Bitch on the Blog

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

Advertisements

May 4, 2017

All is well

This morning I woke with a sense of foreboREdom. Don’t believe a word of it.

Package it as you like. I woke with a sense of doom. I didn’t so much have a head rush (when you get up from your seat too quickly), I was positively faint with my heart racing me to death’s door. Nothing unusual in that: Healthy specimen that I am, my body has always played out my psyche to its soma. I am sure there is a reason we have a solar plexus. If only to keep us nauseous.

Anyway, as usual, my optimism was surpassed by reality three hours later. And to think I nearly cancelled the appointment because I didn’t trust my balance to make it.

Never mind. It’s not the end of the world. And I’ll live – just in case you were hoping I’d leave you alone any time soon. I won’t. I won’t see you for dust. Or, maybe, I’ll see you, myself and the rest of the world more clearly. Which would be good, a great relief and a great saver of wasted energy.

Made me think, on my way back, how hope makes you postpone the evil moment. Because, as long as you don’t hold eye contact with reality, there is always that chimera “Hope”. I know people who have wasted their whole lives waiting in hope which, essentially – and please do contradict me if you think otherwise – constitutes the con of all cons.

Onwards and upwards,

U

April 20, 2017

Ship shape

Filed under: Amusement,Dizzy,Happiness,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 15:34
Tags: , , , , , ,

Don’t ask for my star sign since I do not wish you running to the hills, screaming and abandoning me. There are only twelve months in the year and someone has to occupy one of them. Well. Never mind. On which painful note: Father of son who is a Gemini through no fault of his own would leave the table (forget any guests) as soon as the subject turned to astrology which – invariably – when his sister was present it would. On the whole I had him down as rational with a sense of largely absent humour – but give him astrology, Catholicism and Americans and you have another thing coming. This is not withstanding that for the last twenty odd years he has been married to a Catholic American who is interested in astrology (no not me – my successor who, on succession, became a good friend of mine). She is a miracle worker.

Yes, so this post has nothing whatever to do with astrology (of which please do tell me what you think) but all to do with the fact that I like chaos. Chartered chaos, organized chaos, gentle disorder by another name. Why? Because (being the star sign I am) little gives me more satisfaction than making order out of the aforesaid dire. Both my desk and my study/office in general are witness to this. I let books and papers pile up till they make more waves than me being at sea. Sweethearts, oh the satisfaction, as – just now – when I blitz the place.

i can’t tell you how marvellous it is to suddenly spring into action of the most ruthless kind – my waste paper bin my most loyal friend, books flying back onto their shelves, documents filed. I don’t know if my theory holds water or seeps but there is something deeply zen like about tidying, putting everything where it belongs. However, and this is where a (dis)orderly cat chases its own tail – in order to experience this you first have to let it all go to pot. But then, by way of illustration, never does food taste better than when truly hungry.

U

March 21, 2017

Why, oh why, oh why

As I currently appear to be in questioning (if not questionable) mode here is another one to make you, my dear Readers, blush:

What do you remember as one of the more embarrassing moments of your life? Obviously, all of us are spoiled for choice, and some episodes best taken to the grave, never to see the light of day. Others? Other embarrassments may make (some time in a far away future) a passable anecdote.

And yes, before you scroll back, I DID say that ALL of us (no use denying it) are spoiled for choice – and I say this as someone who is NOT easily embarrassed. As they say “Shit happens”, so, and being conceited as I am, I am reconciled to the human condition. However, when I do embarrass myself, boy oh boy, no half measures taken, no hole to swallow me in the near vicinity, I do wonder why this mortal coil of a life is peppered with snares to get trapped in.

It also makes for a rather interesting exercise in time travel, not least when you learn that some people were elephants in a previous life; they never forget, and have amazing ability to cut you down shorter than to size by casually mentioning something that happened ages ago.

In the short space it took me to type the above, my life of embarrassing episodes has flashed past me and I feel a little hot under the collar. It’s why the prospect of someone writing your biography once you are dead and therefore unable to put the record straight is pretty daunting. OH MY GOD. Actually tempts me, rarely – but it does, to put it all down on paper myself. Except, of course, who wants to relive that which is best forgotten?

Please don’t be shy. As so often, I will reveal myself in reply to you. If that sounds like a trade off – it isn’t. It’s my ingenious way of hiding my tree among bushes, in the hope no one notices.

U

March 3, 2017

Trilling

Filed under: Amusement,Communication,Dizzy,Exasperation,Fun,manners — bitchontheblog @ 16:59
Tags: , , ,

In the wake of my last post, and your assorted favoured instruments doing what instruments do (who’ll provide the crescendo?) I will throw my own screech into the ring. Namely the chatterbox.

Don’t dismiss the chatterbox and come to me with bland spoutings of silence is golden” (though it is, and one of the reasons I rarely listen to music when working, instead spending most my life enveloped in relative silence). What’s the other one put forward by those who have little to say, yet trying to justify being a little vacant? “I am a good listener”. Really? How about being a good conversationalist? You know, like ping pong, a game of (table) tennis? Back, forth, back, forth … Then, naturally, and it’s a pet hate of mine, and was amply targeted at me by a woman of questionable integrity and even less brain matter and now having run out of steam: “The empty kettle makes the loudest noise.” What eludes the poor sausage that repeating the same saying again and again doesn’t make her (or the saying) any more interesting or true. She’d have been better advised to fill her own kettle. At least, at boiling point, she’d have made a hissing sound instead of just running dry.

