Bitch on the Blog

October 20, 2017

Dishing the dirt

Remember when people traded in their Rolls Royce for a new one because the ashtray was full?

I can totally relate to the sentiment. I don’t mind battle, yet, occasionally, there is only one way. That of least resistance.

Sometimes things are just disgusting. So disgusting all you want is to get rid of them. Like my keyboard. Of course, I could take the easy way out and pray. Pray that the keyboard will die, thus giving me an excellent excuse to buy a new one without having the sin of waste on my conscience. Hand me a rosary now – and I am not even Catholic.

So what do you suggest? Not least the engineers (in Silly Con Valley) among you. Why on earth, with all the magic the human mind can weave, has no one yet invented a way to prevent the crevices between the keys of a keyboard from becoming a cesspit?




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,


December 8, 2016


Filed under: Babes,Future,Health — bitchontheblog @ 17:18
Tags: , , , ,

Not to put too fine a point on it: My father is barely older than me. On an even finer point, and my mother won’t mind me putting on the internet what is common knowledge, I was conceived – two virgins having falling in love and first time. You can’t beat it. No wonder, I am so healthy. I was born before either of them had a chance or a choice to wreck their bodies. Not that either ever did.

So it is with some dismay I have learned just now that Mick Jagger has fathered yet another child at the age of 73. I am sorry, guys. It’s disgusting. Not the fact that he shags a 29 year old. Do whatever you like. With a goat if all else fails. But FATHERING a child at any age over, say – for sake of argument – fifty? Nah. If you have to prove your manhood go fell a tree. Do time travel. Become a Viking. Invade England.

To put it another way: Just because you CAN doesn’t mean you should.

Marvel at nature. There is a reason women’s fertility shutting down before their eggs’ use by date. Jagger will go on forever. I can’t wait till he is a few years older. Kick a football with yet another son at age 100? And I am letting Rod Stewart off lightly – not because I like him but because he is short. As is Jagger – come to think of it.


October 23, 2016

Chat chat chat

“She lets other people babble on, while giving away little about what she thinks.”

No this quote isn’t about me. I rarely let other people babble on, and I do, freely, give away what I think. When I do let someone babble on it’s for tactical purposes. It’s like watching a spider weave its net.

When I say “practical purposes” I don’t mean nefarious. Quite the opposite. Sometimes, particularly on the personal, it’s best to let someone just talk. Not only will you learn an awful lot about them (giving you a better grounding if they wish for your advice) but, most importantly, they will hear themselves speak. I realized this, and it was a revelation, when some years ago my doctor advised and subscribed grief counselling for me. I was in such despair to find a way out of my despair, for once I put all my scepticism to one side and gave it a shot.

To this day I can’t believe what happened during those fifty minutes sessions. Being engaged at all times, interested in everyone and everything, I tried to enter into dialogue with my “counsellour”. No doing. They will not be drawn. Though eventually he did relent and told me a little about his background before he went into counselling (teaching). But, on the whole, I did all the talking, pouring it all out – I HEARD myself aloud. I was, literally, listening to myself. If, in an hour, he interjected with a couple of questions that was a lot. Took two sessions of talking aloud – whilst being listened to – to clear the cobwebs, giving me some footing to handle my sorrow. An extraordinary experience. Also slightly eerie and vaguely unsettling since it was nothing like what normal human exchange is like.



July 16, 2016

No goal

Filed under: Children,Future,Health — bitchontheblog @ 17:48
Tags: , , ,

Sweethearts, if anything in both the blogging world and comment sections on newspapers has taught me: DON’T. Say a word. So I won’t. It’s tough. Good exercise in self restraint.

Which is why I am throwing myself at your shoulders rather than facing prospect of being butchered in the wake of an article on miscarriage. The article itself is self indulgent to the point of nausea. The comments? My god. Pass me a bucket.

Bull. Bull and bull. Kylie, I expect you to weigh in here heavily.

Maybe I was brought up at a time when a bull was a bull and a spade was a spade. Shit happened. It was normal. I watched my mother, aunts, neighbours, you know … females. They miscarried. And then they carried on with life.



May 19, 2016


Filed under: Amusement,Happiness,Health,Nature — bitchontheblog @ 15:56

By temperament and nature I tend to comfort people and animals. What people and animals? All of them. Earlier I spoke to … don’t ask.

This post has potential to NOT be comforting. Particularly as some of my readership is slightly/vastly older than me. “Vastly” is, obviously, relative – but there you go. I am twenty five to your 76. My breaking point – and by design I took it in my stride – when I realized that I will have fewer years ahead than those lived. This may sound obvious. It’s still a bit of a shock. Once upon a time the future stretched out ahead of you like, I don’t know, the Sahara/The Grand Canyon/or whatever else is vast, the next you are in a damp cellar. Never mind. I’ve lost my thread. Give me a moment.

Got it back [my initial thought]. I do appreciate that some of you I am in holy and sometimes unsettling communion with do have physical problems. Not necessarily anything alarming or dramatic. Just niggling. Curbing your appetite. Don’t ask me to join [the club]. I absolutely refuse to succumb. Drag me back to the cave on my hair – I WILL NOT SUCCUMB.

