Bitch on the Blog

July 27, 2018


My mother and I, over the span of the life she and I have shared, sometimes talk about the “senses”. Which one either of us wouldn’t mind to lose as much an other. Try it. You’ll soon come unstuck.

Today, smell came to mind. Yes, smell. I bought a melon. My intention was a WATER melon since it’s the coolest thing when it’s hot but their weight made me buy a small Galia instead. What distinguishes a watermelon from a Galia?  A whole, as yet not cut open, watermelon smells of nothing. A Galia? Oh my god. Nectar of the gods.

Smell is evocative. Be it a perfume, be it an aftershave, be it a flower, be it musty. One whiff – in passing, on the high street, at a party – and what do you know: Bingo. Transported to another time, another place.

What are your smell(y) memories? Do they make you smile, weepy, long for, or full of disgust?




September 9, 2017


One of the more painful lessons, to me, as life marches on: Learning to bite my tongue.

I don’t think I have ever been needlessly tactless (well, two occasions come to mind – I blush to this day at how thoughtless I was); however I am outspoken. No more. I shall bite my tongue till it’s bled dry. Let my wasteland be your desert.

The beauty of thought that in the privacy of your skull you may think what you like. No one knows. Brilliant. Except that, as the social beings we are, we’d like to give a thought a voice. Yes, sad day, when you start weighing expenditure of energy against gain. Just nod. And say, “Yes, yes, of course”. Yes, yes, yes, yes … Or stay silent. Do not cast a shadow of even the slightest doubt over someone’s assertion. People don’t like it. I could tell you why they don’t like it. However, do remember, see above, I am learning to bite my tongue.

Of course, and that is why my self imposed curse of biting my tongue will last no more than this post, it’s no way to live. The most basic law of physics dictates that that there needs to be friction (think thunder and lightning) for there to be a spark.


April 1, 2012


Filed under: Uncategorized — bitchontheblog @ 17:26
Tags: , ,

I am sad. It’s the first of April 1813 hrs Summertime  and no one but no one (not even my mother who normally can be relied upon on at these occasions) has yet made me an April’s fool. Come to think of it, and to be fair, neither have I. And I am good at making a fool of myself  Five hours thirty five minutes to go.

Wish me luck


October 7, 2011

Hippos (short for Hypocrisy)

Filed under: Uncategorized — bitchontheblog @ 20:08

Phil, do not worry if you can’t keep up with the saga. If the voices weren’t so shrieking most people would go to sleep during a Wagner. Not because the story isn’t interesting but because it goes on FOREVER.

Fridays: The Consortium. Today’s subject: The kindness of strangers. Don’t make me laugh.

Some of you the genuine article. You know, people like you and me, good bits, bad bits. Warts. No warts. Enter Con and GM. Holier than thou. Not a blemish.  Mother and Father of the Consortium. Always. Dear god in heaven. The pious and self congratulating. So you, Con, want to be treated like you treat others? Well, how about going back in time? How sweet you were, Con. How sweet. Walking all over me, or at least trying to. Not by reasoning. Not by intelligent exchange of argument. Oh no. By making my son’s mother into a man (repeat question: What’s wrong with being a man?), by doubting my identity, my name, accusing me of lying and worse. Yes, Conrad, the kindness of strangers indeed. I will not let this rest till I have a PUBLIC apology from both you and GM. You once, feebly, offered one (was it in response to a private email of mine when I felt I had overstepped the mark in a public posting of mine – AND apologized to YOU?). What a laugh. Me apologizing to you. Still, there is always kindness, isn’t there? Amends to be made.

You know what stinks to high heaven about you and Grannymar? In unequal measures? You don’t [know]? No, I don’t think you did/do.

Treat others like you want to be treated. Insert derisory snort. Dearest sweetest GM; Is that (to only give a recent example of your kindness) why you let a salesman at your doorstep, you full well knowing that you have no intention to buy from him whatever his wares, waste his time letting him give you his full spiel only to humiliate him? And then proudly blog about your KINDness? Wow. What a wonderful human being you are. Let’s hope you’ll never have to stand out there being treated as you treat others.

As I said yesterday, and I am a little spent on the subject, if the two of you only had the gumption to admit to the vendetta you played out against me we could all rest in peace. For those not in the know but up for a bit of soap opera look no further than my first entry on this blog soon followed by another under the title CCC (Conrad’s Code of Conduct). Yes, Conrad’s Code of Conduct. The kindness of strangers. Indeed. Wonder what you will do with your last twenty pence/cents.


July 21, 2011

La Catastrophe (French, noun, female: disaster)

Filed under: Uncategorized — bitchontheblog @ 20:26

Grannymar has made a fine point in a comment over at Ramana’s blog.

