cats want nothing from you. They give (not least half dead prey put at your feet as a sign of affection) but that’s about it. Dogs? Dogs are takers. They – not by desire, by default – may look at you as the leader of the pack. Don’t let yourself be flattered so easily. As leader of the pack you are looked upon to provide. PROVIDE. Like what? Fun, entertainment, and, naturally, food. You are at their beck and call. And those eyes. Those EYES. Pleading, needy. That’s ok. I don’t mind pleading, needy, that’s what makes dogs human. But, for heaven’s sake, there is that never ending sorrow in a dog’s eyes. It’s why, and please shoot me now, why I firmly believe that those prone to the metaphorical black dog on your shoulder should not keep dogs. Keep a cat – if you must have a pet – instead. Cats are affectionate to the point of suffocating (me) yet they never expect you to throw a stick. And to reciprocate I never expect them to fetch it [the stick].

As an aside and whatever you do: Do not keep a gold fish. They are soul destroying (their own and yours).

Hugs and hisses,

U

January 23, 2016

Zen

Filed under: Communication,Human condition,Philosophy,Vicious — bitchontheblog @ 23:05

Dearest Sweetest Hearts, and arseholes who too read my pourings and too lazy to say what you have to say, let’s assume that I have lived three thirds of my alloted time (loose roof tiles and car accidents notwithstanding): I am on the home stretch. Which is NOT sad. What is sad, and I can’t forgive myself, that I can’t leave passion, fire in my innards behind. I wish I were … I don’t know … indifferent. That’s it. Indifferent. Fuck most things, little touches me. Bliss. I am indifferent. Fat chance. The grail. I so wish, I so wish … what does it take to become a true Stoic, someone I define as not to be touched by anything (at least on the surface)? It ain’t going to happen.

In fact it’s so bad I am running a parallel blog. Not physically. In my mind. That blog is so full of venom, useful venom, truths you can only dream of. Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the what’s it of them all? Close contest. Most people are tender little plants. To name but two, the biblical Rachel and the Samaritan John of fanny flannel fame (which I find vaguely offensive since he is gay). That I haven’t ripped them apart in their blogs’ constant snivelling is a miracle only attributable to my upbringing, natural tact and that I don’t want them to set Sicilian bulldogs onto me. As long as amusement is mine, and it is, I shall keep that lid on my steam.

Thank you to all of you who gave thought to my last post’s lament. That I am still under the weather after last Sunday’s storm is an understatement. I lost a week in a haze of trying to reconcile reality with my concept (and expectation) of the world. I sometimes wish, indeed pray, I were different (entirely selfish because “different” in this context only means my less hurt/bleeding. Peace).

Slight reprimand to Jean whose riposte to Looney I found a little waspish: Looney is a learned man, Jean. I wouldn’t mind playing squash with him because I’d know from the outset I’d be in the corner by the end of it. Yes, Looney, in the wake of Epictetus you reminded me of an anecdote (same school – Zenos and Chrysippus) and since Jean is fond of dogs maybe appealing, and reconciling, to her too, and chiming in with your, Loony, mentioning the fates:

“The Stoics had an image with which to evoke our condition as creatures, at times able to affect change, yet always subject to external necessities: We are like dogs who have been tied to an unpredictable cart. Our leash is long enough to give us a degree of leeway, yet not long enough to let us wander wherever we please.”

U

 

 

 

 

January 18, 2016

Jackson Pollock

Cheerful Monk aka Jean, a woman I respect for a number of reasons, asserted the following in her last post:

“I know some people who think life just happens, they don’t have much say in the matter. That attitude seems to work for them, but it’s against my nature to be that passive. … It’s more fun to be the painter than the paint.

If you want your story to be magnificent, begin by realizing you are the author, and every day is a new page

This last one points out how incorrigible I am, that at the age of 76, I still think I’m a creator in my life.

For me it’s a lot more fun than just being the paint.”

 

To which I replied in her comment box, and such is my purpose and sorrow that I vent same what I feel this moment on my own blog:

“My dear Jean, if only it were so easy. Yesterday (Sunday) evening, in a moment of misguided optimism and hope, I, the author of my life as you put it, took an initiative and “painted” and what did I end up with? A lot of paint on my face. So much paint on my face it will take a lot of resolve and tears to wash it off.

