Sedate

In the wake of my choice of blog name  I sometimes find there is a fine line to tread. I know exactly what I’d like to say. Yet  in the name of good taste, of what is permissible and in concerted effort to avoid hurting other people’s feelings it’s a bit of a balancing act.  Now I know how Dr Jekyll and Mrs Hyde, joint at the hip, must have felt.

I don’t want to abuse my own blog but since both my No 1 and No 2 fans, Con and GM, diligently keep erasing even the friendliest of comments of mine on their blogs I have to soil my own playground with a few observations.

The anthropologist in me is fascinated by the LBC – for many reasons, not all of them strictly scientific. This week’s subject (or at least the title) so very juicy. With high expectation  disappointment never lags far behind.

My dear lambs, what sheltered lives you have lived. I can’t believe it. Conrad, since when does foraging for mushrooms and ‘making out’ qualify for living dangerously. Still, as effort goes, I’d say: Potential to do better next time round. Gaelikaa, sweet gaelikaa, such a picture of innocence . My heart goes out to Grannymar (and I don’t mean this ironic) that she had to live through the orange phase of her life at advancing years. As to Ramana, Sir, boys will be boys and they race, and raise hell – nothing new there.

My hope now  lies firmly with Magpie, the dark horse. However, and that in itself speaks most interesting volumes, so far he has shown reticence to expand on his own youth. Which I think wise.  I most certainly wouldn’t.

Shall now change costume, and send Mrs Hyde into the kitchen to cook the evening meal.

Mwah,

U

PS Most annoying that I am not allowed to answer BHB’s whacky comments on Con’s blog.

No harvest

“You reap what you sow”.

Don’t believe it. Complete nonsense – why do you think gardeners and farmers are usually down in the mouth?

Go to Ireland and you will learn more about potato blight than you ever wished to know. Ask me about snails and I show you a mass murderer. In fact I have got it down to a fine art, and don’t say I am not kind: Beer traps work wonders – slugs and snails being attracted to yeast, then drowning themselves and MY sorrows. I console myself that they will have died a happy death.

Since research is in my blood (undiluted) I  just looked up snails in Larousse Gastronomique which is a doorstopper of a heavyweight of a book: The amount of preparation that needs to go into preparing a snail for human consumption makes you not so much wonder whether it’s worth it: It kills your appetite. It’s mainly to do with cleaning out their digestive tract by putting them on a ten day detox (also known as fasting/starvation diet). However “do not remove the liver and other inner organs which amount to a quarter of the weight of a snail and are the most delicious and nutritious part”.

Apart from setting beer traps the only other way to stay on top of the snail problem in your garden is to get up early (say 5 in the morning; dress code morning gown) when it’s still all damp and they are out there by their dozens. You pick them live and then hope that one of your visitors that day will take a bag off you. No joke.

Spring appears to be on its way considering that my thoughts are turning to terrestial gastropod molluscs.

U

PS For the historians amongst us: There was a bit of a loss of culinary interest in snails in the 17th century; revived by Talleyrand (!) who had them prepared, by Careme, for a dinner he gave for the Tsar of Russia.

No slacking

Doesn’t time fly when you are traipsing round the well like a dehydrated donkey in the desert. Apologies to my fan club leaving you high and dry with not even so much as a “puppy on the blog”. 

Life, once more, has me in one of its vice like grips, snapping at my heels, leaving little spare capacity  to take the bitch for a walk in her virtual park.

Am now convinced that scratching one’s head is an overrated activity in trying to come up with a solution to a problem. And then there is that ever present chasm between theory and practice. The theory might be perfection, putting it into practice often like trying to retrieve the cheese without the trap coming down on you.  The third in this unholy trinity being “if only”, also called daydreaming; it’s the joker in the pack – the one that keeps your view firmly on the horizon.

One of the advantages of being a character in a novel: You only suffer on the page.

U

Mental

Sweethearts, I know it’s not Thursday (I can’t leave it alone, can I? Beginning to despise myself). However, even a Monday warrants a laugh, and we can always enjoy one of GM’s baked apples afterwards though I myself prefer Apfelmus (best made with Bramley) accompanying my Roesti.

In the privacy of your own mental state you may now decide which of the following applies to you:

“Sluggish cognitive tempo disorder” (lazy)

“Mary Whitehouse syndrome” (freaking out at a four letter word starting with f )

“Hypersexuality” (Tiger Woods and Mrs Mary Whitehouse; no, not in the same bed)

“Negativistic personality disorder” (whingers)

and the one I joyfully admit to

“Intermittent explosive disorder” (also known as adult’s tantrums)

For the scientists amongst us, say Cheerful Monk: According to a Welsh professor of clinical psychology “most of these diagnoses are meaningless and have no basis in science. But the more disorders there are, the more private business psychiatrists get.” Do I want to be cured? No thanks.

So yes, and this is NO bull, the above states of mental disorders will be included, for the first time, in the next edition of ‘Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders ‘- the psychiatrists’ bible.

U

Miaou

I have to keep up an image. So I shall now bitch a bit (despite knowing that Jean does not approve though she does have unexpected potential to do so herself.)

Have just visited Ramana’s blog to read all the replies to headline referring to my wanting self.  Poor old Grannymar seems to have had a humoUr bypass in her response to gaelikaa (which, gaelikaa, does not reflect on her relationship with you; only on how much she dislikes me).

