Bitch on the Blog

July 22, 2018

Sin bin

Filed under: Accuracy,Style — bitchontheblog @ 20:52
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I am ashamed of myself. Not for the first time; not for the last time unless I drop dead in the next ten minutes.

What kind readers I have. None of you pointed out that I appear to have a problem with spelling the word “authenticity”. Despite my whole post lamenting lack of same by some participants of and in blogland.

Have taken post briefly off air to check where else I made a donkey-round-the-well of myself.

Thank you for making me blush all by myself.

This post has a lot of “myself”/ves in it; my only excuse that this post is about myself and an imbecile (myself).

Hair shirt, ashes, up the mountain, desert, name my destination, give me a camel to ride and an oistrich for company,




October 31, 2016


Filed under: Amusement,Children,Fairy Tales,hope,Style — bitchontheblog @ 16:30
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Sweethearts, the time has come to come clean. I am not who and what you think I am.

What I am is a Witch. Before you mutter to yourself “I knew it” – you are not alone. About two hours ago I passed two little boys (say about four years old), in a nearby park,  when one of them asked me, in that most trusting way only children are capable of: “Are you a witch?” As career options go I might consider it. Mind you. I’ll need to go crowd funding first to source that most indispensible of all accessories. Namely, a broom.

Being caught on the hob – or is it hop, I smiled: “No, I am not”. On a nano second’s reflection, and not being the kind to dash other people’s hope (within reason). “Do I look like one?” Apparently, I do. “Witch, Witch, Witch”, they chanted.

By the time I came back from town, having forgotten all about my elevated status, they caught up with me again. “Look, the witch is back”. It’s nice to be delighted in. Unless you are the devil.


February 25, 2016

Bitch on the Blog

Filed under: Amusement,Communication,Style — bitchontheblog @ 17:54

New bloggers out there: Choose your blog name carefully. You may never live it down.

Recently I have been reminded, more than once, and in no uncertain terms, that I am a bitch. This doesn’t do dogs any favours. Still. One aims to please.

So here goes for all those mimosas out there – and wilt at your own speed.

Dearest (Mimosas – as in “flower”), if you knew how much pleasure you give me measuring the rather thin of your assorted hides, your pouting, your sulking, your insults, how much you make me laugh, you’d be whining and whinging even more than you are prone to already.

There was one rather sweet example the other day of someone’s rant (left on an other’s blog) how she (yes, it is a she, they usually are) doesn’t like whiners and whingers. She then proceeds to whine and whinge. Cute. And before you point the finger at yourself. Don’t. There is more than one of you.

In fact so cute I’d like to take people like that by their hand and show them the way out of the woods.

The more fragile among male bloggers?  Bad manners. No argument has ever been won by telling me …

Let’s cut to the chase. Intelligent debate is not fertilized by those who weed anything they don’t like to hear. That’s where a gardener fails at the first hurdle. Shoot the grey squirrel digging up your bulbs but contemplate whether what you consider to be a weed, and therefore irritating, is undesirable. By way of example: Nettles sting. You have two options. You put on gloves, pull the nettles and make them into tea or compost OR cry at your initial blisters.

Need a handkerchief, nay, a tissue to wipe your tears of indignation? Look no further. You may cut me off. I am here. Always ready to engage. Even with the ninnies and the most delicate of divas in blogging land.

Hugs, hisses and kisses,


October 25, 2013

Two peppers and a bunch of coriander later

Filed under: Style — bitchontheblog @ 06:14

Went to market yesterday. Not to display my own wares but embellish my dish of the day (fish).

The main player – she never makes eye contact on point of sale but will shout her lungs out – looks (at first glance) like a man. No, actually, no – not like a man. Undefinable. Neither one or the other. That’s ok. I feel for her. Glad it’s not me.

Can’t believe it. Cannot believe it: Two new characters have shown up to support and help the family enterprise. They too are women. I only know this because women do hold their bodies and walk differently to men, even if they walk like a man. The Rock would have a hard time to wrestle them down. I am not easily shocked – but I was. MY GOD. Normally, in the name of research, I’d have made conversation,  asked them casual questions. So far in my life I have escaped grievous bodily harm. How do you ask a young woman what it feels like to tower over tall men and have shoulders the width of a girder, the complexion of a weathered farm worker and hands the size of a paddle? Mind you, I will yank up courage – in a week or two. What’s the worst that can happen: They won’t even understand the question.