Say what you like: Sometimes we are at the mercy of others. And when we are at the mercy of someone else, you – the supposed editor of your life’s story – may take time off and go home early. Yes, I hit a brick wall. Hard.

I am devastated. Wish I could “re-write” that chapter of my life (into the future) but I can’t. Why? Because no man is an island. There are occasions, maybe few but nevertheless, where we are entirely dependent on someone else’s ability and willingness to communicate. And if that will isn’t there you may as well (metaphorically speaking) fill your coat pockets with stones and wade into water.”

U

December 16, 2015

Pathetic

This post is going to HURT. Me. Not you.

Do you actually know what it means to go out there, face your fellow men – and BEG? Don’t answer.

Yes, the season of good will. One week to go and I still haven’t procured the goose that – once upon a time – flew effortlessly, caressed by me, onto the laden table.

If anyone, ever and so smug, tells me that money doesn’t buy you happiness I’ll tell them to …

Such a happy life I believe to have led between the age of 19 and …

Now? For the last six/seven years? I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I were Virginia Woolf. I don’t mean the author. I am not given to being a writer. I love the word. I don’t need publicity. Yes, stones in your coat’s pockets and water. But, as a doctor recorded many years ago: “Won’t act on impulse on account of her son”.

Indeed. I believe all of us to be selfish to the core, yet there are limits as to what we do to others.

A fool I ain’t. The moment I committed to motherhood was the moment I realized that life wasn’t my own any more. Happy I had the guts to take the plunge.

Everything went swimmingly. Twenty four years down the line I fail. Put that into your assorted handkerchieves.

U

December 15, 2015

Tidying up

Not all, some facets of life are beginning to disenchant me.

You can’t ring someone without them knowing it’s you before they pick up the phone. There goes surprise right out of the window.

Some years (26) ago in a moment of madness, egged on by Fiona, a colleague of mine, I had my palm looked at. In a tent. Not that location matters. Same difference. Everything went swimmingly till the reader came to a particular line on my right hand. She literally threw it [my hand] back at me, looked at me – AGHAST –  and, after wishing me “a good life”, showed me the exit in no uncertain terms.

I didn’t think about it at the time. I am used to drama. Most my friends are in the theatrics one way or another. Not so much exaggeration but caricature being their signature tune. In my case, and I am not on the stage, don’t take seriously now REPENT AT LEISURE.

Have come to horrible conclusion. Either send chocolate (or other currency) now or come and see me in the loon’s bin. I’d recommend the former since the latter won’t be fun – for either of us. Cro – you may send me a goose. Keep the liver.

To top it all, today I have had two telephone conversations which have confirmed all I have never wanted to know: The end is nigh.

No, I am not about to die, I am just ending.

Hugs, hisses and howls,

U

 

 

October 28, 2015

Less haste more speed

Filed under: Accuracy,Amusement,Peace,Philosophy — bitchontheblog @ 10:45
Tags: , , ,

I think time to be in too much of a hurry.

However. Yes, the dreaded HOWEVER. Sometimes time slinks and sloshes as if it were a never ending commodity.

That hour going back last Sunday caught me out big time, and I haven’t adjusted yet. I wish there were more continuity in life. Let time be. Up with the cockerel (that’s hens), feet down at dusk. Saves on electricity. Natural order of things. Man dragging woman (at her hair) back into the cave, Bambi being Bambi cute, and dinosaurs. Not sure about dinosaurs. One moment they Tyrannus Rex you, the next they are extinct.

“Slinks”. Do you remember Slinky? That metal coil slinking its way down the stairway? I gave one to the Angel at the early end of his childhood. And had the distinct feeling he was less impressed than I was. In my experience you need a spine to make your way downstairs. Unless, of course, as I did, circa 1997, just having moved to a new house and trying to find my bearings – getting a feel for the place, you slip and slide the whole way. No damage done. And no, I was NOT drunk as some helpful friends suggested by way of comfort. I am never drunk. Mainly because I don’t like losing control. Yes, so there I was at the bottom of the stairs, on my back – and went, momentarily, into shock. It’s another fine example of when time takes on a whole new dimension. A bit like toothache. A minute or five do stretch into eternity.

