Bitch on the Blog

May 23, 2011

Leprechaun

Filed under: Despair — bitchontheblog @ 11:16

As Sunday afternoons go yesterday’s was averagely awful.

In the morning my mother tells me that I am going to the dogs. Which, for reasons I can’t quite fathom, I do not find particularly funny.  And she doesn’t even know about Ramana (or the Ringbearer). Then there is my honour to be defended (where is David aka Daphne when I  need him? Probably at Moss Bros trying on top hats for size).

Choose wisely. Fending off the Ringbearer (Ward B, hit the wall) the Betrothed himself  now mentions “Erotomania” to me or, as he calls it, ‘de Clerambault Syndrome’. Had to look it up. Doesn’t make pretty reading. The only person I truly love apart from the Angel is myself. Which probably amounts to Automania.

Never mind. Images will be lived up and down to. Think Italy. Winding. Or Corsica. Even Napoleon ended up there. Where were we? Honour. So Ramana does me the honour, despite himself and his “self imposed” rule, to comment on my blog (11 May whilst I was “Wafting”). In a spot of what can only be interpreted as thinly veiled jealousy he reminds me that Con is hitched and Ram is not. Pass me the smelling salts before I faint. I may hate ‘rules’, and in general try and defy them, but I do have PRINCIPLES. One of them, never broken, that I do NOT steal another woman’s (or man’s) love interest. So both you, Ramana, and the Invisible One can sleep in peace (day and night). Lady Con, if you want me to take leverage off your back I am afraid I am currrently not in the market though will help carry your load.

Which reminds me apropos of the ever present nothing: Con is an ox. Don’t blame me. Blame his mother. Or his father. Or both. What were they thinking of at the time? Or blame Magpie aka David aka Josephine aka Daphne for bringing up the subject in the first place. The dog.

Ox. It was on the cards. I knew it. If there are any millstones round my life’s neck, giving me more grief than their fair share, it’s oxens. One fathered me, the other is my sister. And that’s only for starters. GG (gay guy) for mains. I also once found myself in a field with a bull. Don’t ask. I was only about nine years of age. But I know red hot when I see it. Luckily I am a fast runner. Imagine if that bull had got me: I wouldn’t be here to waste your space.

Bulls are not oxens. As was explained to me early on. So you will find oxtail soup on the menu; bull usually constituting the steak. Unless you have goat, lamb, rooster, rabbit or (heaven forbid) dog instead. At a banquet in Hong Kong (14 courses – and they will eat anything that moves) I was once faced with pigeon floating in liquid. FOS suddenly had to make urgent call and left the table; us being the hosts, leaving me  smiling at the innocent. I am not particularly squeemish but lines are there to be drawn: I can’t cook rabbit myself because their skinned shape reminds me of cat. I can’t eat small birds because I can’t. I’d rather burst out into tears. And what the Italians are thinking about serving up sparrows I do not know, neither do I wish to. Pigeons to me represent only one thing – such is the power of mind: Health hazard. And they are. I love watching them doing what pigeons do. Just don’t put the poor blighters on my plate.

Do you know what to do with freshly harvested snails destined for another culinary disaster? If you don’t ask me.

Why are there no snails on the Chinese Zodiac horizon? Leaving a trail of slime so very useful to trace them.

U Bin Liner, The Ark, Southampton Harbour, England, challenged, over and out

Advertisements

13 Comments »

  1. No real comment but very interesting reading. Leaves me with things (words & people) to look up. Did I read wrongly? You hosted a 15 course dinner in Hong Kong where there was “pigeon floating in liquid”? I shouldn’t be taking that literally.

    Comment by bikehikebabe — May 23, 2011 @ 14:15 | Reply

    • I WAS hosting that table, BHB. 14 courses and all. 5 star venue, maybe 14, who knows. Bang centre Hong Kong. Had barely recovered from jet lag. No joke, It was awful. Not so much the food. Apart from the pigeons. But the people. British. Terribly upper class, stuttering and through the nose. In every other country in the world if (and when) you stutter you’d be sent strait to a speech therapist. Not the British. They send you somewhere if you do NOT stutter. That’s why it pays to be a foreigner in the UK. Even after 29 years.

