Bitch on the Blog

December 31, 2016

Caution and the wind

This entry is inspired by Cro Magnon. He is an Englishman. No, not in New York; in France. If you are into growing your own food, dogs and questionable political views please do visit his blog. He is, unlike some, also a gentleman. One may say “refined”, with a, as yet small, dose of “ennui” thrown in.

Yes, so in one of his recent posts he brought to my attention a bit of folklore. Namely that when eating your first mince pie of the season you should  make a wish. This was news to me. But felt immediate relief that I hadn’t yet had THAT mince pie. If I’d had  I’d have wasted a good opportunity. He also, more or less, guarantees that that wish will come true. Marvellous. If I were five years old I couldn’t have been more excited.

Now the crux sets in – and when the Angel took me on a magical walk in the New Forest and to one of his favourite spots, on Boxing Day, I related one of his mother’s shortcomings to him. Remember Boxing Day is on the twenty sixth of December. I still hadn’t had my FIRST mince pie. Why? Sweethearts, it’s simple. There are times in life when I will dither. Whilst once upon a time (BC – Before Cro) I would have eaten mince pies with abandon, his innocent piece of information made me enter dangerous territory. What should I wish for?  I am spoilt for choice. Will I, by accident, wish for something idiotic (think of the fisherman, his wife – and they had THREE wishes – and how that ended up a bit of a disaster and a massive disappointment)?

I wouldn’t call myself indecisive but when it comes to wishes one can’t be too careful. So, naturally, and being risk averse, I keep postponing the moment. As I was relating to him this new found anxiety the Angel smiled. Ok, I said. I’ll take my life into my hands – bury me later -, on our return home we’ll have the first mince pies of the season. In separate rooms if need be.

Imagine my surprise when, back at the ranch, I rifled through the cupboards and couldn’t find any. I “knew” I’d bought them. Not least because they were on my shopping list. Nope. No mince pies. I even checked all my receipts. No mince pies. One wonders how the subconscious plays little practical jokes on us. Don’t quite know what to make of it. Should I be glad that I didn’t tempt fate? Should I curse fate that I missed a chance? Obviously I could just curse myself. In which case I’d need a mince pie to undo my curse. Where to go from here?

31st December greetings,

U

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December 8, 2016

Weather

Filed under: Ethics,Exasperation,Fortune,Roadkill,The Reaper,Vicious — bitchontheblog @ 14:40
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There is a blogger. Let’s rephrase that. There is someone, somewhere, who blogs.

He has surpassed himself. It’s not even him being selfish. It’s him being thoughtless. Inconsiderate.

Yes, so come early December – and now he has got his “overcoat” out – he laments that December’s temperature, so far, is way above “cold”. One may say “warm”. He wants “cold”. God damnit, and if he wants cold he wants cold. Till March. May Bambi’s April showers piss on him.

Why do I even note this? Insert derisory snort. Because people like him with his beer and his whisky on tap don’t give a monkey’s thought to all those homeless, sleeping in doorways, ignored by passers-by, kicked by drunkards around midnight, who might, just might, be truly grateful that December isn’t as cold as Mr Blogger and his overcoat wish it to be. Those who can’t afford to heat the place if indeed they have a roof over their heads. Those who don’t eat because maybe it’s better to starve than to freeze. Those who don’t have a winter coat.

Plumbers are hard to come by on Christmas Eve. May Mr Blogger’s overcoat stand him in good stead. And be moth eaten next December.

Disgusted yours,

U

October 1, 2016

Delirious

I do delight in simple joys. No need to climb the Kilimanjaro or do a Michelangelo for me to be happy. All it takes is to find my long lost small, nay tiny, kitchen knife. Its disappearance having been a mystery to me.

Yes, I know and you won’t remember, once upon a time I lamented my preferred potato peeler doing a runner. And other stuff.

The little knife was worse. I looked for it everywhere, asked people if they had “borrowed” it, emptied the garbage to sift through in case I’d accidentally thrown it out with the onion peel. No good. You can will certain things, but sometimes you have to acknowledge that loss means loss. What’s twenty years between you and a knife, you may ask. Well, you don’t throw loyal friends on the dung heap and forget about them in a jiffy, do you? As it were I felt awful that the knife might have thought me careless, might have felt discarded. What sort of an ending to a life is that?

Two hours ago I shifted an appliance, normally immobile and firmly anchored on the kitchen counter – and what do you know and what had slipped underneath it?  I did a double take and then clasped my old friend. That I didn’t cut myself with rapture is only due to my foresight and current lack of band aids in the house. Six months, Sweethearts, six months! Never ever give up on anything, anyone – particularly not your favourite knife.

And do search in unlikely places; behind the curtains if all fails.

U

September 12, 2016

Horizontal

Filed under: Amusement,Formalities,Fortune,Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 06:00
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Like Hilary Clinton I too needed to put my feet up. In the olden days, like a hundred or two years ago, someone would hand you smelling salts. Now? Never mind. Just wilt.

So there I was, yesterday afternoon, on my sofa, not tired yet wired and somewhat queasy. So, in absence of anything else to think about I tried to remember what day of the week nine eleven was. My guess was Wednesday. Wednesday is good. In the mother lingo it’s “Mittwoch”. Literally “mid of the week”.  Let’s not delve into Sunday. I am not up to it this minute.

