Bitch on the Blog

August 27, 2012


Filed under: Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 11:37
Tags: , ,

As bodily functions of the involuntary kind go you can’t beat a sneeze. Or two. Or three. In quick succession

And no I am not allergic to anything.



August 25, 2012


Filed under: Food — bitchontheblog @ 22:55

Vegetarians, look away now. This is not a pretty sight.

I have eaten rabbit – in Spain. I am not squeamish.  Whilst I have never killed anything that makes a sound there was a time I collected worms in the early morning dew, my grandfather showing me how to thread them on a hook and how to kill a fish. I was very young. And it’s a life skill I am grateful for should I ever find myself on a desert island. Fish are easy to dispatch. And no one loves fish more than this mermaid.

Years later, in my early twenties, I was given a rabbit. It was skinned and gutted. So no hardship there. I put it in the fridge. If there is one thing that can be said about rabbits it’s that their bodies resemble that of a cat. I like cats. A fridge will do what a fridge will do. Refrigerate. The dish the rabbit was in had a lid on.

Readers, no, I didn’t get married neither did I roast the rabbit. I let it fester. In the fridge. What a fine forensic pathologist I would have made.

Let’s leave it there. That poor poor rabbit never met its destiny. I binned it complete in vessel. Without lifting the lid to pour over the damage. Yes, that long and bad.


August 24, 2012


Filed under: Gymnastics — bitchontheblog @ 04:14

Funny how some people click, some run together idle on neutral, and a few are positively irritating. I know someone is irritating (to me) when a strong urge to punch them comes over me. Luckily, whilst impulsive, I do have self control. And all the people I want to punch are in cyber space. There but not here.

For some time there has been a blog person who so irritates the hell out of me I latch onto her rarely – other than when I need to scratch my irritability itch. If she weren’t so delicate she’d definitely qualify for a good punch. Most interesting that whilst she is a wilting flower she is as hard as nails. Rarely have I known a person I dislike more. And no, it’s not you. It’s you.

Yes, chemistry. I slept through most my chemistry (and physics) lessons with the dismal results to be expected: Swotting like crazy, and through the night, before an exam.  Unfortunately my chemistry teacher was also my Maths teacher and when I joined the school, mid lesson, he hated me at first sight. If there is one man in my life who ruined aspects of it it’s him. He is dead now. Serves him right.

What’s there to mind about a dwarf with a glass eye and a passion for math? Nothing. I could have lived with him (in the classroom) perfectly well. Yet, to him I was that glug of oil that wouldn’t mix with his water. Interesting, very. Ponder.

Anyway, I have now devised the perfect way of how to teach tired teenagers chemistry. Forget about your Bunsenbrenner. No, I will not tell you a system so perfect I wish I were headmistress and could run my school’s own labs. I can guarantee you one thing: If that system were in place you’d graduate with an A*. All of you. And me.

And by the way: PB (Plumbum), lead, was my favourite element.


August 23, 2012

Hypo Crazy

Filed under: Ethics — bitchontheblog @ 11:37

The old and eternal question: What comes first? The egg or the hen? Forget about the rooster for a moment. He is busy announcing dawn.

Moral dilemma: You stand at the fish counter. Several fine specimens of the endangered on the slab. Do you buy because they are caught, dead and gutted already or do you have a cheese fondue tonight instead?

The press: The much maligned. What comes first: Supply or demand? People squeal over privacy, paparazzi. Well, Sweethearts, the bad news is that it’s you, the customer, who buys those papers. Who reads that which you will later complain about. That which feeds the inner monster craving a little more sensationalism, that which will satisfy you because your own lives are unblemished. Pull the other one. I freely admit that I do buy fish that’s already dead. I don’t read drivel. Even if it fills half the paper I pay good money for. What are fingers for if not to turn those pages which are of no consequences to anyone.

And, since you are asking, I don’t like Tom Cruise.



Filed under: Communication — bitchontheblog @ 04:51

Bike Hike Babe made me think (not for the first time) by mentioning monastery and vow of silence.

Let’s forget that I’d rather lose my tongue than my eyesight (for obvious reasons). The tongue, much underrated – other than when you go to the doctor, kiss someone or need to eat – being vital to speak.

Lost myself in thought here. Before I get on ‘locked in syndrome’, another of my nightmares, let us stay with communication. Remember: We are talking vow of silence. Why oh why oh why would anyone wish to suppress that which comes natural? Speak to each other, communicate.

