Bitch on the Blog

September 30, 2017

Location, location, location

Unlike most of you and other squeamish, sanitized and contemporaries, there will be no fire for me. Brimstone more like it.

Yes, I shall be buried. Come maggot and worm. OH MY GOD. I can see it now. Particularly my eye sockets. Never mind. Whilst aesthetically not pleasing I shall stick with earth to earth. Ashes go with the wind. Earth is solid.

In one of the more wonderous moments of my life, a few days ago I found the cemetery cum graveyard I would like to be buried in. If push comes to shove I’ll move into its vicinity to ensure a place. It’s pure magic. Absolute magic. Acres and acres, largely not yet populated. Proper graves. Can’t wait.

Urns (and their ashes), by comparison, measly. Measly. Meagre. Mean. Cheek by jowl. Reminds me of some two years ago when the Angel and I visited Minstead’s graveyard where Arthur Canon Doyle (think Sherlock Holmes) and his wife are buried. The Angel remarked that it’s so much nicer to be able to visit a grave (and, naturally, to the Angel’s horror, I managed to stand on it) rather than being restricted to, well, a measly, teensy, weensy spot with an urn of which there are quite a few on Minstead’s cemetery too,  even if blessed with a “view” over rolling country side.

I am not particularly tall though some people think me so. There is something to be said to be buried stretched to your full length rather than reduced to your volume in ashes. I am sure that’s what Archimedes thought when displacing water, resulting in his joyous “Eureka”.

U

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September 22, 2017

Treasure

Filed under: Atmosphere,Environment,Human condition,Joy — bitchontheblog @ 21:42
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Unleashing my inner archiver (as opposed to archivist).

Taking an inventory is a close relative of making lists. My desire for order being the other side of my coin. Some years ago I lost a great deal (not least my dignity) since when I have become not obsessed by but fond of knowing what’s what where. Why doesn’t come into it. And it’s always the “how” that has potential to trip me up.

Do you have (physical) objects in your life that give you joy every time you happen to gaze upon them; every time you touch them? What would you hate to “lose”?

Whilst you think about it I’ll wipe a tear or two such an emotional subject it is to me.

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 14, 2017

Not so nice

Filed under: Human condition,Integrity — bitchontheblog @ 19:30
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Holy what’s it. There is a threshold. Some people die before they have barely drawn their first breath, some people die – at, say, fifty.

And some people live. Forever.

My parents a point in case. My mother is eighty four, my father eighty. You’d think they’d have the good grace to abdicate. Well, my mother will, soon. My father? Not so much out of spite as determination he’ll probably live long enough to refuse attending any of his four children’s funerals because it’s just too much hassle.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know. All I know is that I have had it with being held to ransom. Most of you, my readers older than me, most of you having buried or are about to bury your parents, please do throw me a morsel of comfort. What? Throw me a morsel of comfort? How selfish. What I meant to say: Please don’t do to your children what I most certainly hope to spare the Angel.

So much for cheer. I’ll crank it up with my next post.

Lost, lost, lost and ashamed,

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 2, 2017

More dog

Filed under: Amusement,Animals,Beauty,Cats,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 12:17
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Our perception is shaped by the experiences we have had. It’s why I view the Spitz (the smaller the worse) with deep suspicion. I am convinced Spitz are vicious – by temperament. I wasn’t even jogging. I was riding my bike when this Spitz took a shine to both my left foot and the pedal, yapping away. They certainly expend an awful lot of energy to little effect. A bit like … no, I won’t say it.

The larger the dog the better. Though will draw a line. Anything bigger than a German Shepherd is too big. Mind you, one of the most magnificent dogs (mega) I ever had the privilege to meet was that of LSF’s family. An Hungarian Shepherd (a Kuvasz?). White. Curly fur. The size of a calf. He loved me in a way most unwelcome. What is becoming in a puppy is a bit daunting in an adult. I’d come through the door and – by way of greeting – he (the dog, not my friend) would put his front paws on my shoulders, his head towering over me (at least he didn’t lick my face). Though strong I was only a slip of a girl and, my back being pinned to the back of the door, I’d slowly slide down it under the dog’s weight. Still, sooner or later someone would pass by and save me. Yes, that dog was one hell of a beauty. And a wonderful spirit.

Come to think of it, Spitz aren’t the worst. Collies are. Collies, Lassie not withstanding, are most definitely prone to neurotic behaviour. Mental. Mind you, some say the same of Dobermans. I once read a book written from the point of view of a Doberman. I was about twelve. Heartbreaking. I cried. Let no one say anything about Dobermans. Intelligent dogs. I believe most dogs to be a reflection of their owner and Dobermans appear to be particularly sensitive. So if you come across a disturbed Doberman beware of the owner.

Then there are the aesthetically dubious ones – like naked dogs. Say, those racing dogs – greyhounds. Though, in their long legged way, they are rather elegant – a bit like Coco Chanel in her little black dress, tooth hound black and white box jacket and a string of pearls.

Some dogs I’d rather not comment on. Otherwise I’ll have John and Winnie on my case.

