Bitch on the Blog

October 23, 2017

Not always what it says on the tin

A rarity so rare I feel compelled to record it for posterity: I denied someone commenting on my blog publicity.

No, not for the reasons the easily excitable blogger, the overly sensitive blogger, the ones who get annoyed at anything that doesn’t tally with their opinion, will delete a comment. Not at all. The comment was perfectly ok – if somewhat missing the point and spirit of my original post. Which made it so depressing. So depressing, so dispiriting, I can’t bear it. So I moved it. I haven’t deleted it. Just made it invisible. Invisible. And thus I have learnt, for the umpteenth time in my life, that “out of sight out of mind” doesn’t work for me. No amount of stuffing into cupboards, closing the door and never opening it again will erase the taste of an initial impact – good or bad.  I might as well stick with open shelving.

Do you employ shredders – successfully?

U

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October 5, 2017

Purr

I need a reference point for reasons – in the context of this post – not important. Let’s just say that I need to put my mind to rest. Not least because my mother makes me wince every so often when she “remembers” things in my life she wasn’t even present at better than I do. Now? Now I don’t say anything any longer to correct her. Not since, about ten days ago, I sat next to a lovely lady two years my mother’s senior who was switched on, inquisitive, funny, lively – except every fifteen minutes or so she’d ask me whether I had any children. Having covered the subject of the Angel’s existence several times during our two hour wait my penny suddenly dropped. OH MY GOD. So this is how decline (ever so barely noticeable) manifests itself. No wonder my mother recently apologized to me for upsetting me profoundly. Unfortunately, what she apologized for wasn’t what I had taken offence at. WHAT the …? I left it. Thanked her for her apology. I don’t think she is interested in detail any longer. Main thing is that everything is hunky dory. “All I want is to be good with you”, she says. I do have to rejig my mind set when talking with her in future.

The reference point I need is for a period of utter chaos in my life (ca. eight/nine years or so ago). A few details a little hazy. A couple of days ago I realized that I remembered something that is, chronologically, not possible. So, anyway, and do laugh, I phoned the veterinary practice and asked whether they keep records from many years ago. Yes, they do. Great. Can you please tell me the date when my cat Bouncer (reference point) was put down?

Bloody blasted hell (and only my refined upbringing stops me from using all the swearwords I can muster to express my utter disgust at what the world of information has come to). They can’t give me the date of my OWN cat’s death over the phone because of data protection. Short of my date of birth which they didn’t request I gave the receptionist all the data she needed to conclude that I am not a Russian agent spying on myself. No doing. On top of which she kept calling me “My Lovely”. What’s wrong with the British? Emotionally stunted they proceed to call complete strangers “Love” and “Deary”.

I am now in the recovering position. Next stop on my journey through life? Extracting my own teeth.

U

October 4, 2017

No sound

Sweethearts, an hour or so ago it was half past four British Summer Time (here in Britain) and I witnessed the most amazing piece of human interaction. By body language only. Think silent movie without subtitles.

As some of you may remember my study (where my desks are) provides a room with a view. A view of a most interesting street (interesting if you are into people watching).

Yes, so three geezers in front of a pub well known (not least to tourists). When I say geezers, I mean three white guys in their, say, late forties, early fifties – pint in hand (which I only mention since four thirty is ok when you are at a wedding or a funeral yet a little early on a Wednesday, unless, of course, you need some Dutch courage). At this point difficult to gauge whether they are just a bit excitable, on edge or twitchy by nature . Down the street comes a young black guy. You know what I like about black people? Even the ones born here, the ones who have never set foot into their country of origin, have that most amazing grace when moving. They don’t even need to dance, walking will suffice to support my view. Even better that this black youngster (say, mid twenties) wore all those colours (not least yellow, red and white) that so offset contrast to their skin. Joyful comes to mind. So, yes, he was extremely well turned out – as opposed to the three white “geezers”. Anyway, all started amicably enough, if a little tense. Enter body language. I have no idea what it was about. After an initial hello it took all but two minutes to go pear shaped. Gestures were made. Fingers were pointed. Arms were folded. Slight leaning forward. The geezers that is. Black and colourful guy unmoved. Whatever ground he needed to stand he stood it. Then he walked off and away. So far so fine. Enter act two. Now the the geezers start at each other. Two clearly telling main geezer that he got it oh so wrong. Main geezer takes refuge inside pub followed by geezer two who appears to be torn as to whose side best to take to cover his own back. Geezer three remaining outside taking drags on his cigarettes as if it were his mother’s last drop of breast milk. The End. Except the sequel won’t be ending well at all.

