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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June 3, 2018

Good

Filed under: Amusement,Beauty,Earth,Nature — bitchontheblog @ 12:11
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Once a month we have a Farmer’s Market here, right at my doorstep. Prices are eye watering if you don’t have money. If you do [have money] it seems perfectly priced considering the amount of love, time and effort that goes into a jar of honey, the making of a loaf of bread, catching fish, growing a big fat pot of basil, making a hand raised pie.

Yesterday, there was a new addition among the stalls. Meadow flowers. I took one look, fled back upstairs and cried. Just a little. Meadow flowers. Some of you may have noticed that occasionally I refer back to my being four/five years old. That’s how it was yesterday morning. The memory of the meadows of my happy earliest childhood.

Once I’d composed myself I went back to the stall and picked a few stems, as one does in a meadow.

Happiness lies in the tiniest, most modest of small things. And sometimes happiness brings many a tear in its wake. The window sill along my desk now being my meadow. Little heads nodding in the slight summer breeze coming from the sea.

Sea: When I phoned my mother yesterday afternoon she indulged in her love of water, oceans in particular. She does paint such a picture of water, swimming in it, the smell of water. That we didn’t drown in the process only due to fact that she now lives close to a river. Then, in return, I painted her a picture of my beloved meadows.  It was only afterwards, and it made me laugh, that I realized that she was born under a water sign, and my feet are firmly rooted on earth. Indulge me.

U

 

March 26, 2018

Growth

Filed under: aesthetics,Beauty,Nature — bitchontheblog @ 09:32
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I knew there was a downside to being a man (apart from not being able to give birth). It came to me by no simpler means than stroking the edge of my chin.

There I was, lost in the labyrinth of thought, staring into the middle distance (it was dark), when I was jolted out of my reverie as how to make further inroads into the world of blogging without a virtual contract killer trying his luck on me. Stopped in my tracks. A coarse hair. On my soft chin. Nothing that a magnifying mirror, a steady hand and a tweezer didn’t rectify in a second. Give it another twenty years and I won’t be so sanguine. I’ll be fighting follicles and their excesses.

How do you guys live with stubble and rough and coarse? Mind you, the Angel recently remarked, in passing, that one of the pitfalls of the human mind that, if not vigilant, we can get used to anything. Till it doesn’t register any longer for what it is. Scary.

U

 

 

March 1, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box – Interval 2

On good news, this afternoon I was briefly reminded of the joys of my childhood’s snow: We haven’t had this much in one day, here at the South Coast of England, in years. It’s lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely. What is, obviously, not so lovely that the English tend to go into siege mentality, a type of hysteria. Cubic meters of the white stuff other countries conquer easily make some English go into melt(!)down.

Anyway, minimalists and all those of you lumbered with people difficult to give presents to because they have everything money can buy and afflicted by that certain ennui that comes with saturation, here is your perfect dinner party gift for the host with most except nothing:

Just before arrival at and on said host’s doorstep, you gather as much snow as possible, preferably the kind that sticks together to allow you to sculpt it into, say, a snowball. Make it round. Perfectly round. Hand it to your host/ess who, naturally, will shrink away from it but reconsider in a second since it’s impolite to refuse a gift. Fast forward to dessert, nay, after dinner coffee: Your present will have melted. Gently. Leaving little trace other than a tiny puddle of water. Genius or what?

U

 

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

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

March 24, 2017

Hop Scotch

What of the theory that certain character traits and talents do tend to skip a generation? Do you think it bollocks or can you cement the above with examples of your own life’s experience?

U

June 5, 2016

Primal

Just listened to the news. The script said: ” … the shark responsible for the attack …”.

Surely, an animal can’t be held “responsible” since the concept implies a conscience?

U

May 19, 2016

Ephemeral

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

U

 

February 17, 2015

An ugly glimpse into the darker recesses of my soul

Filed under: Amusement,Atmosphere,Beauty,Ethics,Nature,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 11:33
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The Angel and I can’t agree whether my dislike of the people of a (small) country amounts to rascism. He says it does, I say it doesn’t. I don’t like them, true – mainly because their faces are inscrutinable and when they smile I think it fake. But I don’t look down on them or wish them eradicated. So, I hope, that means I am not a racist. Just full of shit with regards to ………. people. Pleading mitigating circumstances: I myself don’t like my dislike. If I could un-dislike I would in a jiffy – and with relief.

One of my worst case scenarios I conjure up in idle moments when no other catastrophe to befall me comes to mind that the Angel will fall in love with a member of said country. I can see it now. I know I will be a good loving sweet mother-in-law to any of my son’s choices but please please please do spare me to test my mettle in the face of a strong and generalized dislike. Having said that: As far as I am concerned the Angel could marry an ugly snarly monster from an as yet unknown planet with charms not obvious to me and I’d trust his judgment. I just hope that his children will – both facially and temperamentally – be their father’s likeness.

And this was meant to be a most pleasant post about cats. Yes, that easily one thought of mine dislocates another.

U

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