Oh yes, not to forget the Dackel. A small sausage dog. Very sweet. Enormously trusting. Beautiful auburn colour. My youngest sister pestered my father for one till he cracked. Tini (pronounce teenee) was a hoot. One of the most endearing memories I have when my brother (even as a teenager he was man enough not to mind being seen with a very small dog) took Tini for walks. The tall slim young man with sky high legs in skinny jeans with a sausage on the leash. Sweet. It really was. I like it when people are not self conscious.

There was a moment in my life when I came close to becoming a dog owner in my own right. Not that I particularly wanted to be. But I will  take gladly what life throws at me (as long as it’s not shit). Father-of-son and I met up with his parents in some Yorkshire pub. Or maybe it was in the Lake District. Anyway, there they were, in front of a blazing fire – a pile of black long haired toddler stage Labradors tumbling round and over their mother. FOS was the closest I’d ever seen him to yield in the face of such joie de vivre and beauty. Even on the way back down South he talked about them non stop, me fully expecting him to turn the car round any moment now, zoom back and make the breeder an offer. Still, his particular brand of reason prevailed. Pity. A dog would have suited him.

Please do inundate me with your own dog stories. They need to be told.

U

July 31, 2017

Punctured

Who’d have thunk it? My blogging tyre is flat. Not because I can’t think of anything to say. Quite the opposite. I always fire on all cylinders – yet, the desire to press “publish” momentarily eludes me. “Delete” does me fine.

The joy has gone.

Why? Most certainly not on account of bloggers who cheerfully “follow” me even if they don’t comment. Most certainly not on account of those who comment here – with unfailing wit, perception, occasional mockery, always thoughtful.

However, and I don’t like admitting to what I perceive a weakness, there have been forces out in the blogging world which have achieved the unthinkable – namely, my, the unsinkable’s, reluctance to put myself into the public arena any further.

Looking back over my life, I have never been bullied. I am not the type. Yet there is one blogger, ably supported by a weak cast, who has shown me the vile side of life on the playground which constitutes blogging.

I am torn. I could name him and shame him. But then I’d be playing HIS game. Makes you think, doesn’t it, how someone else’s maliciousness tempts you to repay in kind. It is to my utter, total, most heartfelt regret that I have decided not to fall for that ruse – as much pleasure as it would give me to tear the guy and his accomplices apart. He hasn’t got a leg, or any other appendage, to stand on. Still, I’d rather not be a facilitator.

Yes, so my joy communicating on the page has momentarily been stifled. Please don’t send chocolate or other sweet condolences. A lime will suffice.

U

July 12, 2017

Expansive

One of the fairies at my cradle made sure that I’d never be bored.

Her intention was good. In practice it brings problems. None of which can’t be solved; but problems nevertheless. The main one being that I waste (how does one define “waste”?) on wastes of space. I do I do I do. Because I never give up. And if there is one adage I cling to like a calf following her mother’s udder it’s that only the boring are bored. That way you dig your own bore.

Be still, my beating heart.

In the motherland there is a saying, and I have no idea what it means but it sounds good: Den inneren Schweinehund ueberwinden. Roughly translated: To overcome your inner swine (where the dog comes into it I do not know). It’s taking me forever (the present continuous wisely chosen) to overcome my swine’s dog – but, I am getting there. With regret, I shall concede that some in blogland (no, not ye, my faithfuls) will bore. Even me. Actually, that’s not true at all. The more boring the more amusing and interesting they are. In a sort of forensic research type of way.

Hugs and hisses,

U

July 9, 2017

Widening horizons

Filed under: Friends,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 19:35
Tags: ,

Thank you all for your warm, heartfelt and insightful responses to my last post (“Limitations”). As is my wont (taking life seriously), I did mull over them all; so none of your efforts, various angles you shone on a dispiriting subject, were wasted.

U

June 19, 2017

Mum is the word

The moment someone says “You remind me of my mother” is the moment my heart sinks. It’s one of the few black and white situations in life. Grey doesn’t enter the rainbow.

Rarely will anyone say “You remind me of my mother” and glow with the delight of that memory. Because, if you had a wonderful (grand) mother no one compares. No one. So it’s usually said as the ultimate put down. Because, after all, who in life is more important than your mother? Particularly one that didn’t live up to expectation?

It’s a line used in the negative, as a defense and an attack rolled into one. Why? I don’t know. Don’t ask Freud. He’ll give you shit.

The first time it was said to me I was only nine or so – said to me by a grown up man. Don’t ask. Grown ups are not all they think they crook themselves up to be. Still, and grateful to this day, it was one of those enlightening moments as to what to expect from both life and the future.

Today John told me that I remind him of his mother. The blow “You remind me of my mother. She was critical and self righteous” he softened by adding “And her valid points were often lost in those behaviours”. Let’s leave aside that being critical and self righteous are not “behaviours”, they are attitudes. John paid me a compliment – if in a backhanded, yet subtle, manner. “Mother” clearly being some gold standard by which women are measured.

Please do tell me about your mothers. Adopted or otherwise. Those you had, adored or loathed, those you would have liked to be the one and only in your life and those who were just that – your mother. The one you adored. The one who amused you. The one who exasperated you. Maybe all three for the prize of one. Before anyone tells me how “price” is spelled – I meant to say prize.

U

 

 

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