Bitch on the Blog

October 5, 2017


I need a reference point for reasons – in the context of this post – not important. Let’s just say that I need to put my mind to rest. Not least because my mother makes me wince every so often when she “remembers” things in my life she wasn’t even present at better than I do. Now? Now I don’t say anything any longer to correct her. Not since, about ten days ago, I sat next to a lovely lady two years my mother’s senior who was switched on, inquisitive, funny, lively – except every fifteen minutes or so she’d ask me whether I had any children. Having covered the subject of the Angel’s existence several times during our two hour wait my penny suddenly dropped. OH MY GOD. So this is how decline (ever so barely noticeable) manifests itself. No wonder my mother recently apologized to me for upsetting me profoundly. Unfortunately, what she apologized for wasn’t what I had taken offence at. WHAT the …? I left it. Thanked her for her apology. I don’t think she is interested in detail any longer. Main thing is that everything is hunky dory. “All I want is to be good with you”, she says. I do have to rejig my mind set when talking with her in future.

The reference point I need is for a period of utter chaos in my life (ca. eight/nine years or so ago). A few details a little hazy. A couple of days ago I realized that I remembered something that is, chronologically, not possible. So, anyway, and do laugh, I phoned the veterinary practice and asked whether they keep records from many years ago. Yes, they do. Great. Can you please tell me the date when my cat Bouncer (reference point) was put down?

Bloody blasted hell (and only my refined upbringing stops me from using all the swearwords I can muster to express my utter disgust at what the world of information has come to). They can’t give me the date of my OWN cat’s death over the phone because of data protection. Short of my date of birth which they didn’t request I gave the receptionist all the data she needed to conclude that I am not a Russian agent spying on myself. No doing. On top of which she kept calling me “My Lovely”. What’s wrong with the British? Emotionally stunted they proceed to call complete strangers “Love” and “Deary”.

I am now in the recovering position. Next stop on my journey through life? Extracting my own teeth.



July 12, 2017


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,


January 30, 2016


Whilst I do believe that colour does not beat the starkness of a black and white photograph I do have difficulty liking those who paint the world in black and white. Those who indulge in generalizing instead of taking their magnifying glasses to the particular.

Yes, the general and the particular. What a marvellous subject. Lending itself to all FACETS of life. Today, going the way of least resistance, I shall focus on the soft subject of dog and cat lovers.

Please note that I said ‘and’ NOT ‘versus’. There is no law to say that you have to be either or. Or can’t be both. Sure, we may have affinities. Men, mice. Some even keep hamsters. A friend and neighbour of mine used to. I can’t say I loved them (I loathe anything on a treadmill) but they were living things (not that they knew it) so I looked after them when friend was on holiday. Even when friend was not on holiday I’d get those blasted things over to my garden and let them chew the grass. I’d have preferred a sheep or a goat but friends can’t be choosers.

If I were technically as adept as all of you I’d now attach to this post a photo of my fifteen months old self and Pongo. Pongo was my first body guard, an Alsatian. Sitting, at my side and on his hind, taller than me. And yes, the picture is black and white. Which is just as well because Pongo’s fur was black and it was midwinter and the snow was very very very white.

Where were we? Cats and dogs. Animals. By temperament I’d say I prefer cats, for purely selfish reasons. Cats want nothing from you. They give (not least half dead prey put at your feet as a sign of affection) but that’s about it. Dogs? Dogs are takers. They – not by desire, by default – may look at you as the leader of the pack. Don’t let yourself be flattered so easily. As leader of the pack you are looked upon to provide. PROVIDE. Like what? Fun, entertainment, and, naturally, food. You are at their beck and call. And those eyes. Those EYES. Pleading, needy. That’s ok. I don’t mind pleading, needy, that’s what makes dogs human. But, for heaven’s sake, there is that never ending sorrow in a dog’s eyes. It’s why, and please shoot me now, why I firmly believe that those prone to the metaphorical black dog on your shoulder should not keep dogs. Keep a cat – if you must have a pet – instead. Cats are affectionate to the point of suffocating (me) yet they never expect you to throw a stick. And to reciprocate I never expect them to fetch it [the stick].

As an aside and whatever you do: Do not keep a gold fish. They are soul destroying (their own and yours).

Hugs and hisses,


September 9, 2015


Filed under: Amusement,Animals — bitchontheblog @ 17:59
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And now, for light relief and something else: Animals.