Anyway, upshot being nine eleven was a Tuesday. Tuesday – for some reason – is a non day to me. “Dienstag” – the day you do your duty. Serve.  I like Thursday. Donnerstag (Thunder). Monday is, obviously, the day of hope. Goethe had something to say on that. And I was born on a Monday (EVENING). Fair of face. Could have been Sunday. But I did take my time. Apologies to my mother. She bore it well. Never held it against me.

Friday. “Freitag”. Being free is obviously what all of us aspire to, and few achieve. That’s the reason we look forward to the weekend. An illusion. Even the land of poets, thinkers and tinkers couldn’t think of a good name for the gateway to “Sonntag” (Sunday). The gateway being either Samstag or Sonnabend. “Abend” being eve. Pretty fluffy if you ask me.

Whatever your respective remnants of the day are: ENJOY.

What day of the week were you born? And why are some people’s birthdays always at the weekend?

Other than that, and back to Hilary. Pneumonia? Shite. She’s got to hold out. No matter what. This is ridiculous. If the worst comes to the worst she could always pass her torch back to Bill.

U

December 15, 2015

Tidying up

Not all, some facets of life are beginning to disenchant me.

You can’t ring someone without them knowing it’s you before they pick up the phone. There goes surprise right out of the window.

Some years (26) ago in a moment of madness, egged on by Fiona, a colleague of mine, I had my palm looked at. In a tent. Not that location matters. Same difference. Everything went swimmingly till the reader came to a particular line on my right hand. She literally threw it [my hand] back at me, looked at me – AGHAST –  and, after wishing me “a good life”, showed me the exit in no uncertain terms.

I didn’t think about it at the time. I am used to drama. Most my friends are in the theatrics one way or another. Not so much exaggeration but caricature being their signature tune. In my case, and I am not on the stage, don’t take seriously now REPENT AT LEISURE.

Have come to horrible conclusion. Either send chocolate (or other currency) now or come and see me in the loon’s bin. I’d recommend the former since the latter won’t be fun – for either of us. Cro – you may send me a goose. Keep the liver.

To top it all, today I have had two telephone conversations which have confirmed all I have never wanted to know: The end is nigh.

No, I am not about to die, I am just ending.

Hugs, hisses and howls,

U

 

 

April 13, 2015

Band Aid

Filed under: Bureaucracy,Ethics,Fortune,Friends,Future — bitchontheblog @ 18:36
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“Not every problem does have a simple bookkeeper’s solution based on cost.”

Which is why I sign off my current (official) correspondence with

I remain disgusted yours,

…… ….

U

March 17, 2014

Minority

Filed under: Fortune — bitchontheblog @ 04:03
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There are several types of people:

Those who like you, those who don’t, those who have had the misfortune to not have met you – yet, and those who are either blind or deaf. Or both.

U

February 22, 2014

Adversity

Filed under: Fortune — bitchontheblog @ 05:31
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I am good at detail. As befits the remnants of the perfectionist I once was.

But some detail bores me. I don’t want to know. Particularly when it comes to machines. Work!

I am petulant when it comes to things not working. I revert to being three years old. Big eyes wide open, no understanding of the world and its evil. Why? And why now? Usually on either Christmas or New Year’s Eve. A bit like toothache. Saturday and Sunday are good that way.

Yes, so in little Ursula’s world either something works or it doesn’t. When it does it’s good. When it doesn’t it’s not so good.  When it doesn’t it’s a beeping disaster. Take it from me: There is nothing worse than trusting in the good in the world on top of being an optimist. There is no vector to make that equation and its ‘x’ equal other than totalling disappointment.

Never mind. Humans have come far. For thousands of years. I am sure I’ll make it a few more.

Hisses, no hugs,

U

January 20, 2014

Unbelievable

Filed under: Fortune — bitchontheblog @ 19:16
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Sometimes I find myself (a few hours later) writing crap. As I did in a comment to Friko saying something along the lines that “I AM dead critical. Yet not a perfectionist any longer because life is too short to be a perfectionist”. I CAN NOT believe it. I may be an utter failure and older than five. But I am still a perfectionist. Wait till you have eaten my almond cake. Which is divine. Even by my standards.

U

November 26, 2013

Fat Chance

This is a bit random even by my standards, yet pus will out unless it decides to become a boil in which case it needs to be lanced:

Even I am not so stupid as not to understand “The Gambler’s Fallacy”. Naturally, such does the human mind work and superstition still with us since the caves, we try to will our wishes to come true and fall for the gambler’s fallacy every time. Don’t sneer. You will. Unless you are a salmon (or me) swimming upstream.

Vaguely related to the above: A friend of mine swore by that questionable person (can’t remember the author’s name for the moment) who conned his readers into believing that tossing dice/die does help to make a decision. I am not the most enthusiastic decision maker when I have no conviction to back up my spine 100 % but that’s just rot. The logic going somewhere along the lines that if, say, ‘six’ means you’ll do one thing and if you throw a ‘two’ it means the other you will know which way to go. If the die is cast at option one and you feel nothing but revulsion you know that’s not an option. Go for the other instead. Sounds plausible at first. But, take it from me, not that I have applied it since I can’t be arsed with shit like that: It doesn’t work.

Was it Rhinehardt or some such? Don’t try it at home. Man up. Make up your own mind. Props not needed.

U

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