Bitch on the Blog

September 1, 2012

Design fault

Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 12:29
Tags: , , , , , , ,

If there is one thing which manages to slightly annoy me it’s dust. Shedding our own skin all over the place.

Dust and debris are the devil’s own invention. But then that”s what the Devil is for, isn’t he: To keep us on our toes. And vacuum cleaners’ manufacturers and their bags in business.

I wish I were Miss Havisham. Not that anyone has ever swindled me out of anything or stood me up at the altar. But Miss Havisham had grace: She was able to live with cob webs although she could have afforded a cleaner.




  1. Yeah… but she was also a little bit bonkers and didn’t go out much. I couldn’t have been doing with that moldy wedding cake in the middle of the table.

    Comment by Scarlet — September 1, 2012 @ 14:14 | Reply

    • Scarlet, not everyone has masochistic tendencies (festering and hardening wedding cake reminding you forever what could have been). I most certainly don’t. But Miss Havisham had style. No doubt about it.

      As to ‘bonkers – I have recently been called that. And it wasn’t meant in a flattering way. Which is fine. Because, as long as I flatter myself I don’t need anyone else.

      “Didn’t go out much” – yes, Scarlet: There are times and there are times in our lives. At the moment I have put myself under house arrest.


      Comment by Ursula — September 3, 2012 @ 06:26 | Reply

  2. When I first discovered that microscopic mites lived among us on every surface, my skin crawled. Then I wondered what it would look like if they didn’t exist to feed on those ‘sheds’. I’ve decided I can live with the things I can’t see. Cobwebs though, must go. Can’t have them ‘hanging around’.

    Comment by writingfeemail — September 2, 2012 @ 23:28 | Reply

    • Oh, Renee, I can’t begin to tell you the first time I saw a microscopically enhanced picture of a dust mite. I didn’t faint but was ready to leave Planet Earth and move to somewhere else in the Galaxy. I have since calmed down and live, akin to your maxim: What I can’t see doesn’t exist. Unless you have a dust allergy. Which I don’t. Though two of my siblings do. One of whom is married to the Ueberhausfrau of all times. Oh the fun my brother’s wife and I have exchanging little anecdotes in the war on dirt. My mother is not interested, never has been, in housework. She does it. But with a sort of disdain unlike my sister-in-law and I who will positively glow in the shine of our polish. Reflected glory.


      Comment by Ursula — September 3, 2012 @ 06:16 | Reply

  3. You have not seen webs or dust till you have visited the dry but beautiful land of Colorado. Do visit. Soon 🙂

    Comment by winsomebella — September 3, 2012 @ 03:14 | Reply

    • Bella, you, the photographer, will appreciate this: In autumn, late September/October, you will see the most amazing spider webs in the garden. Works of art. Like thinnest lace precariously attached between the larger plants. And the early morning dew highlighting the beauty.

      A few years ago I lived in a house with a very long, yet narrow garden. And one of those spiders having put up tent must have either had a weird sense of humour, or maybe it was overambitious: It would start weave a thread from one side of the garden to the othe, right across. How this can be achieved I do not know. But then I am not a spider. Needless to say that many a time I walked straight into it, destroying the foundation. Not on purpose. In fact, I felt rather sorry for Spider X as I used to call ‘him’. He must have been sitting in the hedge, weeping “I am getting nowhere.” Well, Spider X, not that it’s any comfort, but I do know the feeling.

      Good to hear from you again, Bella.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — September 3, 2012 @ 06:00 | Reply

  4. Speaking of dust, I am blowing off quite a bit of dust on this keyboard in order to leave a comment here. It has been a while! Hope you don’t mind if some of that dust floats your way.

    Comment by Phil — September 3, 2012 @ 13:37 | Reply

    • Phil, I will lovingly collect, package, parcel your dust – and sell it for gold

      No, let’s rephrase that: Any of your dust floating my way will be preserved on my shelves, for eternity to admire.

      Which reminds me: One of the worst moments in a museum, ever, was when I a had plane to catch out of Paris. With about five minutes left. How many people have run, and I mean RUN, the width and length of the Louvre, in search of the Mona Lisa? Without a map. I found her. Was it worth it? Yes. She smiled back at me. If only for a second. Then I was on my way.


      Comment by Ursula — September 3, 2012 @ 13:58 | Reply

      • I wonder if you had that same smug smile after finding her in such short time. I will note for the record this is the very first time anyone has ever told me they admire my dust.

        Comment by Phil — September 3, 2012 @ 14:30 | Reply

        • And then there is that awful: “I can’t see you for dust”. What the hell does that mean? Unless you wear contact lenses.

          Funny you should say, as so many do: “Smug Smile”. Was it smug? She didn’t paint herself, did she? Eye of the beholder, and all that. So glad Picasso (or heaven forbid, Dali) never painted me. I will not go inside out where imagination is taking me this minute.


          Comment by Ursula — September 3, 2012 @ 15:02 | Reply

  5. My daughter now works literally in a “clean room”. How many children do that? It is a pure dust free environment created by complex systems of air filters for a chip factory. Yesterday I filled a bucket with dust from sweeping the floors, which has me looking at industrial air filter systems again. But maybe I will just go out shopping for a vacuum robot.

    Comment by Looney — September 3, 2012 @ 17:23 | Reply

    • Looney, I hold it with ducks: A little dirt is good for us. A lot of dirt gets on my nerves. Says the woman who’d clean the house before the cleaner arrived. That cleaner was something else. She was formidable. And it takes a lot to take me down a peg. So there I was, ready to take the financial world by storm in suits that cost me more than my first month’s commission, and she’d swan in. Looking me up and down.

      All I can say, on reflection, don’t look people who pay you up and down. However, and I clearly haven’t got over this most dismal oversight of mine, some months later she gave me notice. Why? She was eight months pregnant. And I thought she was just, well, stout. By nature. Oh, did I feel ashamed of myself. I probably paid her double whack to make up for my blunder. When – some years later – I was pregnant I wasn’t fat. I just had a big proud tummy where once there was a waist. I had ankles like an elephant – waterlogged. Within hours of having given birth that water magically disappeared. In my defense I will say that whenever I saw my old cleaner on the high street again – and over the years – she always looked huge. Not that I ever inquired when her next child was due. By then she had grandchildren. How did we get onto this subject?

      Yes, dishing the dirt.


      Comment by Ursula — September 3, 2012 @ 18:17 | Reply

  6. I figure that any and all dust is proof of life. That makes dust good in my book.

    Comment by Lorna's Voice — September 4, 2012 @ 22:26 | Reply

    • Yes, Lorna, that’s one way of looking at it. As befits a Buddhist.

      However, when the time comes “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” (a most delicious and poetic notion) neither you nor I will be alive, will we?


      Comment by Ursula — September 5, 2012 @ 05:15 | Reply

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