Bitch on the Blog

September 22, 2015

Pencils in the Ritz (London)

Filed under: Amusement — bitchontheblog @ 14:12
Tags: ,

In wake of my last post had a thought (they [thoughts] easy to come by).

How come that we take writing more seriously than spouting by talking? Let’s forget for a minute that the word vanishes in the wind – particularly when no one is listening – whilst the written is, obviously, written. That’s where my waste PAPER basket comes in handy.

My father, a meticulous man with a desk so tidy to scare the shit out of you, used to have a MASSIVE mega waste paper basket. He called it Ablage 13. Ablage means “file”. You get the drift. As humour goes I thought it some sort of self awareness.

Yes, where was I? No idea. The Angel this very minute eating cake (as forced in the motherland) and drinking coffee by the gallon (as forced in the motherland) at my parents’ table. Oh my god.

Coffee and cake – one of the reasons i fled the motherland. Only to swap the motherland with afternoon tea and cucumber sandwiches {thinly sliced, no crust). Do not ever think you can escape your destiny. One way or another stuff will be stuffed down your throat.




  1. Yes, coffee and cake. Years ago Andy and I visited his relatives in Finland and had to eat in every house we went to. That’s enough to make one unsocial.

    Comment by cheerfulmonk — September 22, 2015 @ 19:53 | Reply

    • Yes, I have to say – and it is somewhat unkind of me – some people will make you eat whether you like it or not. One of my sisters would cut and serve the most extraordinary slices (in size) without asking. Naturally, if you (or me) couldn’t finish it she’d take it as an affront as to her baking/cooking skills. A little trying and tiring after a while.

      Never mind. Eighteen months ago she left that large family she craved (and got) to their own devices. Can’t believe it. It really is the pits.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — September 22, 2015 @ 20:11 | Reply

  2. If you don’t object, I’ll link to this post — because of the Ablage 13 — in my post tomorrow. The link is in right now but I can easily take it out.

    Comment by cheerfulmonk — September 22, 2015 @ 21:00 | Reply

  3. Catching up. Angel in the thick. Writing more substantial than talk. Worry. Of course.


    Comment by — September 22, 2015 @ 22:04 | Reply

    • Now now, WWW, don’t you start with my staccato telegram style. Following you closely. Keep up the good spirit. Wish you didn’t live in that confounded so far land you chose.

      Good to hear from you, appreciate that you take the time reading,


      Comment by bitchontheblog — September 23, 2015 @ 01:30 | Reply

  4. No, you can not. Emigrate to India and you will really know how it works. Better, if you have some Brits of Indian origin closeby, visit them and make friends with them. Tell them an Indian from India suggested this course of action.

    Comment by rummuser — September 23, 2015 @ 00:48 | Reply

    • You have sparked an idea there, Ramana. Never thought about it/analyzed it before. Where I live there are many Indians. In fact, a year ago I managed to spill all my money (in coins) over the pavement – unnoticed by me (don’t ask) – and a young Indian woman with her baby in the pushchair picked it up and ran after me. Very sweet. We got talking at length (one of my USPs – there is no such thing as a SHORT conversation with me) and she gave me her telephone number so we could arrange to meet again.

      But, on the whole, Indians appear to keep themselves to themselves. Yes, they will smile when you smile at them when passing. And yet … I don’t know … they keep their distance. On the other hand – and I am ashamed to admit my ignorance – who exactly is Indian? We do have the most magnificently dressed men and women of Asian descent (Indian?) and totally Westernized … who? Whilst approachable to a degree which can, at times, be a little inconvenient I am not always completely sure about someone’s origin. And say what you may most people are hugely sensitive as to their origin. Origin? I have been rubber stamped as Polish by some UK Bureau Crazy. Which is fine. And I understand. After all, going by my passport photograph I do have the facial bone structure of a typical Eastern European. See where I am going with this, Ramana?


      Comment by bitchontheblog — September 23, 2015 @ 01:24 | Reply

  5. […] enough, Ursula’s father uses the term — in German, of course. Ablage […]

    Pingback by File 13 | — September 23, 2015 @ 06:00 | Reply

  6. Ablage 13? Sounds like a title for a novel about some future Dystopia…
    My favoured method of filing of unwanted circulars and other Bumf was simple PIOTFAW followed by WPB…. Put it over there for a while and Waste paper basket.
    As for being fed (aka stuffed): I had a friend, unfortunately in the past tense, who always left something on the plate. “Out of politeness and to show that I had had sufficient.” as she explained it to me. Feeding etiquette, as with drinking, is variable. “If a man refuses a drink then it is illmanners to press him.” my father’s words.

    Comment by magpie11 — September 23, 2015 @ 11:56 | Reply

    • True about drink, Magpie. However, to be pressed to eat and eat it ALL out of politeness … well, no. There is such a thing as portion control. And I’d rather control my own portion. Actually, let’s rephrase that: My appetite and my stomach control how much I can eat.

      I was very lucky with my upbringing. It was ok to leave things on the plate when either you were full (how vulgar) or didn’t like it. Apart from genes possibly the reason that I have never ever in my life had to or wanted to go on a “diet”. Neither was I subjected to the ridiculous “Think of the Biafra children”.

      Mind you, having said that and in all fairness, the mother of my then bestest friend loved having me round for meals. Apart from her once a week disgusting what’s it (can’t remember the name now) I ate. I ate and I ate. As only a hungry teenager can. Why her joy? Because my friend, her only child and daughter, was a bulimic/anorexic in the making. Reason? Well, even to my innocent seventeen years old it was obvious that food had become a battle ground, a power battle between mother and daughter.

      Funny thing though and this is an anecdote I have just reheated: Once upon a time my friend’s parents went away for the weekend and left us to our own devices. Oh dear. Still laughing at the memory. What did we do, or rather what SHE suggest? “Let’s cook”, she said. We cooked like a storm. It was ridiculous. We cooked we could have fed an army. The kitchen that greeted my friend’s mother on her return was a mess if ever there was one. Yet, mum was delighted. Thought me a really good influence on her daughter.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — September 23, 2015 @ 13:05 | Reply

  7. I think it’s called “hosting” this ritual of drink/food – I’m sure all over the world, people practice it. I prefer to go to a cafe/coffee place and each get what they want – then the chatter unfolds

    Comment by cedar51 — September 27, 2015 @ 07:40 | Reply

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