As an aside, it’s amazing what you can observe, a couple of floors above street level, without any of the players and passers-by knowing they are being observed. No one ever looks up. Which reminds me, the other day three cars parked in front of one of the restaurants. In a no parking zone. Never mind. Rules are there to not be observed by those who can afford a hefty fine on top of their dinner. Reliably informed by the Angel that the three cars were some of the most expensive in this world (make escapes me this minute). One of their number plates read “Loser”. Loser, I ask you. There are two interpretations to this. Though only one holds water. Namely, that that guy (not least when driving down a German Autobahn with no speed restrictions) would come so close to your tail on the overtaking lane you wouldn’t be able to overlook his assessment of you. Never mind. I do not come for nothing from the country where they have means to rattle.

U

September 20, 2017

Restraining order

Thanks to  all of you who took the trouble contributing to my last post, not least Looney who I hope won’t cause himself lasting damage.

I am happy to report that my attempt at saying nothing when I have nothing nice to say is paying off. It’s grand. I feel like a violin which has lost its varnish. Soon I’ll be the vision I have always dreamed of, an elegiac Miss Havisham dressed in white and brittle lace, surrounded by hard icing on a cake never cut, cobwebs merrily reproducing, a general sense of decay and, naturally, the vital ingredient, namely silence. Which in my case is not golden. It drips with benign acid.

U

September 9, 2017

Subterfuge

One of the more painful lessons, to me, as life marches on: Learning to bite my tongue.

I don’t think I have ever been needlessly tactless (well, two occasions come to mind – I blush to this day at how thoughtless I was); however I am outspoken. No more. I shall bite my tongue till it’s bled dry. Let my wasteland be your desert.

The beauty of thought that in the privacy of your skull you may think what you like. No one knows. Brilliant. Except that, as the social beings we are, we’d like to give a thought a voice. Yes, sad day, when you start weighing expenditure of energy against gain. Just nod. And say, “Yes, yes, of course”. Yes, yes, yes, yes … Or stay silent. Do not cast a shadow of even the slightest doubt over someone’s assertion. People don’t like it. I could tell you why they don’t like it. However, do remember, see above, I am learning to bite my tongue.

Of course, and that is why my self imposed curse of biting my tongue will last no more than this post, it’s no way to live. The most basic law of physics dictates that that there needs to be friction (think thunder and lightning) for there to be a spark.

U

August 28, 2017

Nuance

Sweethearts, dearest Sweethearts. I am in danger. Of losing the plot. Let’s rephrase that: I am in danger of writing a plot no one will be able to follow.

Never mind. It’ll keep for another nightmare.

In the meantime I wrote earlier today, in answer to and occasion of an article claiming that queuing (in England) isn’t what it used to be. Thank the Lord.

“I am not British though have lived most my adult life in England.

As a nation, you take queuing too far and thus engender true unpleasantness. One of many occasions sticking out when I wasn’t even sure whether I wanted to buy fish. To be inspired I peered over the shoulders of many a person in the queue at the fish counter only to be met with a sharp, and hostile, pointer towards “the end of the queue”. Come again? What’s with being so anxious to lose “your” place? All I was doing was looking, not endangering your place in the hierarchy. As if one would.

