Bitch on the Blog

March 31, 2012

Botched

Filed under: Errors — bitchontheblog @ 22:03
Tags: ,

If,  in the wake of the last few posts, you think I am vain, I don’t care. I am not vain. I am perfect.

Which is why I feel like enacting some Greek drama. Appealing to the queen in me.

I will go unblemished for 363 days of the year – until the BIG day.

Apropos of generally feeling for myself: I was once recorded, in writing (class register): “Ursula’s excuses are getting ever more inventive.” Sweet seventeen, on the way to school the heel of my boot broke off. I am a very practical person and there was no way I was going to limp around all morning to the hilarity of my school mates. So I went to one of those pronto shoe repair places which, whilst pronto, made me late for class. I wish I’d kept the receipt. This particular teacher and I loved each other as best as teacher and pupil can. Yet, he did NOT believe me. That was the moment when I learnt that a mundane lie will triumph over the unbelievable truth.

U

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5 Comments »

  1. I can remember telling my mother the truth about my day and having her say, “sure you did”. Oh well….

    Comment by writingfeemail — April 1, 2012 @ 02:36 | Reply

  2. Regarding blemishes and England, I was just listening to Asser’s The Life of King Alfred which provides the history of your area. The main thing I noted was that not a single blemish was recorded. All were overlooked.

    Comment by dstillma — April 1, 2012 @ 04:27 | Reply

    • Oh yes, history will be bent to suit. That’s why most people hold onto dates because facts are facts;The detail? Who knows. Dates are solid. My first and favourite I remember was 1066. I was ten and I should have known then that, as an adult, I’d find myself in England. England in which schools teach history so shoddily in the end I had to shrug my shoulders. Couldn’t believe that the Angel learnt nothing about, say, Hammurabi of Babylon, wasn’t made to follow a timeline, a succession of events (in order). How it all links together. Yet was made to waste months on Henry VIII’s many wives. It was ridiculous. One of those times I felt like biting into my piece of driftwood I keep handy at all times – to stifle my screams.

      I don’t even want to know all he doesn’t know about the French Revolution (by way of example), those milestones in our “history”. Does it matter? I don’t know. Probably not. I have to remind myself that there are many (most) areas of life I don’t know anything about, say, cloud formations or why birds migrate and salmon swims against the flow. Still, and this is heartfelt, I do have some beef with this country’s schooling when in comes to what I call “the classics”. But then his maths is second to few. And mine was shite.

      Anyway, thanks for YOUR education. Now I know about King Alfred.

      U

      Comment by bitchontheblog — April 1, 2012 @ 05:31 | Reply

  3. I’m a story-teller and when I tell stories, I tell my version of events, which may not be the way another person would tell them. Am I lying or am I just telling my truth? We float in a sea of subjectivity and those of us who know it might just as well try to stay afloat as best we can.

    Comment by Lorna's Voice — April 2, 2012 @ 16:56 | Reply

    • Gosh, Lorna, that is such a good point and where wisdom lies: Our “version of events”. And I learnt it the hard way.

      There were a couple of times when my mother (a most admirable woman) disputed a memory of mine (both of them related to her mother, my grandmother, the most important woman in my life – and I dare say in my mother’s too). It floored me. Literally pulled the rug from underneath my feet. That wasn’t my mother’s intention. Took me some time to recover my equilibrium. It also taught me (about twenty years ago) that perception is so very subjective. That memory is so very subjective. Still, I wouldn’t be my mother’s daughter if I didn’t know that MY memory is the correct one.

      And yes, you are one hell of a story teller.

      U

      Comment by bitchontheblog — April 2, 2012 @ 17:29 | Reply


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