Bitch on the Blog

June 13, 2018


Filed under: Adults,Amusement,Children,Family,Fun — bitchontheblog @ 12:09
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Just came across an article (not in the English press) about that sweet pain you feel when, as an adult, you tread, barefoot and in the dark, on a piece of Lego – or some such. A pain that I have never encountered despite being a devoted mother.

The article then goes on about how to make a child’s room tidy. Tidy? What is it with adults and TIDY? Strange when you think about it: An artist is excused for paint and canvas flying all over the place, professors are expected to be scatter brained putting the goose into the fridge instead of the oven, writers if pressed won’t know what time of the day it is never mind the day, yet children have to be tidy. I will expand on the outrageous demands being made on children another time.

In the meantime I remember my father once walking into the room my sister and I deemed our empire (in today’s prat lingo – private space). If my sister were five then I was eleven. So he came into our room. Nothing untoward till he opened our cupboard. I remember the moment. The cupboard was painted baby blue and was about the height of a man slightly taller than my father.

Yes. Dreamy … Sunday afternoons are designed for fathers to find something to do.

It was one of the more astonishing moments of my childhood when he turned over the cupboard, decanting all our precious belongings into the middle of the room, amounting to a heap of epic height, putting the (now empty) cupboard back upright and told us to TIDY up (in the motherland’s lingo it sounds more frightening).

I don’t think either of us cried. More like, we thought “What a ….” Not of course that either of us spoke English at the time or had the vocabulary to put what seemed a little OUT of ORDER into words.

Inspection two hours later most satisfactory.  For him.




June 5, 2018

794 words

The last few days haven’t been good. I shouldn’t admit to it since those who are less than well disposed towards me will make good use of it.

Still, shame is mine, so admitting to having made a mega mistake serves me right.

The Angel thinks blogging isn’t good for me, isn’t my medium. He was pretty pissed off seeing me under the weather because of some blogging fockers making me into something I am not. What the Angel doesn’t understand is that I don’t mind the fockers. Let them gorge themselves on my innards. What’s it to me? I can go without. The prospect of forty days in the desert amounting to bliss. Make it eighty.

No, what pisses me off big time and put me out of sorts the last few days that people in blogland can make up any old story about you. Well, I suppose even that is digestible. What upset me the most how one Rachel turned on me, again, just as I thought she and I had turned a corner. It was good while it lasted.

Over the years I got to know her, via her blog and comments she left on others, I often thought her vaguely unhinged; so are many people. Doesn’t make them lepers to be avoided. But to actually, on the strength of one post of mine nothing to do with her (now deleted), to get her claws out again, her throwing my offer of friendship aside,  is unsettling. And yes, upsetting. I replied something to the effect that she isn’t the center of my universe and that that post was actually addressing someone else. Didn’t wash. It’s incredible that someone thinks all revolves around them. I suppose a psychologist would have field day. Which reminds me … oh dear, now I am laughing. Why I am laughing is for that circle to never find out (I am sworn to silence) and for me … well, laugh, I suppose. Yes, Circle Sweethearts, you don’t know the half of it. In the meantime stick to Chloe.

Yes, Chloe. She is an interesting character. I am not saying that because John and Rachel have decreed that I am Chloe.

Chloe is a character in her own right. She is a thorn in some sides. To the tune that some call her a troll. As we all know any self respecting blogger does have to have a troll. A bit like the Sculptor who – beast that he is – grabbed me, in despair and absence of anyone else, to be able to claim that he has a stalker. Stalkers (ask Nick – he reads all the right papers and magazines) are the latest fashion accessory. If you can’t claim you are being stalked you amount to nothing, nada, zilch. In absence of a real life stalker just make one up, a bit like what sculptors do. Making it up. With their chisel.

Back to Chloe. Whilst often I don’t get her point (say, when she mentions that Rachel, Cro and John are old – what’s that got to do with the price of cheese?), she also delivers some absolute pearls. Laugh out loud pearls. And she appears to be well read, intelligent. Yesterday, she recommended Rosa von Praunheim to John. John who doesn’t know whether he or his bulldog Winnie has farted, can’t differentiate one bit of snot from another, immediately dismissed her suggestion to google RvP. That’s what he does. Dismiss. Think again, John. Rosa (not his real name, his assumed name) did make films. Acclaimed films. Maybe that is what brought him to Chloe’s mind considering that your blog is called “Disasterfilm”. Or maybe the fact that Rosa is gay.  Which influenced material matter of his films. What the hell am I doing? Next I know Chloe will berate me for second guessing her intentions. Never mind. I am getting it from all sides. One more won’t matter.

Lost my thread there. Yes, Rachel. I am upset that dinghy overturned. Wonder what would have happened, as has many times in my life on account of my father’s career us moving every five minutes, if I had come up to her, on my first break in my new school, never shy being forward: “Would you like to be my friend?” She’d probably spat at me.  Her being full of fear, suspicion. Always seeing the bad instead of giving the good a chance. Fast forward a few decades and something that never happened to me has happened to me. Rejected outright. Maybe Chloe will have me.

I’ll shed one more tear on behalf of Rachel gone wrong and then put her – between John and Nick – into my hall of shame. The key is under the mat.

Hugs, hisses and general disenchantment,


April 5, 2018


My trusted lot, I need your help.

I have just come across a blog post that is so wrong about gender on so many levels if I don’t watch it I’ll turn into one known Canadian who has most forceful, convincing and obvious views on that subject (and many others) – and let rip.

So what do I do? Do I use my full arsenal (Alternative Comment Box) on my own turf and put my argument, or do I just slink away in the firm knowledge that whatever I’ll say, no matter how well reasoned,  will make no difference on the blogger’s-in-question outlook on life?

Question Number Two: Do you think there is a cut-off-point in terms of age when you leave the older generation and their blogs/opinions just to it? Is it kind or is it cruel to keep shtum, not challenge them and bite on a piece of well seasoned driftwood in order to stifle your screams instead?



March 18, 2018

Writing on the Wall

I have just eaten an apple. It’s what I do in my spare time.

The apple was fairy tale red, crunchy to the point of hard. I am inconsolable to report that unlike Snow White no piece of apple lodged in my throat. I am alive and typing. I do appreciate the grief this will cause some inhabitants of blogland. Imagine I’d fallen asleep for one hundred years.  The good news that no prince is required to kiss me back into full bloom.

I eat my apples, always have, core and all, right down to the woody bit which even I find unappealing. In pensive moments one of my mother’s more dire warnings – about how best to avoid misfortune – pops into my mind. Namely, that if you eat and swallow an apple’s pips they either (depending on her mindset on the day) log into one of your organs and you’ll have to have your appendix out (don’t say my dear sweet mother didn’t approach her teachings in a scientific way) or, and this was and still is, more disconcerting, those pips will take root and you have apple tree shoots coming out of all your face’s orifices; your mouth and ears, she never mentioned my nose (she did have limits; I do need to breathe), for all the world to see that you have eaten, despite stern advice against the practice, apple pips. Who needs a vengeful all seeing god when all you need are pips?

Do my readers have their own little attempts at pulling the wool over our big eyes to share, not least those which left you feeling exposed to forces of nature you weren’t able to fight when a child – other than, obviously, NOT swallowing apple pips.

Sunday greetings,



December 17, 2017

Dashed hope

The notion doesn’t just belong to Christmas. Though I did come across the subject in the context of it. Presents. Or should that read “expectations”?

What would you have liked to be given at any time, at any occasion, at any stage of your life – but didn’t? Worse, what were you given though you didn’t want it? Whilst you mull over both those questions so will I.


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