For all their reputation of being relaxed and polite – the English most certainly are not the former, and not always the latter.”

So far none of the other commentators has told me to go home. What Brexiteers miss is that England IS my home. Well, I suppose depends how you define home. Home for me could be a hovel, a castle, the gutter in any old place (Mars, Siberia, Outer Mongolia), any country. Doesn’t matter. Home is where I am. All I need is a roof, a candle and a matchstick. No, not to burn the place down. To see where I am and what I am doing.

Yes, queues, I am all for organized chaos. Take the motherland. Go to the butchers, preferably when everyone else is going (say eleven in the morning, Blutwurst and all), go to the bakers (say between half past seven and eight in the morning when everyone wants fresh rolls). No one “queues”. Everyone knows when it’s their turn. Fine difference, don’t you think?

U

August 25, 2017

The ducking stool

Main thing in life?

Be honest. At least to yourself. Bullshitters will spend many an unhappy moment scraping off shit they inadvertently managed to stand in. No, let’s rephrase that: Bullshitters will spend many an unhappy moment sniffing shit they deliberately threw at someone else. It’s why I never touch a boomerang. You’ll have it coming.

In the spirit of which I am in awe of one of my “categories” I slammed on WordPress ages ago, namely, “Pretentious Shit”. To my chagrin, not many of my posts warrant to be categorized as pretentious shit. Never fear. Where there is muck there is bull, and where I lack – others will fill me in.

Once upon a time, someone asked me a rather strange question. That she was American is immaterial not least because she was ill disposed towards me: “Who talks like you?” Excellent question. Who talks like me? I do. Even if deemed pompous, pretentious shit. At least it’s mine rather than regurgitated other people’s shit.

Yes, so, in quest for advice I earned myself a lecture yesterday. From the Angel. I wish someone had brought me up like I did the Angel. That guy is so switched on. The error of my ways in blogland obvious and glaring. Which, considering that I should have worn sunglasses before it was too late, is glaring indeed. I will not intone as to what he had to say about social media and other crimes to humanity in general, and my particular engagement with blogging.

Hugs, hisses and kisses,

U

 

 

August 13, 2017

Pressure cooker

I am torn. Not for the first time, for the umpteenth time.

Yes, I need to write a letter (an official one). I wish I had two options but I don’t. Option Number One to tell them exactly what I think and where to fuck off. No doubt it would add hilarity to their otherwise dull day yet land me in shit big time. My aim being to come out of a hairy situation smelling like roses.

The world is full of Hypo Crazy. Sometimes I wish I’d gone into being a stylist (ref. photography).

So, in order to NOT land me in shit big time, I have to duff my cap and toe the line.

You know what the worst of writing an official letter is? You can’t employ sarcasm. No, not because it’d be wasted on the officials in question. The opposite. They’ll see it exactly for what it is. Taking the mickey. Which, privately, they may enjoy, officially they have to condemn it to the sin bin with the power of making you pay.

Thanks for listening. Am now bracing myself for keeping it all under a lid whilst simmering.

U

 

 

August 10, 2017

Best foot forward

Forget all your joys and all your problems. Imagine you were a centipede, frozen trying to remember which leg to move first.

U

August 1, 2017

Miaou

I have taken to wearing scarves. No, not Grace Kelly style. Isadora Duncan more like it. Long and floating. You’ll never know when next occasion arises you may wish to hang yourself whilst out and about. Better prepared than wanting, I say.

Why do people look in the mirror the moment before they set foot out of the house? I did earlier, and what I saw resembled an Afghan. The dog. My over the shoulder long hair accentuated by a scarf round my neck (similar colour to my hair) made me look not so much hangdog as, well, an Afghan. What dog do you resemble on a bad hair day? Not, of course, that I am not able to answer the question on your behalf. But then people do see themselves differently to how they are perceived by others. Ask Iris.

U

 

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