Yes, so, once a chatterbox, always a chatterbox. It’s a gift. Trust me. I have drawn people out of themselves who consider themselves tongue tied, particularly on the phone (yes, phone phobics are my speciality). Of course, one could and would and possibly should agree with one of my sisters who once said to me, tartly: “There is no such thing as a short (telephone) conversation with you, is there?”. She was cross with me at the time, and also right. There isn’t such a thing as a short telephone conversation with me. Not even when you are phoning from a callcentre. I have made friends with people in call centers, weeping at my far removed shoulder, thanking me for talking to them as if they were part of the human race, not just doing a shitty job.

Yes, chatterbox. Like any instrument you need to fine tune it (a bit like Lorna’s and Shoshanah’s much desired singing voices and/or bodies) and Maria’s hardening finger tips. I once did stop in my tracks when FOS (father of son) suggested it might be less time consuming (for him) if I stuck to written communication which, apparently though not evidenced by this post, tends to be concise and to the point. I interpreted it as a sort of a backhander of a compliment.

Anyway, and then I shut up, you will suffer, like with any art, for refining your powers as Ms Chatterbox. Not least because you tempt people into lying to you. One hour on, they’ll tell you someone is at the door, the dog has died or whatever a suitable excuse may be to get me off the blower.

Apropos of nothing: Today John told someone (not me) that he (the other) was a “tit”. I have been wondering: Obviously what is a tit to a suckling baby, and a singing bird to the enthusiast, is someone else’s arse. Or some such.

U

October 15, 2016

Don’t send chocolate

Filed under: Amusement,Dizzy,Exasperation,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 20:45
Tags: ,

As Lovely Lorna (LL) suggested the other day, I do need a break. Luck. Hope that saying about seven years of … followed by seven years of … is NOT correct. It’s so depressing. Mind you, I have always liked the “seven” times table. Particularly when we got to seven times seven (49).

I do not put any fault at Lady Luck’s door. Not least because I am convinced that if luck weren’t on my side I’d be long dead. Possibly, most likely, not even born. Which, of course, and I only learnt this recently (where have I been all my life?) that there is a particular school of thought which advocates that paradise is to never been born. Maybe. To me life is a bonus. Even when shite at times. At least you are alive.

Where were we? Luck. Yes, so to continue my saga of unfortunate mishaps, today I slipped. Don’t say Lady Luck wasn’t on my side. I could have broken something. I didn’t. I will, no doubt, have a bruise on my lovely right buttock, but am not concussed though did hit the tarmac with the back of my head. Neither, for once, did I break a wrist.

My sister, the youngest, once asked me, rather impatiently, why I kept breaking my arms. THERE MUST BE A REASON, she said. I have no idea what she was implying. Obviously THERE is a reason. Like, in this case, the lovely combo of autumn’s fine drizzle and leaves falling. And yes, I was wearing flat shoes. I slipped. Simple, ain’t it?

Anyway, to compound temporary shock, all my coins scattered all over the place. Thus I found myself ten p (in Dollars probably 15 cents – who knows with Pound Sterling plunging) short. So, limping along as best I could without showing the limp, I asked a couple of guys outside a pub for ten pence short of my  four remaining pounds. Sweethearts, I tell you, it’s hard to believe the relationship some people do have with money. Remember ten pence. Not ten pounds. Not a hundred. Not a thousand. Ten measly peeeeeeeeeeeee.

The moment someone asks you WHAT you need money FOR is the moment you know you won’t get it. He wouldn’t let go. Kept asking me what I needed 10 p for. He even suggested that, no doubt, his continued questioning could be interpreted as “intrusive”. Indeed. I told him to forget it.  May Karma bite his behind. When in need find a taxi driver. Mean they ain’t. Neither do they ask questions. Thus I was able to make the purchase I’d gone out for in the first place.

On my return, naturally, I found my key unable to open the door.

Safely ensconed in my abode once more, living to tell the tale, yours,

U

August 2, 2016

Rhyme, reason, sense

Filed under: Accuracy,Dizzy,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 12:19
Tags: , , , ,

I could have also named this post, which I did by accident, “Thyme, season and dense”. Same difference.

 

Working in research rarely delivers surprises.

I started a blog post with the above one sentence a couple of days ago, only to abandon it as, no doubt, the phone rang or something. Flow diverted like water by a dam.

“Working in research rarely delivers surprises”. Well, you could have fooled me but I take my word for it.

Please do let me know if you ever find yourself in mysterious snake pits of your own thinking’s not so easily negotiated labyrinth.

U

 

June 19, 2016

RIP

Filed under: Animals,Dizzy,Future,Kitchen — bitchontheblog @ 18:49
Tags: , ,

I have my uses/come in useful.

Today, no shit, a neighbour (in terms of evolution she could be my daughter) knocked at my door. She was devastated. Once you get to bottom of hysteria all is well. She had no one, not even her brother or my son come to think of it, but me to turn to. How sweet is that? Thus I killed a mouse – in her kitchen. As Sundays go this one, well, let’s just say nature takes it course (or should that be “cause”). Yuk. At least it [the mouse] was small. And I didn’t hang about to relieve it of its misery.

U

Blog at WordPress.com.