Bitch on the Blog

September 3, 2018

Yellow green

This morning whilst waiting, patiently, for a sign from hell or heaven a seagull shat on the crown of my head. It was only the second time in my life. Cooling. And why the crown? Why not soil your dress, shoulder or whatever else stands in the way of a seagull’s toileting? Don’t say seagulls aren’t considerate. It’s cheaper to wash your hair than take your jacket to the dry cleaners.

My consolation – in recovery not so much from humiliation as disgust  – I remembered that folklore has it that a bird relieving itself on top of you amounts to good luck. And what do you know – it did.

Before all of you rush out to be pooed on by birds – forget it. Per chance can’t be forced.

U

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February 26, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, Interval 1 – Know your onions

Filed under: Amusement,Food,Fortune,Happiness,Joy,Kitchen — bitchontheblog @ 19:15
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Whilst giving forces who think they are [forces] a chance to regroup let me shed a tear over onions.

One of these days I will calculate how many onions I have chopped over a life lived so far. What is remarkable about chopping onions: Unlike when, say, playing the guitar you grow callouses to render your fingertips without feeling (one of the reasons I don’t play the guitar), your eyes will never ever grow used to an onion’s onslaught. You cried over your first onion you’ll cry over your last onion. That’s about it. Scant comfort, unlike with many other deals in life, you know where you stand. And smell.

Secondly, short of the rather irritating, coming at you unasked,  cakes in the motherland and trifles in the fatherland, virtually any dish worth its salt will start with an onion. Onions are ritual. One of these days, when I am about one hundred and twenty and Ms Misery will have died a not so miserable death (I hope) and in order to keep me occupied in her absence, I shall ponder what would actually happen to our palate’s concern, sensibilities and sensitivities if the onion was shown the door and never grown again.

I can see it now: My first memoir and self help book, titled “Life without an onion”. If that won’t make you cry little else will.

U

February 11, 2018

Edit

Filed under: Accuracy,Communication,Fortune — bitchontheblog @ 17:57
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For years and years and years I haven’t read my HORROR scope. Today one ambushed me: “Learn from observation, REVIEW what and who you regard as essential. An edit is long overdue.”  How timely.

U

 

 

December 31, 2017

Antidote

Filed under: Amusement,Formalities,Fortune,Joy — bitchontheblog @ 21:28
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I haven’t yet done all the quizzes newspapers bombard us with at the end of year; neither have I looked at compilations of “Best of 2017”, yet. I’ll keep that till a time when I should be doing something else. Which brings us, neatly, tidily, annoyingly, to New Year’s resolutions and how to divest ourselves from old, and form new habits.

Needless to say that I don’t make NY resolutions because I tend to avoid setting myself up for failure. I’d rather decide on February, 30th, what needs to be tweaked. Why make resolutions for the “better”? We’d all be far more successful at keeping resolutions if they appealed to the worse in us.

In which spirit I wish you a 2018 to top all 2018s – may you come out the other end as you entered it … with hope in your heart.

Ursula

 

December 20, 2017

Non sequitur

Filed under: Accuracy,Exasperation,Fortune,Happiness,Human condition,Intermittent despair — bitchontheblog @ 21:24
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Just came across a quote on someone’s blog. “Good things will come to good people”. That is such utter tosh, belied by all evidence, I don’t know what to do with myself.

I wish people would think before they regurgitate that which sounds good at first sound, and is rubbish on reflection.

U

November 7, 2017

To cast the die

Since we were talking games, and one in particular,  here is a general question: Do you play games, board, card, any other? If yes, which? If no, why not? Do they bore you? And even if they do, do you like the company they afford? Do you prefer those games which depend on luck or those which depend on skill? Though before your virtuous selves answer in the affirmative as to the latter, please do remember that even the seasoned chess player will still be in the clutches of Lady Luck. Trust me.

There are people born lucky. Within reason. The Angel is one such.  Doesn’t come up much these days, but there were occasions – when they were all younger – when his cousins resigned themselves, from the outset, to lose. The consensus, and expectation, being that the Angel would win “regardless”. Even my mother (who loves playing games) once lost the plot so much so I had to take her aside and ask her to get a grip. Reason? The Angel had won for the umpteenth time. You can’t hold winning against the winner, can you?

U

 

 

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

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

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