      Best part of that dinner was and please do follow this story line carefully, otherwise you won’t get the joke: One of the (female) stutterers had me hitched to the man on my LEFT. Her reasoning? This is brilliant, BHB, come to think of it: “You never speak to him. You only talk to the guy on your RIGHT.” Yes, indeed. The one on the RIGHT not only BEING my husband but also later to be FOS (father of son).

      ?????????????????????????????????????

      So, BHB, whatever you do: Don’t talk to your husband. You might find yourself inadvertently hitched to a friend of his – the one you ignore on your left – instead.

      Oh, did we laugh. Well, I did. In the face of the pigeon. At least John (the one on the left) had the good grace to stay with me and see the pigeon disaster through. Soup terrines have never been the same for me since.

      U

      Comment by bitchontheblog — May 23, 2011 @ 14:51 | Reply

  2. I’m here trying hard not to get into any fights. However if honour is to be defended it would be helpful to know whose, when and where, and in what manner the honour is threatened.As for mothers of ladies…I learned long ago to steer clear of them.

    Now, about the Josephine thing…the only similarity would be the phrase “Not tonight”….

    Also about stealing another woman’s man…how about if she wants to give him away?

    Oxen can mean the castrated bull type(used as a draught animal) but also any domesticated member of the Genus Bos (plus various wild ones and some members of the genus Bibo)

    Seems the whole thing is a load of Bullocks…. note : to say old Bullocks would be contradictory or possibly and oxenmoron.

    When have you ever seen a skinned cat? I like rabbit but it is apparently nutritionally bereft….apparently a whole exploration team died because they ate nothing but rabbit…. I also like pigeon…but dare not shoot the woodies around here because the neighbours might get upset. The beasts can wreak havoc in the veg garden.

    Bye for now
    (rolls over on back and waits for tummy to be rubbed)

    Comment by Magpie 11 — May 23, 2011 @ 15:14 | Reply

    • Well, Magpie, Trust you to turn up here just as I am manufacturing email to you. I don’t know what it is with me and certain animals. I literally can’t stomach them. Shove a witch into her own oven and carve. Serve.

      Bambi? Nah. One of my uncles hunts (legitimately). I just close my eyes when eating and think NOT of Bambi.

      Another friend of mine (same occasion of visit in Hong Kong) told me that in China it’s all ‘dog’ on the menu, by another name. I am gullible but I am not stupid. To serve up so much dog they’d have to FARM the blighters instead of snatching your pet at the corner.

      Anyway, onslaught to my honour getting a bit much. And if Angel gets so much as wind of mounting distress to his mother, not only committed by The Invisible Ringbearer but now suffering from that Ramana’s Cleramboult thing as well, both Con and the Ram will have to face more than six foot of pure, fresh and unadultered testosterone. They may count their blessings: Angel, since he has a brain, normally walks AWAY from conflict – particularly when he CLEARLY has the advantage. Don’t mess with sons of mothers. That’s my advice.

      Rabbits bereft of nutrients? Talk to a Spaniard or a nutrionist. Hopping the fields they are full of that which no vitamin pill will deliver. Particularly led. A cat only eats Whiskas, unless they are my cats. On a tangent, and will come back to a favourite subject of mine another time: Cucumbers. Cucumbers – like the human body – are mainly WATER. In one end, out the other. I love cucumbers. Angel does not (you may remember that’s it’s the ONLY thing I ever TRIED to force feed him). Yesterday, his sense of smell keen, he comes home – and if I were on drugs it couldn’t be worse: “Mama, you had cucumber”. I confessed. I also told him that when he pushes off to France next month I will have the cucumber fest of all times: Midday, afternoon tea, supper, midnight snack.Day after day. He is now considering whether advisable to cancel his trip.

      Honour and ‘bullocks’. Wonder what bullocks are in the mother lingo. Probably not a lot. Love your oxen moron. Adopted into my vocabulary as of this minute.

      Listening to Ramirez, Misa Criolla ‘Agnus Dei’. Make that, some time later: ‘Dove Sono’ Mozart, Marriage of Figaro. Is there a voice more sweet?

      Yours,
      U – jumping ship

      Comment by bitchontheblog — May 23, 2011 @ 20:25 | Reply

  3. In the morning my mother tells me that I am going to the dogs.

    I would take that as a compliment. I’ve decided I don’t want to be a barnacle like Looney the next time around. I want to be a therapy dog. I just read an article about one who works at the residential section of a children’s hospital. One poor kid who has to endure months of painful treatments says of the dog, “She doesn’t make me feel better, but she does make me happy.” She’s my heroine.