Despite your protestations to the contrary I had you down as sour before, Grannymar; now you’ve confirmed my notion: Like all sayings “can you lend me a fiver” evolved over time, got shortened to how we know it now. What’s it got to do with the Euro having been around “for a while” as you say, Grannymar? Following your logic, should we abolish nursery rhymes because Humpty Dumpties don’t fall off walls any longer (health and safety measures in place at all times); the last sighting of a dish running away with a spoon being circa 1901? And obviously John and Jill  who went up the hill will be six foot under by now.

And, Grannymar, cows do jump over the moon – if only you’d look up into the sky.

U

Prejudice

Coquetry is mine tonight. I hate it. Still, once a tease always a tease.

The time has come for my devoted readership to guess my nationality. Amuse me.

Prizes – other than praise – will not be given.  I have written down the name of the person I expect to get it right first time.

I’d be gratified if Grannymar and Conrad, neither of whom have  offered one word of reconciliation yet, would enter this contest too. Don’t cheat, don’t confer amongst each other. Just do it. And find out who can cut through the crap.

U

Vote of confidence

The apple of my eye appears in the doorframe of my sanctuary, glances at my laptop from a distance and asks: “Is that YOUR blog?”.

On getting closer to the screen he reads out loud: “Bitch on the Blog”. 

“No, that isn’t you”, he says, interest evaporated, scampering out of the room. Fresh from the mouth of the person who knows me better than anyone else (under the magnifying glass as it were)

U

PS Please do not be disappointed: I am many things to many people. Here I am the bitch on the blog.

Kiss Kiss

As brought back to my attention by the good Elster himself, in English known as Magpie:  “Keep it simple, Stupid.”  The mantra of my life.

Unfortunately we can keep little. And ‘simple is not easy to keep under control. ‘Stupid’ on the other hand is in plentiful supply.

Mwah

Let’s talk girly

For light relief I will turn to gaelikaa’s reflections on henna.

Yes,  gaelikaa, henna, how quaint, how retro; thought it had died ca 1975.

I am proud to say that I have never interfered with the colour of my hair. And not only because London’s finest hairdressers have told me that women will pay an awful lot of money to achieve the shade that comes naturally to me. And, gaelikaa, if my hair went white, which appears highly unlikely, I’d be happy. In fact, read in one of the weekend’s broadsheets that women now have their hair dyed silver or ‘pepper and salt’ to achieve that certain “je ne sais quoi” . Which reminds me: All of  you who recently didn’t pick me up on my mistake re Tina Brown – I was actually referring to Anna Wintour. Same difference.

Girlfriends (THEN and now) always messing with their hair till even their own mothers can’t remember the original shade. I don’t get it, never have. Let’s forget the money – but the time invested!!!!!!!!!!!!! Why argue with nature? Made a complete ass of myself a couple of years ago when English side of family met up and I couldn’t figure out why ex sister-in-law looked unfamiliar. Until it came to me and, as only I can,  proffered right in the middle of the conversation my Eureka: From a very stylish short haired black she’d gone to a bland mid length blond bob. My observation went down like a lead balloon with her husband; and please do not believe that blonds have more fun. They don’t if the colour is fake.

I dare say my mother’s frequent visits to the hairdresser (and she was always with the latest fashion, whether Jackie Kennedy or Mary Quant) traumatised me in the hair department. She’d come home, fling her handbag into a corner, storm into the bathroom, look into the mirror, ruffle her hair and cry. Any soothing words that she looked great didn’t make her outrage any better. Till my father came home … till the next visit to the hairdresser.

Still, I myself am at a hairy crossroads this minute. Nothing to do with colour but length. Having been struck down for months, lying on the sofa like a TB stricken pale poet in a sanatorium in Davos/Switzerland, my long hair has matted beyond redemption. It’s awful. I watch repeat episodes of Sherlock Holmes whilst trying to untangle that god almighty mess. It’s not going to happen. So far I have resisted to go the impetuous road of least resistence and just cut all those knots out. All the people in my life prefer me with hair below my chin: My face is  square(ish) with prominent cheekbones (must post photo) so short hair would probably freak out all the babies in the neighbourhood – not least my son, and he isn’t even a baby any more.

However you respond, please do not suggest that I use olive oil to untangle the mess. It doesn’t work.

U

PS gaelikaa, I would have left a shortened version of this my comment on your blog but, since your employing bouncers at the gates of your musings,  I can’t get through the door.

Eroded

Sweetie Pies, I am in MELTDOWN. One of these days I shall bang my head against a brickwall and join the rest of humanity.

If I were three years of age, which unfortunately I am not, I’d now stamp my feet and howl with the best of BHB’s coyotes.

What brought on this tantrum? No, not certain members of the LBC who are hamsters in comparison with the most inane blogs I have just surfed on recommendation of a name to be taken seriously. Maybe he is out to torment me. No idea. I’ll have to take this up with him once I have caught my breath.

Bitch on the blog? What bitch? I am a doped lapdog in comparison with one of the blogs I have just come across. Not that it is comprehensible, remotely funny, engaging or anything else. It’s plain awful. However, and a noble cause, it has declared war on ‘ignorance, narcissism, stupidity, hypocrisy and bad grammar’. Most commendable. Count me in. I will help to win the odd battle even if the war will most certainly be lost.

However, the general of that blog is no Napoleon, Frederick the Great or Churchill. I could cry. It’s awful. Better revisit and see if better on second reading. Ten minutes later: No it isn’t [any better], it’s worse. Bordering on tragic.

I shan’t tag this particular post because that captain without wind in his sail might come after me (my only consolation in my hour of fright being that he’ll be too stupid to realise that I am referring to him).

U