To put a piece into the puzzle: It’s years and years and years (remember we are talking time) that I have worn a wrist watch. I don’t like shackles. Which is why I’d be a soul destroying non participating partner in anything vaguely bondage. So, yes, I don’t do time. Neither do I carry a handy/mobile/cell phone. If and when pressed (for time) I will ask strangers what the time is and they look it up on their handy/mobile/cell phone. A great conversation starter. People, first startled, are happy to be asked. For anything. TIME? Then you weed the obsessive (it’s 0923 and five seconds) from the slap dash (it’s about ten).

Am sure Beckett is still waiting for Godot … I like waiting. A subject that can wait. For another time.

U

September 23, 2015

Vee Double You

Filed under: Amusement — bitchontheblog @ 15:48
Tags: ,

I rarely blow my own trumpet – other than tongue in cheek. Today I make an exception.

In the wake of the current Volkswagen shame all over the press I will confess that my very first job in England was at VAG (Audi Volkswagen Concessionaires). I was twenty six at the time. It was a short term assignment.

My leaving reference, written by head of HR (human resources, the department I worked in) reads:

“During her period with us, albeit a brief one, she proved herself a diligent and efficient employee.”

So far so nothing. What else is an employee to be than diligent and efficient? However, here is the punchline: “… bla bla bla … and it is, therefore, a matter of sorrow that we had to lose her.”

A matter of sorrow. Think about it. I didn’t. Until recently someone, and remember the English are given to understatement, said: “What? Sorrow? That’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?”.

There you are. Once encountered never forgotten. And always missed. Makes for a rotten spy.

U

September 22, 2015

Pencils in the Ritz (London)

Filed under: Amusement — bitchontheblog @ 14:12
Tags: ,

In wake of my last post had a thought (they [thoughts] easy to come by).

How come that we take writing more seriously than spouting by talking? Let’s forget for a minute that the word vanishes in the wind – particularly when no one is listening – whilst the written is, obviously, written. That’s where my waste PAPER basket comes in handy.

My father, a meticulous man with a desk so tidy to scare the shit out of you, used to have a MASSIVE mega waste paper basket. He called it Ablage 13. Ablage means “file”. You get the drift. As humour goes I thought it some sort of self awareness.

Yes, where was I? No idea. The Angel this very minute eating cake (as forced in the motherland) and drinking coffee by the gallon (as forced in the motherland) at my parents’ table. Oh my god.

Coffee and cake – one of the reasons i fled the motherland. Only to swap the motherland with afternoon tea and cucumber sandwiches {thinly sliced, no crust). Do not ever think you can escape your destiny. One way or another stuff will be stuffed down your throat.

U

Hampered

Filed under: Communication — bitchontheblog @ 13:17

On a point of housekeeping and very annoying to me.

It appears that quite a few of my emails are not filtering through. This was very much drawn to my attention (on the phone) by the Angel currently travelling the motherland and neighbouring countries. Now I know why some people are not talking to me any more.

Phoned BT for technical advice a few minutes ago. Apparently everything is fine. Well, it isn’t fine but I do take their point.

So any of you rightly expecting correspondence do forgive me. Got to get to the bottom (or rather the top) of it.

Hisses,

U

September 20, 2015

Three in the morning

Filed under: Amusement,Babes,Fun,The Reaper — bitchontheblog @ 02:24
Tags: , ,

I have so enchanted myself re-reading my last blog post and comments I’ve forgotten why I was recharging the comp and what I was going to spout about.

Yes, sleep. Elusive. Again. Never really liked sleep. You don’t know what’s going on when asleep. Nightmares. Dreams. Sometimes I wake myself talking out aloud. Which beats not waking up at all.

Virtually all people in my life, and that includes you – my dear readers and my mother – adore sleep. It’s a mystery to me unless you are under twenty five [years of age].

Having said that I do realize that sleep is important to keep you compos mentis. Yes, good old sanity. Had good reason to cry tonight. Then remembered the old saying “crying yourself to sleep”. Doesn’t work. Not for me.

Best sleeplessness and with a purpose was when the Angel was little. The first fifteen months of his life I never had more than 2.5 hours sleep at a stretch. Tiny stomachs need to be refilled at short intervals (Looney, newly made grandfather take note). No matter, during the day the Angel and I slept side by side when he slept. In tune as it were.

One of the truly worst sleepless nights ever? Don’t ask. And don’t laugh. Or do. It was the first night (he was fourteen months) when he slept right through. I was frantic. Kept checking every few seconds whether he was still alive. He was. Even in the morning. Waking to a mother basically dead but still on her feet. I have calmed down since then.

U

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