    Comment by Cheerful Monk — May 23, 2011 @ 16:29 | Reply

    • No,it’s not a compliment, Jean. It’s my mother. She will laugh at anything. Her current despair at me. She cannot believe how much bad luck her ‘sunshine’ (that’s me) has been beset by in the last two or so years. Regretting that she can’t do anything about it. Her humoUr formed at a time when her mother, her own 10 year old self and some of her younger siblings were fleeing from the Russians, on foot, right across the “Reich” (my family originally living at Russian/Polish border – Neustettin). Her three older brothers and father at the front, later POWS of varying allies. Her nineteen year old brother shot in the back by the Russians when he fled the camp (after the end of the war). There is nothing you can throw at people who have been through that. Everything pales into insignificance. And so it should.

      U

      Comment by bitchontheblog — May 23, 2011 @ 21:13 | Reply

  4. As usual I’m confused. What’s the “Cleramboult thing”? And if everything pales into insignificance, that doesn’t keep her from despairing at her daughter’s bad luck and her own helplessness about doing anything about it? I would expect that not to pale into insignificance.

    I had a colleague, a Hungarian Jew, who had been in one of Hitler’s concentration camps. He, a brother and sister survived because the Allies got there in time. He didn’t get upset by small matters either. I’ve seen a lot of documentaries about WW II. Even that is enough for me to keep things in perspective.

    Comment by Cheerful Monk — May 23, 2011 @ 22:26 | Reply

    • What’s the “Cleramboult Syndrome”? It’s when you think someone is in love with you. What possessed Ramana to bring this up I do not know. Best not to delve into some recesses.

      And, of course, you are right what you say about my mother. What’s always fascinated me about her that on one hand I think of her as fragile (she is finely boned), on the other unbreakable. If there is one thing I have “inherited” from her it’s resiliance. I might have limped occasionally in the last few years, but nothing will break me either. Nothing.(Famous quote of a friend ca. Nov 2009: “If I were you, Ursula, I’d kill myself”.) Well, I don’t kill anything. Not even myself.

      Parents are interesting creatures. My father – enourmously warmhearted whilst, intellectually, devastatingly critical – not easy to get to know the man. However, whilst he will not volunteer, he will answer any personal question I put to him; with integrity. But mostly he and I just talk about god and the world, and leave the personal well alone. My mother and I share an unending love of delving into our memories. Not least that of her own revered mother (my beloved grandmother who brought me up the first few years of my life and then ‘abandoned’ me. How dare she die?). So, yes, my mother and I will pour over memories, photographs, letters, reviving many of the now dead and dying – so precious to both of us. What is amazing about her – she will never intellectualize anything. To her everything is matter. How it is.

      Which is, no doubt, why my parents are such a good match. Two very different angles. Making a degree.

      U

      Comment by bitchontheblog — May 24, 2011 @ 06:56 | Reply

      • “My mother and I share an unending love of delving into our memories.” You are sharing each other’s memories. They aren’t shared memories since your grandmother brought you up the first few years.

        Comment by bikehikebabe — May 24, 2011 @ 16:06 | Reply

  5. Before this barnacle ‘ends up’ in the soup, Napoleon ‘ended up’ at Les Invalides in Paris. Les Invalides is a very nice visit with no lines, unlike many of the other touristy places there. Napoleon started out in Corsica.

    Comment by Looney — May 24, 2011 @ 04:20 | Reply

    • Dear Barnacle. yes the famous Bouillabaisse. Who wants to end up in there? Particularly when, originally, you were outward bound (think Marseille).

      You are quite right: I don’t know why I keep putting Napoleon back onto Corsica. Maybe because I love Corsica. Or maybe because I caught the mother of all sunburns there. My mind works mainly by association – often totally ignoring that which I know I KNOW. Where that’ll lead one day I will not think about this minute.

      Good to hear from you.

      U

      Comment by bitchontheblog — May 24, 2011 @ 06:16 | Reply

  6. I don’t even know how I committed offense. Other than being born, for which I deeply apologize.

    Comment by Conrad — May 27, 2011 @ 00:48 | Reply

    • Conrad, you are so adorable. How can anyone but love you.

      Comment by bikehikebabe — May 27, 2011 @ 03:40 | Reply


RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

%d bloggers like this: