Bitch on the Blog

May 30, 2014


Filed under: History — bitchontheblog @ 20:01
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Sweethearts, cry with me.

Just found some old school reports in quest to bring order to chaos.

Whilst ‘behaviour’ was consistently marked as “Very Good”, ‘participation during lesson time’ as “interested, but too quiet”. You wouldn’t believe it, would you? I know when to hold horses and unleash dogs.

My low point no doubt the year which shall remain unnumbered when I scored so low in English and Physics even I find it hard to believe: “Her efforts in English are barely noticeable”. Fahrenheit plummeting. The same year the sky was my limit in Latin. For my sins I have spent most my adult life in England, not in ancient Rome.



What’s bred in the bone

Filed under: Amusement — bitchontheblog @ 13:02

You can’t beat it. Someone just asked me what the last word of the Old Testament is.

What do I know? By gut instinct I thought ‘curse’. But that’s unkind. So I opted for ‘Amen’.

It’s curse.


May 29, 2014

Cottage industry

Filed under: Future,High Finance — bitchontheblog @ 16:37
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My father sometimes lamented that his eldest daughter had absurd need to reinvent the wheel.

I didn’t/I don’t. But do know what he means. Anyway, have come up with most marvellous business idea. Sub title: How to go the way of least resistance.

Don’t sneer. There is no point climbing a mountain unless you know about abseiling.

The way of least resistance is smooth, and slippery. Sweethearts, wish me luck. May your ice cream not melt in anticipation.


Missing in inaction

Filed under: Amusement — bitchontheblog @ 11:07
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Sometimes I find myself like a cat wishing to spit. I have never seen a cat spit. So can only take anyone’s word for it.

My spitting taking the form of a parallel conversation (in my head, and on paper). Oh, dear Sweethearts. If you could see the vault of what I really think you and many others would shoot me into outer orbit.

I am no photographer but know, or rather have learnt, all about perspective. Perspective to either keep your mouth shut, amuse yourself with thoughts never to see the limelight, meanwhile chiselling one’s responses as not to bruise tender egos.

Yes, the tender ego. Luckily my upbringing was such that egos were encouraged. Tender? No. Definitely not. Bruising? Most definitely not. Limp if you must. But don’t let on.  Keep your mind’s hatchet in its shield.

The shocking fall out of the above: I live a double life. Not in a deceitful way. If you are my friend you are my friend. Even if you are not my friend I won’t ignore you. But fact is: When I put pen to paper, finger to keyboard I sure do have to curb myself.

In about thirty, fourty years’ time (faculties permitting) I shall open that treasure trove of mine. I can already predict who will be amused and who won’t.

Hugs and hisses,


May 27, 2014

Nailing it

Filed under: Amusement,Errors — bitchontheblog @ 14:37
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This morning I taught myself how to use and transfer something onto a memory stick. It only took me half an hour. Don’t laugh. Not all of us are whizzkids in that department. I am still in awe of myself that I managed to muster the interest, the patience never mind conquer the stick.

Next is revival of my printer. It’s a good printer, it’s an old printer and now it wants to go into retirement. Which is all well and good, except I never put a pension plan for it into place so it’s in intensive care and I keep saving up for a new one. In the meantime I am in limbo. Yes, I know printers are cheap. But you know … It’s all relative.

Gripped by this morning’s memory stick success I googled my printer’s ailment. Oh dear. Sweethearts. Men. And they are exclusively men – lovingly filming how to clean printer heads (yea, if only one could get them out). And maybe it’s not even the problem anyway!

It’s fascinating to what lengths some people will go to fix the smallest thing. Fact is, by the time I have bought all the cleaning gear and spent the time I might as well buy a new one. No, it’s not quite on par with purchasing a new Rolls Royce when the ashtray is full. It’s fight for survival.

Little will defeat me. In fact my one marvellous and scientifically proven ability, shared with only 1 % of the British population, that I have genius when it comes to solving problems by unusual means. Really? Unusual problems yes. But what of bread and butter problems?

Back to those men and their finely tuned instructions. They will go into such loving detail and then tell you to take the what’s it out. Pardon? What’s a what’s it? And even if I can locate it HOW do I “take it out” without further damage? It’s like telling a child without either feet or solid ground to walk.

I once had a book “One hundred things a woman doesn’t need a man for”. Why I bought I cannot recollect. I had never any intention of rehanging a door. A door hangs where a door hangs, and if not perfect remind yourself of those people in your life who mean something to you and are so imperfect you wouldn’t mind (re) hanging them.

And before you say anything: Once upon a time I was the proud owner of a sander. And used it.

There was also one chapter on, this is for the gentlemen among you: “Stripping with a steamer”. I have fond memories of  stripping with a steamer. Industrial strength. OH MY GOD. I enjoyed that. I am not talking some a flimsy room. I am talking a big Victorian house with high ceilings and layers of wallpaper having accumulated over nearly a hundred years. Who needs a gym? You steam ahead, you are left knee deep with debris – and then that most delicious moment when you make order out of chaos again. To be left with a blank canvas. Which I tend to leave to others to fill.

The most irritating thing about being a woman, and I am strong, that you will never ever match a man’s upper arms’ muscle strength. So, there: We have now identified one thing women do need men for.

Looking back (in fact I have just found it again on my shelf) the reason I bought the book most likely because on the front cover there is that epitome of a fine figure of a woman: Think, I don’t know, Fifities, Sixties: Long blond wavy hair, buxom, nipped in waist, short flowery apron, high heels, sitting on a ladder, roller in hand – no doubt, and so it should be (and I mean it) having a G&T at the ready for her husband’s imminent arrival from a day’s hard work to conquer the world and its dog.

Strange when I think about it: I am so very fond of that image, yet here I am insisting to struggle with my blasted printer on my own. Please do feel free to take over.

So enchanted am I by my narrative I got carried into the over six hundred word count.

Have hammer, will nail,



May 15, 2014


Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 13:34
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I never wish I had tuberculosis. But a stint in a sanatorium in Davos/Switzerland wouldn’t go amiss. No, forget the sanatorium. A hotel will do. Make that a chalet.

Now I know the English think mentioning one’s nerves pretentious. Never mind. I am not English. And my nerves are so frazzled round the edges I don’t need all that bloody sea air around me. I need a mountain. Drawback being that one has to climb a mountain. Which is fine. It’s the coming down at the zenith. Consolation being cheese fondue or Raclette awaiting you back in the valley. And Kirsch.

Which reminds me, apropos nerves: I once smashed a five star bathroom basin in a hotel overlooking Lake Geneva which inspired Deep Purple (I think) to write their “Smoke on water”.  It wasn’t murder, not even manslaughter. It was self defence. My weapon being my amazingly loaded vanity case. I didn’t call it ‘vanity case’ at the time. But it sure was. And thus I learned that a tonne of vanity and anger combined leaves you with a smashed washbasin. No one could have been more surprised than myself.

By the time we came back from dinner on the terrace the hotel had replaced the wash basin. That’s the Swiss for you.

Yes, nerves. Let’s hope I’ll keep mine till the next delivery.


May 10, 2014

Down the gully

Filed under: Beauty — bitchontheblog @ 07:34
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I am no fag hag. Or whatever they are called. Yet gay men fascinate me. Maybe some sort of defense mechanism to keep the straights at arm’s length.

As I have cried at your assorted shoulders before not that long ago a man (gay, naturally) wooed me. A woman likes to be wooed. Indeed I, woman, will woo a man. One. Anyway, it all went pearshaped with gay guy and I wasn’t so much put onto the compost heap as landfill.

Where was I? In our local co-op (cornershop) yesterday evening. The city I live in being a university town, the air wafting with young blood.

I don’t stare. Or gawp. Yesterday I gawped and stared. Sometimes you come across, I don’t know, ‘beauty’? No, it wasn’t beauty. A sort of ethereal quality – so artificial as not to be defined. Medium long blond – clearly dyed – hair, make up to the hilt, trousers even I wouldn’t wear in public. A vision. For those of my readers excitable: There was nothing sexual about my wonderment. The guy could have been my son. I don’t mean MY son but age wise.

Yes, beauty strikes where it strikes.

Anyway, on return home – son assuming I’d gone awol (absent without leave) – I related the encounter. Asked him, since the Angel is more streetwise than me. Questions like that will get you all the disdain you deserve. “What do you think, Mama? Of course he is gay.”

OK. Yet another loss to womankind.

I shall knit this into another thought – about beauty. In both the heterosexual and gay man. With and without mascara and eyeliner. And trousers to die for. Think Saville Row.

What fairy land did I live many years ago? Why does everything come to my attention NOW?


May 8, 2014


Filed under: History — bitchontheblog @ 02:16

I am in wonderment of how humans do connect, don’t connect.

I don’t detest anyone – not really. But there is one person, and I remember the first time I heard his voice after having set foot into Britain. My god. As you know I do go by gut instinct. That voice (and I haven’t heard it for ages) echoes in my ears. I cannot claim to understand the ins and outs of his politics. For that I am too far removed. Yet I do smell a rat when I hear one.

It’s odd. And I can’t say I like myself for it but do have strong urge to punch the guy in the face.


I leave it to you (not that it is that interesting) to work out who,  currently in the news and under scrutiny, has brought out the less desirable in me.


May 5, 2014


Filed under: Happiness,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 11:02
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Do you know the way how people in your life make you groan (I nearly wrote grown – that’s English for you; you mean one thing, you spell it like the other – no wonder the nation is going to the dogs. Make mine a cat. Stirred not shaken.)

Yes, other people making me groan (inwardly). If I had to dissect anyone close and of remote interest to me  I could list and describe a rainbow of  their usual gripes, woes and happiness. And how they express them. A bit like a fingerprint of their soul (or should that be sole? Leather or fish?).

It’s endearing. Familiarity most certainly  – in my eyes – does not breed contempt. Familiarity envelopes you like a favourite blanket,  whether cashmere or sackcloth.

I make MYSELF groan in joyful recognition of yet another of  MY recognizable footprints in either the written or the spoken word. Hell’s Bells. The hunchback of Notre Dame has nothing on me.

As long as I don’t go deaf on myself I am yours, predictably, reliably, the odd crack and cold water notwithstanding,


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