Bitch on the Blog

July 6, 2014


Filed under: Books,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 14:00

Sweethearts, stand by to be blown away.

I have never had any ambition to publish a book. Why should I waste half my life for my readers to get to the end of my endeavours in, say, five hours flat? Which is why, and as an aside, Proust had it sussed. He stayed in bed, let his mother wait on him hand and foot. And to this day no one but no one I know (apart from myself) has ever made it to the end of his manifesto “In search of lost time”.

I am in search of lost time. In the woods. I may be a dreamer but I am not stupid. Those breadcrumbs to show me the way back out of the woods have now been blended into the Gazpacho Andaluz I am eating this minute.

Most of those of you who know me know that I HATE self help books. Which is why, no doubt and for my sins, I have just come up with the most amazing idea for the self help book of all times. It’ll be short. Because one doesn’t need that much help to scramble through the few years allocated to us.

Think consomme.



  1. I think the lack of how are you (see previous post) would mean a trust in that you would announce your condition if needs. I can’t recall my father asking me. I don’t think I asked him. We had my mother as a benchmark as she was dying of cancer for a long time (her brave choice) so an “how are you” would encourage the response to be: “you must be joking.”

    Self help? I believe in that but not if you are in charge of the management my “self”. So I avoid those books like the plague.


    Comment by wisewebwoman — July 6, 2014 @ 15:55 | Reply

    • Nice one. My mother will be worse than yours. She’ll say: “I soon won’t be”. I tried to explain to the Angel last night how the further East European you go the darker the “humoUr”. Let’s say he wasn’t amused.

      Your observation spot on: My parents trust me to tell them what’s what. However, am now, and as they get older, more and more hesitant to let on. My parents having been dragged through so much ache over the last twelve months (by my three siblings) I just feed them good news. Anyway – I am well known for being “vague” in reply to questions. I come away from conversations with family and friends only to be told that I know all about them and they still don’t know anything about me. Which is one of the reasons my youngest sister doesn’t talk to me any longer. Insert inaudible snort (mine). I don’t know what she wants from me. Clearly something I am not able to deliver. Talk about conditional love.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — July 7, 2014 @ 06:41 | Reply

  2. Well, you are the first person I know of who has admitted to even starting to read M. Proust’s tome(s). I certainly haven’t. Mind you it cannot be worse than The Satanic Verses. Apparenly those of us who have got beyond age 15 of that particular execrable verbiage are a peculiar people.

    I thought of a self help book…. full of blank pages onto which one could inscribe one’s own ideas. Otherwise known as a notebook.

    I may have mentioned before that my favourite book of the vaguely slf help genre is on purporting to hav been written by one soft toy called Eeyore. Eeyore’s Little Book of Gloom. It is somewhere around the house…it was donated to me by Youngest Son.

    Consomme? There is an art to the preparation of a good consomme as with most things that are good adjuncts this life.

    Comment by magpie11 — July 7, 2014 @ 11:48 | Reply

    • Please do see my reply to Nick.

      As to the title you mention: Whatever Rushdie’s literary merits may be I cannot abide the man. Which is why, whilst sorry to hear about his plight, I have never so much as lifted the book. I know it’s irrational. Not least for someone like me who lives/imbibes print and most certainly has little prejudice. I don’t know: Call it gut feeling: There are people who give me the creeps. And Rushdie is one of the few. Let’s hope he is not reading this.

      Eeyore on the other hand I love.He is the stuff comedians are made off. Full of sorrow for the human condition.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — July 10, 2014 @ 13:54 | Reply

      • I admit that I only read that book because I kept meeting Muslim parents who were condemning it without reading it and i wanted to be able to say that I had “So now let’s discuss it.”…..

        Have to say that he gives me the creeps too!