But then, maybe, those who take those vows have nothing to say. Or are so oppressed, supressed, depressed they’d rather be quiet than partake in normal human exchange.  Come to think of it, BHB: So those monks who refuse themselves by not talking do they shut their ears to – in no particular order – seagulls (you can’t shut them up) or music (the most divine that most my friends and the Angel listen to as a form of nourishment to feed the soul)?

We were given language for a reason. Even a lion yawns.


August 22, 2012


Filed under: Gymnastics — bitchontheblog @ 05:13

Being curious my boredom threshold is as high as my pain threshold. Olympian.

However, when exhausted you couldn’t sink much lower. Give me morphine instead.


August 21, 2012

Living happily ever after in a lunatic asylum

Filed under: Errors — bitchontheblog @ 16:27
Tags: ,

Sweethearts, I’ll have to shut up shop. Am in meltdown. After a two hour soul searching phone conversation with my father, cut short by my batteries dying, I thought 40 winks before the Angel returns awaiting dinner would be the ticket.

It was the ticket. To insanity. I devised most perfect plot – on TV. Except when I opened my eyes the TV wasn’t even on. So now I’ll never know the end.

Am going mad.

Hugs and kisses,


In mourning

Filed under: Beauty — bitchontheblog @ 08:36
Tags: , ,

Hate to admit it. But truth will come out like a zit on your teenage nose. At an inopportune moment. Waiting to be busted. Only to leave you with an even worse, and bleeding, crater. The type that no concealer will conceal.

Come to think of it concealers are the con men of the beauty industry. Don’t argue with me. I know. I am currently out of circulation since my skin has erupted in ways I didn’t know were possible outside a Lepers’ colony. It’s fascinating. You go through life unblemished. And at the worst possible time (like now) when still young and beautiful, yes really, I turn into my own version of a  nightmare.

Anyone with designs on visiting me: Forget it. I have put myself under house arrest till this is over. Will it be OVER? EVER? I have to hand it to the dermatologist, not the brightest spark in the circuit: Apparently it’s stress induced. Whatever that means. I don’t do ‘stress induced’ – the whole of mankind runs on adrenaline. Otherwise nothing would get done. And we’d long be dead in the cave. And if there is one thing to induce stress – by which I mean upset and DIS stressed – it’s when you can’t pacify your skin.

As I said before: See you in a mudbath. We’ll all be the same colour.

Damn. Damn. Damn and damn.

The above was NOT the point of this post. As usual I got carried away instead of telling you what I wanted to tell which I have now forgotten.

Share the pain. Isn’t that what Americans say? Don’t. Please don’t. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. God damn it. And I am not even vain. I am just used to being beautiful.


August 20, 2012


Filed under: Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 18:55
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I don’t like people who count pennies. Yes, that does include the most delicious of James Bonds, Sean Connery.

I am cooking dinner and the radio station I am listening to is playing: “I can’t get no satisfaction.” Well, Mick. I am not surprised. Give me Keith Richards any time.


August 19, 2012


Filed under: Errors — bitchontheblog @ 20:02
Tags: ,

I live in a rather lively area of the city. In more ways than one. Upmarket.  A little wonky during the night. And on the way between town and the harbour. So apart from the restaurant trade there is a lot of through traffic. On foot.

Remember: I wake easily and I have a vantage point. No, I am not a curtain twitcher. Mainly because I don’t have curtains. But you can’t ignore people’s plight. The Angel has strictly forbidden me to go downstairs and intervene in any fights but call the police instead. Which I have done three times over the last year. Yes, that’s how exciting life is. The only time I didn’t [phone the police] was when a guy was beaten to a pulp, and I mean pulp, at four in the morning  and I couldn’t find the fucking phone. Still feel awful about that. I did follow it up but there was no report of damage either with A&E or the police. His corpse probably been concreted into the road works going on at the time.

By way of intro to this post the above is abysmal, and budding writers do take note: That’s not the way to get your readers’ attention.

I am not a lady in lavender but have recently taken to most questionable fancy: Watching, mostly British,  crime. Give me Poirot (David Suchet) and I am your Belgian truffle, melting in his hand. Give me Miss Marple and I wish I lived where she does. Or in Oxford: Lewis and the most gorgeous Hathaway (gorgeous not only on account of how a suit hangs so very well off him but because he is so educated, eloquent, witty, dry, let’s not get carried away). Where was I? Crime.

Here is a most vexing question: When all those detectives and prosecuting lawyers ask witnesses and suspects a question how come they always know the time and any other detail? And what was missing off the mantle piece or a wall.  I am a pretty observant person but I can tell you for a fact that I’d be useless. Absolutely useless. Who wore what when? Who ate what? Who spoke to whom? I haven’t got the faintest idea. Which – come to think of it – makes me an ideal victim.

Stab me now.


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