Bitch on the Blog

May 30, 2012

Shipping forecast

Filed under: Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 02:46
Tags: , , , , ,

Sweethearts, should you never hear from me again it’ll be due to an aneurysm. Exploding. In my brain. Or wherever. No, I am not a hypochondriac. I am afraid of aneurysms. And this minute the left side of my head is making itself known. Pulsating.

I am torn between one moment admiring the miracle of life, the next the disaster of unannounced death. Call me a control freak but I like to know where I am going. And when. Even if it takes me into a different direction. As long as I am alive I really don’t care where I am.

Which reminds me of a most refreshing conversation I had with the Angel a couple of nights ago. Over dinner. Pork ribs – procured by the young bacon hunter.

The Angel doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. Yet, and I suppose it’s good – at least he won’t starve – he was adamant that he’d chase any animal that came his way should he find himself on a desert island with no late night supermarket round the corner. Gave him a few pointers. Like how to kill poultry. There is a neck to it. Pull. Don’t twist. Naturally, as one does, we, or rather I, drifted onto the subject of vegetables. No, he tells me, he can’t live without meat. And I agree. To fill a twenty year old with greenery and lentils without the all important protein to get his teeth into is no mean feat.

Since I am fond of Vasco da Gama and his ilk I ventured over to cannibalism. Asking the Angel why the thin ones of the crew get eaten first. When surely the biggest of your fellows would make more sense. I now see my son in a new light. He, himself lean if with muscle, explained to me that no one wants blubber. Yes, I said, I know everyone is careful of their shape but in the pacific? No land in sight? Surely fat is good for you.           Nope, apparently not.

I dearly hope I won’t be caught in a boat with the Angel. I am smaller than him. He has a mathematician’s brain. Doesn’t even need a calculator.

Since I don’t want him to fret over matricide I told him I’d kill myself before he may eat me. I prefer cucumber sandwiches.

The moral of the story: If you do have to get lost try and be in that boat on your own. Otherwise you may NOT live to regret going onto a foolish expedition.




  1. Don’t partake of the brain. That way kuru might lie (spongiform encephalopathy). Also known as the laughing disease.

    Comment by David(Magpie) — May 30, 2012 @ 08:29 | Reply

    • Not given to paranoia, neither am I a cat, I’ll partake in anything. Just don’t tell me (beforehand) it’s brain.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — May 30, 2012 @ 13:27 | Reply

  2. Having raised a young man myself, I learned long ago not to come between him and his dinner. I don’t know if the whole protein kick is as popular in UK as it is in US, but here it seems to be touted as the way to build muscle and lose fat. I think I’m more of a bread girl, which may explain why I’m getting mushy. Must kick up the protein.

    Comment by writingfeemail — May 30, 2012 @ 10:12 | Reply

    • Funny you should mention bread. Suppose must be the French element in you.

      In mainland Europe, as you will know, bread is a NATURAL part of a meal. In Britain it’s an UNnatural part of the meal. I call it “portion control”. It’s a ploy:They fill you up with bread before the first course arrives. So you will not notice how small the portions to follow. And by the time you receive the bill you will not compute that they have charged you for the bread.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — May 30, 2012 @ 13:25 | Reply

  3. The above writing is rather dreamlike in its surrealness, and given the hour it was written I do wonder if you were “sleep-writing”, similar to a somnambulist. Either that or you had a whopper of a headache that brought you to your screen. I hope by the time you read this message that you managed to take a few Motrin and returned to a nice restful sleep.

    As to the order of who gets eaten first, I’ll have to think about it a bit more. The world of science wasn’t exactly enlightened in the days of Vasco da Gama. Back then, the plumper varieties were generally better off in life’s station, and so the rationale of eating the thin ones might have had more to do with class distinction (eat the peasants first if need be) than one of protein. But I’m just guessing.

    And on that note, I think I’ll skip breakfast this good morning…

    Comment by Phil — May 30, 2012 @ 12:02 | Reply

    • Thank you, Phil, for being so complimentary of my writing. It wasn’t a headache. I don’t get headaches. More is the pity. I’ve got an aneurysm in the making.

      The reason I am up at ungodly hours is simple. I am not a child any longer. The young will sleep through thunder and lightning. What wakes me at ungodly hours can only be called ‘noise pollution’. Took me months and months and months to find the source. Holmes to my Sherlock – and only last night – had my suspicion confirmed.

      Before I talk to the culprit I need to compose myself. No one has ever said to me: “You are so beautiful when you are angry.” With good reason. I wouldn’t know this but have been told, throughout my life, that when I go even vaguely ballistic my eyes fire. That’s the disadvantage of having dark brown eyes. Blue ones are steely (or watery), green ones are green. And brown ones frighten even those you love. Yes. Call 999 for the noise police. The bugger is a big two storey restaurant just opposite me. One member of staff, possibly a cleaner, arrives any time between two and six in the morning. On a motorbike. The bike’s noise easily assimilated into my next dream. Once he/she inside the restaurant’s alarm goes on. Briefly. Long enough for me to be vertical again and write another post.

      I don’t often dwell on “good old times” but in the good old times there were no alarms. And If there had I’d been either Clint Eastwood or Lee Van Cleef shooting the settings (not the person) to bits. Let calm descend once more.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — May 30, 2012 @ 13:11 | Reply

      • Ah noise pollution. I remember it from the days when I was living in New York City. We had an apartment in Chelsea, and I remember thinking, as did others when we took it, how nice to have a really nice supermarket as a ground floor tenant in our building – how convenient! That is, until we realized that the trash and all empty cardboard boxes would be moved to the curb at 3 am, followed by a parade of city garbage trucks that started lining up around 4 am with their compactors whining away for a good half hour. Each and every day – save for Sunday. I’ve brown eyes too, and wonder if they conveyed a similar expression…

        Comment by Phil — May 30, 2012 @ 14:57 | Reply

        • Phil, I have always wanted to casually weave into conversation the fact that I have (never) lived in New York. Breakfast at Tiffany’s, bumping into Woody Allen, weeping at Grand Central Station, downing a Manhattan. Dreamy. You name it: I’ll do it.

          Wide eyed Bambi greetings,

          Comment by bitchontheblog — May 31, 2012 @ 16:40 | Reply

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