And here is my point – and I have high hope of all of you to throw your creaks into the Canyon: To this day I take my body for granted. If I were a car – in terms of years – I might find myself in a ditch (break pads worn). I would ACCEPT it. As I am not a car of considerable mileage I am ASTOUNDED when bits of my machinery make themselves known. One of my wrists clicks at a certain angle of movement (result of multiple breakage) every so often, though rarely, and what do you know: Suddenly I am AWARE of my body. When I really want to frighten myself I wake in the early hours and wonder what on earth is going on INSIDE. You know, all the bits you can’t see, laying dormant making as little noise as a mouse (ie none). Not a twinge. That’s subterfuge. When I want to scare myself even further I imagine rotting away inside without noticing it till it’s too late. You may ask “too late for what?”. My sentiment entirely.

I am no hypochondriac yet will confess to TWO things: I am in total awe of what the human body can withstand, what’s the second? There are too many seconds to choose from.

Hugs, kisses, hisses, wishing us all well,



September 18, 2014


Filed under: Amusement,Beauty,Health — bitchontheblog @ 18:31

Grow a beard.

If you are a woman – tough luck.


June 9, 2014


Filed under: Health,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 06:26
Tags: , ,

Should you be a hypochondriac (by default) don’t feel discouraged to answer my question:

How much thought do you give to your body – and its function(s)?

There is that school of thought that your body is your temple. It isn’t. It’s a sewer. Ask your liver, your kidneys, your bladder. Neither am I surprised that the colon is as long as it is. In fact, the colon, both parts of it, is the perfect symbol for anyone who procrastinates: Why take a short cut when you can make it long? Heart being the motor – goes without saying we should listen to it.

Then there are minor players. I dread the day my oesophagus will play up. I have a special relationship with my oesophagus. So far so good. There is a group photograph (taken in the summer of 1990 – my brother’s wedding, and yes, thanks for asking, close to their 25th wedding anniversary he has just fled a most accommodating nest). On that photograph – three tiers – my father’s longest standing friend is on the right, I am on the furthest left. LSF died not long afterwards. Cancer of the oesophagus. Just like that. Young(ish). Anyway, yes, I know my punchlines often take their time coming (see colon above). When I saw that photo I thought to myself: I’ll be next. To die that is. From whatever cause. What I find mildly disconcerting that I might be right. No one else of those others, I don’t know, say thirty people has yet bitten the dust.

Pen your obituaries now. And forget everything I ever said. Then there are the side players. Who ever gives any thought to their pancreas? Or their gall bladder? Beware the gall bladder. And pancreas will takes its revenge when you are otherwise occupied.

What I don’t get, though they are sweet in their own way, are the expendables: Appendix (I still have mine), and what’s it called in English, have forgotten now, ‘Milz’, the one that makes new blood cells. Not to forget tonsils. My tonsils are awesome. When they swell they swell. And they do swell. Once a year. For three days. Luckily my mother – despite the fashion of the day – had presence of mind to NOT allow my tonsils to be removed. My mother is a mild person – but when she puts her foot down she puts her foot down. Same here. My son has got his tonsils. Live with them.

All of the above neatly bringing us to skin. Skin is awesome. Skin are the bricks to hold the construction together. And your innards out of sight. Can you imagine the view you’d have of yourself without skin? Don’t. Unless you are a forensic pathologist.

Before I sign off I’ll bow to bones. The skeleton which gives us shape, keeps us upright and rarely makes itself known. To me that is.

My god! Dearest Brain. Please forgive me. Think of the old adage: LAST but not least! What would I do without you? Become a piece of vegetable in someone’s Ratatouille. That’s what.


February 27, 2014

Back to the drawing board

Filed under: Health — bitchontheblog @ 18:52
Tags: , ,

The human body is perverse (as in ‘contrary to what is expected’).

A few years ago I went to my doctor. Perturbed that I had tears rolling down my cheeks even when as happy as the infamous  Larry. Dry Eye Syndrome he said. This is what I love about life: Dry Eye Syndrome and your eyes overcompensate by flooding. You can’t beat nature, can you? How often have I wondered why God (the guy with all the time in the world) was in such a rush. Seven days? One of them rest? No wonder design faults crept in. Imagine he’d taken more time: Life would be perfect.


February 23, 2014


Filed under: Health — bitchontheblog @ 12:58

The first time I understood the mechanics of addiction was when I was given morphine (under medical supervision) about three years ago. Pain [of my broken and dislocated arm] subsided and I was blissed out other than them taking my blood pressure every thirty minutes. I was on cloud nine. The Angel kept calling the hospital ward throughout the night to find out how I was. Apparently the nurse on duty kept telling him: Your mother is fine.

And I was [fine]. Frightening when you let yourself think about it.

This minute and for the last fortnight I feel so crap I wish there were a remedy. Anything. Last night I couldn’t sleep so I watched a Philip Seymour Hoffman film. He does pain so well. Before your condolences flood in. Don’t. He is dead and I never get ill. But do lose my voice usually in January or February. Every year. Amicably accompanied by a fever. Oh do I wish for my mother’s cool hand on my forehead. The upside being that I can’t say much. The platform is yours.


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