In German there is that beauty of a word: “Mannweib”. A manwoman. It took me most my life but I have met two, 24 Oct 2013 – within seconds of each other.


January 15, 2013

Party Trick

Filed under: Style — bitchontheblog @ 14:50
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Sweethearts, please don’t feel neglected. I will answer all of you and do whatever gladly. For the moment a more pressing thing has been drawn to my attention:

I AM A LEG. Yes, really. Why this had not occurred to me before I do not know. Though I have always known what the Red Carpet at the Golden Globes has proven: Fuck with your face and botox till you look like what’s her name evil twin sister, up your boobs till they resemble balloons so tight you want to prick them, muscle up your arms like the only woman I detest (yes, Madonna, you whore): The one thing you cannot fake are your legs. Such satisfaction. As such I am a leg. I too cannot be faked. What you see is what you get. Unless you turn off the lights first.

Now before the likes of Tom aka Hippo and John aka Chicken Coop get carried away, or please do: I have always upheld, from the first time I had to uncork an obstinate wine bottle, that a woman’s strength lies between her thighs (for the dense: A man’s [strength] lies in his upper arms). Rather a pity that so many wines now come with screw tops. You can’t unscrew a bottle with your thighs. Maybe knees better suited. Anyway, for the uninitiated among my young female readership: What you do is you lower your ordinary garden variety cork screw into the cork. You then place bottle between your legs and PULL. Yes, upper thighs making an amazing clamp. Also proving my beloved law of physics: That of the longer lever.


August 17, 2012

Victoria Station

Filed under: Style — bitchontheblog @ 21:52

There are three types of men in this world: Those who will hold your handbag without batting an eyelid, those who will recoil and those who won’t have a woman anywhere near them.

I have never asked my brother to hold my handbag but dare say he would. After all, at age 18, long, lean and sex on legs, he’d take that excuse of a tiny dog (my sister’s) for walks. A sight if ever there was one. Proof that size is not everything. Confidence is everything. And not giving a hoot what other people think.

I haven’t yet tested this on my son who takes after his uncle in more ways than one (minus the dog) but then I am in no rush to do so. Anyway his legs are so long he usually loses me until he realizes that he is talking to a complete stranger on his heels whilst the woman for whom nothing is too much to make him happy lags some two hundred meters behind.

I shall draw up a list of all the men in my life, related, befriended, married, divorced or just dreamed about, who I think are handbag holders or not. Happily so. On sufferance. Or couldn’t care less. The one you need to beware of is the one who will hold it but only just – on his fingertips, slightly testy as to how long it takes you to arrange yourself before taking repossession of the kitchen sink in your handbag.

Yes, love you too.


August 1, 2012


Filed under: Style — bitchontheblog @ 09:48
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The jury is still out though I have cast my vote: What’s the uglier joint? The knee or the elbow?

Considering that few photographs of you will be taken from behind, the knee wins hands down. Don’t get me wrong: I do appreciate the knee. Without it we wouldn’t be able to walk, sit down, crouch or do much of anything. Just had reason to contemplate this (again) when looking at one of my nephews’ official photographs on occasion of taking his A’Levels. The girls at age 18 – looking like tarts or Stepford wives in the making (and before you say anything I am very fond of tarts – they are street wise, do have big hearts and will accommodate any of your fancies; just don’t slit their throats, please).

Most of the girls got it right. Just that little bit of skirt to cover the knee. The one in the middle, front row, got it so wrong she most likely will have torn up the print already. And will wish facebook had never been invented. There for posterity. I pity her future children. A fashion faux pas if ever there was one. If I were her mother I’d hide in the closet and slash my jumpsuits.

Once upon a time my claim to fame was recorded in the school magazine: The shortest skirts in the vicinity (my mother had bought them for me). How did the copy read: “Attention. Here comes Ursula. Do not blush. Look away. If you must.” To this day I have no idea how one can cause so much with so little. However, my mini skirts and hot pants served an important purpose: Diverting the eye from the knee. Setting your sights higher.


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