What she says is, in my book, INVERTED snobbery. She prides herself on NOT giving a fig about the finer details of language and, as she so wittily puts it, “punctification”. She just gets by – as she says. Makes herself understood. Good, GM. Who wants to be MISunderstood? No need though (see ‘inverted snobbery’) to point a finger at those who actually do give a hoot, a La Truss (mentioned by Ramana), whether we shoot, eat peas or just find the nearest tree to pee. Those who care and lug around the odd apostrophe. You, GM, and Keith Waterhouse would have made the match from hell. (For those not in the know: Keith Waterhouse is Lynn Truss’s love child and co-founder of the Apostrophe society – which FOS, father of son, also belongs to). I myself call it “The Catastrophe Society”.

Don’t say a word.

I bet GM, you are one of those people, who couldn’t give a toss over the difference between “fewer” and “less”. Welcome to your nearest supermarket. How happy you will be. As long as you find the checkout with ten items or fewer in your basket. So, please, do not complain in a post or comment that children, these days, are not taught the skills that equip them to get through the average day without making idiots of themselves.

If everyone were in your league you’d find comfort in numbers.

What’s my point (sic)? My point is that there will always be the GMs who have other things on their minds than the finer detail. That’s ok. I’d never ever look down upon someone who doesn’t know where to put a dot even if it might help “under”standing. A good person is a good person. But don’t turn it round, GM. Just because there are people who DO care about the intricacies of a language doesn’t make THEM someone to be derided – by YOU.

Hot tip of the day, GM, and why don’t you try it some day: Learn another language. For comfort, and to reaffirm what you say: Go to Italy. Sign language will suffice. I am sure you will make yourself very well understood indeed.


July 5, 2011

Snakes and ladders

Filed under: Uncategorized — bitchontheblog @ 09:51

Ramana asked me to join the queue. I don’t queue. It’s not in my genetic make up. I will wait my turn. Sure. In the meantime I mill (around). Every Englishman is the beginning of a queue so the saying goes. And, as most sayings, it’s so true you feel like hopping around on one foot with the sheer pain of it. “Milling” makes English people nervous. Twitchy. There is a peculiar “I was here first” mentality. Indeed you were. No one is going to dispute it. I poke my nose in between the “orderly queue” to see what’s available on the fresh fish counter. It never occurs to me that my action might be misinterpreted as a feeble attempt “to jump the queue”. I am not jumping anything. I am just surveying the fish on display to make a decision (whilst waiting) whether to go for line caught Mackerel or sardines. For a nation so relaxed as to virtually horizontal I have yet to understand what it is with the English and their queuing. Fair play. Sure. Just don’t make such a big deal out of it.

Which reminds me, Magpie: According to the Angel who returned yesterday (is there a woman in the world happier than I am?) little has changed in zee Anglo Francais relations not so cordiale. Whilst the Angel had many more happy experiences with the French than even he expected he has conceded that my warning before he set off was right: The French are nationalistic. No two ways about it. Before they break into English (which the English, so arrogantly on their part, assume is the lingua franca) they will force you through the hoops of their own language. Well, good for them. I shall spare my American readership what the Angel had to say on the way Americans he met travel. The dollar clearly speaks louder than a burger laden body can move. If that’s cryptic it’s because it’d better be. Forgive me Con. I know you are the male Jane Fonda of San Fran. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? I’ve always hated that expression “The exception to the rule”. In order to find the exception you have to define “the rule”. In my world there are few rules. Only the odd principle.

Hugs and kisses


May 11, 2011


Filed under: Uncategorized — bitchontheblog @ 10:20

The Ringbearer and I have currenly made peace. Where that will leave  groom I do not know.  At least I am not tethered. Yet.

Musn’t get TOO friendly with Ringbearer. Friction is needed to keep the spark. As anyone familiar with the workings of electricity and thunderstorms will tell you.

Where were we: Adrenaline. Con advises Jean to stay off caffeine – on grounds of health, nothing else. I myself never drink coffee other than the dreaded DECAFF. Me of all people drinking a SUBSTITUTE. The very thought enough to drive me back to Italy.

Whatever people will tell you over an espresso (at all times of the day). Coffee is a smell, an illusion. I drink it and then get palpitations/the jitters/the shakes/prominent tremor/unable to sign anything. You might think this amounting to nothing and you are right. I keep telling myself it’s the one and only reason I moved away from the country where drinking coffee is an art – to be performed at least twice daily (breakfast, and about eight hours later: Kaffee und Kuchen). If you want ritual: Either move in with my parents or to Vienna.

If you don’t speak German above not an option. Just seek out your nearest Starbucks. GG (gay guy) afficionado of anything latte.

UBL, pits/doldrums/mangle, England

April 16, 2011

How to wear a scarf

Filed under: Despair,Uncategorized — bitchontheblog @ 10:05

House broken into at 2 am this morning, still awaiting police (it’s now 1100 am). They keep  phoning periodically to apologize for the delay. Apparently it’s been a busy night in Southampton. What to do when whittling away time (dog tired) awaiting the law? You venture over to GM’s to see what she is up to this fine Saturday morning.