        I’m glad someone else see’s that Eeyore is commenting on the human condition……

        Comment by magpie11 — July 13, 2014 @ 00:04 | Reply

  3. Self help? My advice is simple – find an album you like, put on headphones and let ‘er rip.

    Comment by shackman — July 7, 2014 @ 12:18 | Reply

    • Know what you mean, Shackman. To some extent I envy people who do what you do. My son, nephews and male friends are like that. I am not. I live a life of quiet, what I call ‘natural’ noises. Say outside my study’s open windows: Chattering voices, laughter, a child crying, a van passing, a motorbike soaring.

      For some reason I can’t concentrate when music fills the air. Other than [concentrate] on the music. Which is not helpful when trying to work.

      Having said that: It’s, and I find it odd, usually in the middle of the night I don said headphones and let whatever takes my fancy rip. Other than that my son sits me down, as my father used to do, and MAKE me listen to music – not just sound but lyrics. And that’s when I live in that moment and don’t DO anything else.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — July 10, 2014 @ 13:42 | Reply

  4. Not only is it very hard work writing a book, it’s not even a money-spinner. I was reading today that the average income for a writer is around £11,000! As for self-help books, isn’t that an obvious contradiction? If you can help yourself, why do you need someone else to tell you how to do it? And as for Proust, I’ve never managed to struggle through more than a few pages of his laborious prose.

    Comment by nick — July 8, 2014 @ 19:09 | Reply

    • To be fair to those who write self help books: It’s to cut out the middle man. Be that a shrink or domestic help. So what you do is: You buy and read a self help book and try to implement. Emphasis on ‘try’. Then you find yourself a shrink whilst your domestic helps keeps the place ship shape.

      I don’t find Proust laborious. I’ll try and find a particular title which I think might appeal to you. Can’t remember this minute. Short pieces. Full of celebrating the joys of life. Will let you know.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — July 10, 2014 @ 13:31 | Reply

  5. Writing a book can be, though often isn’t, very therapeutic. I think my next one is going to be titled, “Little Men, Big Problems.” 😉

    Comment by Lorna's Voice — July 9, 2014 @ 18:07 | Reply

    • Whilst Woody Allen does amuse me I have never gone for “little” men. Which, no doubt, is the reason I have had few problems.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — July 10, 2014 @ 13:23 | Reply

      • Neither have I (gone for them). But I’ve had to work for them. Enough said…

        Comment by Lorna's Voice — July 10, 2014 @ 18:08 | Reply

        • I don’t know about Proust but I do find Dickens’ prose atedious for some reason.

          Comment by magpie11 — July 13, 2014 @ 16:40 | Reply

          • Hw’d that get there? It was in repy to Nick….

            Comment by magpie11 — July 13, 2014 @ 16:41 | Reply

          • 🙂

            Comment by Lorna's Voice — July 16, 2014 @ 14:35 | Reply

        • Working for little people of either gender is not good.

          Comment by magpie11 — July 13, 2014 @ 16:42 | Reply

  6. Self help?
    Ask a mate
    Don’t buy a soddin book

    Comment by John going gently — July 9, 2014 @ 21:47 | Reply

    • Good advice, John. However, there are mates and there are mates. I have learnt to my cost when to better keep myself to myself. However, trusting soul that I am I do have a reserve team. No, not on the back bench. Middle fielders, front players and goal keepers. People I know, by gut feeling, who will not let you step into the next invisible cow pat. People who whilst they might come down on me like a bucket of manure I’d trust with my life (yes, you included – why do you think I applied for a place in your chicken coop?).

      By way of example: Though, for obvious reasons, my son is a lot younger than me I do take his advice. I don’t always seek it. He gives it to me anyway. And doesn’t mince his words – like most people I attract into my life. And that’s good. He cuts through the crap. Doesn’t always make for good hearing. Boy oh boy, I sometimes wonder where I was all those years in the interim.

      Bunty greetings (not that I am as big as your latest acquisition),


      Comment by bitchontheblog — July 10, 2014 @ 13:19 | Reply

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