Her mind off toyboys she remembers how, “as quick as a flash”, she made the “office erupt with laughter” when stating her preference for Englishmen over a Chinese. I have deleted all there is to say about presence of mind and how little it takes to make an office’s population ERUPT with laughter.

When in doubt about a woman’s behaviour I use my mother as a litmus test. She has a mischievious streak rivalled by few – with not a bad bone in her body, or malicious thought in her mind. So, anything she wouldn’t do is a definite NO NO.

And she would, most definitely, NOT flutter her slender hands, flaunt her wares on youtube and whisper at the end of video No 3: “Who’s a winner? I hope that you find I am.” That’s the spirit, GM.


March 15, 2011

Et tu, Brute

Filed under: Uncategorized — bitchontheblog @ 22:48

The Ides of  March.  Thanks for the reminder, Con. I am so behind times I am still back ca Aug 2010 (that’s on a BAD day, on a good day I am before I was borne).

Personally I hate November. Notwithstanding my parents having got married in November, bridesmaid – me – in attendance (ever the optimists the sun bloody did shine on their snow), November is my nemesis. Apart from February. March now being a contender.

Anyway, gratitude where it’s due: BHB and Con still talking to me. Believe me: When I go on a rampage I do NOT even frighten myself. Wish I were a dog. One which doesn’t bark; bites instead. Blood. Emergency. A&E. George Clooney – no thanks, not my type.


March 11, 2011


Filed under: Uncategorized — bitchontheblog @ 13:53

Conrad, you mention your perception of England. Do not ever believe perception. It’s why I ran into Deb many months ago when I pitied Americans, Europeans’ perception of. Naturally she didn’t understand what I was talking about, so whole thing went pearshaped AGAIN. No bad intent on my part. Just a fact. And let’s not forget that most Americans stem from the Mayflower, Plymouth Harbour.

England. I love this country. Neither have I ever been to a more disappointing place. When I arrived here in 1982 the place was the pits. Talk about sub standard poverty level  third world country within Europe – women, in midst of winter, walking around without tights and/or coats. Couldn’t believe it. Neither will I ever confess that I am pro Thatcher. The woman turned the country around. Fact.

When father of son and I split in late 1995 I could have easily packed up and wrapped Felix to flee back to motherland. I didn’t. This is my home. It comes at a price. Not least that I am still German. Don’t give me history. Bombings. Chamberlain, Churchill. Remember Dresden? Let’s leave it at where my Onkel Karlheinz – age 19 – was shot in the back (this was after the end of world war II) fleeing a Russian camp of war prisoners. I pity my grandparents – his mother and father. Neither did they get his body back. Unmarked grave. Or maybe eaten by dogs. Tragedy that my (tiny) grandmother had been determined to dress pretty Karlheinz as a girl so he could flee unharmed with her and his siblings, one of them my mother, across Europe (they lived at what now is Polish border – right at the other end of what people understand as Germany). Her husband, my beloved grandfather, wouldn’t let her. Whether it came between them ,post 1945, I do not know. They seemed to be happy as a couple. If anyone ever killed my own 19 year old I’d turn crazy.

Yes, England. I don’t understand the country. You live an easy life if so inclined. Eccentrics not noticed. No one will give you a second glance. Which is good. Unless you are my sister who, so memorably, complained on occasion of her first visit over here that no one looked at her. Being looked at is important to her.

Then you go to hospital as I did 6 Nov 2010 with one broken wrist. They tried to reset it – manually. Didn’t explain to me how bloody gas worked. Went wrong. Howled with pain. Doctor  gave me morphin and – thank god – gave up. Next morning different doctors – female – tried again; and yes, I do now have hang of gas and air. To no effect. Sent home. Ten days later asked to come back to theatre. Sit in waiting room for 12 hours. At which point they will send you back home. Eventually being operated on – four days later – by monkeys. None of the wires drilled into your arm will show up. Oh, yes? Really? Is this why months later I still sport scars which according to my doctor will not go away. Doesn’t matter. Gives me excuse to wear massive metal bangle on left arm to cover damage. Neither did the op work. Certain movements and you will hear a pronounced click. The bone that should be lower is higher.

Worse, and I will not forgive them for this: K wires were inserted under full anaesthetic. One and a half hours later I was asked to leave hospital. How? I was sick, sick, sick, sick. Had no balance. Dizzy. Phoned son to pick me up – he doesn’t drive, no money for taxi, so bus, 45 minutes, only option. Son, like his English father no fool, refused to come over: “I am not taking you home the state you are in.” Don’t blame him. Nurse made me eat: Do not eat before or after anaesthetic. Apparently it’s what they do to day patients – post op. Throwing up makes anaesthetic wear off more quickly. Did I throw up? You bet. Did I plead with them to just let me sleep a little longer to recover? I pleaded. Neither did it make any difference. Eventually son turned up. He was livid to find his mother reduced to a pile of shit.

Yes, Con. That’s England for you.


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