Not for the first time do I find myself bogged down thinking about man’s relationship with animals.

Why is it that some [animals] are so abhorrent to most humans, and others we keep as pets? For me the main criteria to like anything living (other than plants which have their own ways of enchanting or disgusting you) you have to be able to look them in the eye. Without eye contact, in my view, you are nothing. Which is, presumably, why I find mice (the speed runners of the small), spiders (snakes with eight legs) and any other you can’t nail down so abhorrent.

(Wo)man’s relationship with animals. There have been a few dogs in my life. One I grew up with. A magnificent black Alsation, impeccably behaved. Other dogs by proxy. There is one thing, no two, I don’t like about dogs. They go for your crotch and they are needy. Can’t stand it. Understand the crotch thing though they might be a little bit more subtle about it – particularly if you are a girl of seventeen, but that needy look when they can’t put themselves aside for a minute does test my patience. Main thing I keep reminding myself that animals do what animals do. It’s not their fault that some of them don’t fit my perception of good company.

Cats. I love cats. They are not needy. They do their own thing and when they come and talk to you they do so not because they want you to throw a stick to retrieve but because they want to talk to you.

Having said that, one of our cats, Bouncer, was probably the most stupid animal ever (in a sort of intelligent way) you may wish to encounter. Bouncer was born the youngest of our cat Fleury’s one and only litter. Born with his caul intact. A parcel. Which denotes luck. Well, he was lucky in as much as the Angel and I decided to keep him and give his two sisters away. Fleury, his mother, didn’t have that much patience with him – which led to some words between her and me, but that’s private. Anyway, where Fleury was eloquent but never a lap cat Bouncer was huge. I blame his father. So, yes there I was some years ago: Two arms broken and in plaster cast, one leg down, pinned to the sofa, on my back, watching Bette Davis’ movies on a loop when Bouncer descended on me. All eight and a half kilos of him on my chest and purring. That cat’s middle name was either affection or downright selfishness.

Miss both of them, and the one before who used to run after my pencil as I covered the page.


August 27, 2015

Make or break time

Filed under: Amusement,Intermittent despair — bitchontheblog @ 22:40
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You know what this whole mouse saga has confirmed to me once more?

I have the patience of a fucking saint. The extent of my patience is so extraordinary I am in awe of myself. If I were someone else I wouldn’t stand for some of the shit coming my way. But there you go. By way of example, and I had only asked a stranger a perfectly innocent question, I was told this morning “You ARE taking the piss.” This was not improved on by him repeating it. I wasn’t taking anything, most certainly not piss. I remained that what I so admire in the heroines of Jane Austen novels: Calm DESPITE of it. Even charming. Even smiling. I came away from that encounter distinctly feeling that he wasn’t mothered properly.

Yes, so the mouse in the house. My nights are those of intermittent sleep  – what with all the scratching. No, not scratching – mice need, emphasis on need, to chew hard stuff to keep their teeth growing too long. Yes, live and let live. I just wish it would die without my intervention.

If it were more than one mouse I’d call pest control (my landlord) but it’s only one. A lost soul. If this is going to go on much longer we’ll be friends. However, how can you be friends with the elusive? And elusive a mouse is. You never see it, you only hear it. At night. And yes, it’s still in the lounge. Where? I don’t know. I have turned the place over. Hoovered in unlikely places and generally gone ship shape. Tonight, I am sorry to say, is that little creature’s last chance. If that bloody – intermittent – scratching starts again, tomorrow I shall fork out real money for the dreaded trap (Rentokil – their website leaving you perplexed and grateful how many pests I have escaped in my life, also giving you a bewildering choice as to methods to kill).

Yes, so greetings from the soft touch,


July 8, 2012

It stinks

Filed under: Communication — bitchontheblog @ 19:31
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I am so glad I am not a dog. Not because I don’t want to follow the leader. Well, that too. But mainly because a dog is slave to his nose. It informs his world.

Smell being a much underrated of our human senses. How many times have I told the Angel to forget about food’s “Sell By”/”Use by” dates and use his nose instead? I learnt how to avoid food poisoning before a fridge freezer was a must-have in every household. A north facing larder off the kitchen would do. Those were the days: When eggs were laid daily, and cheese would go walkies – eventually.

We all know what perfume was invented for, other than lure: A mask before we had hot water on tap. Naturally, now in a time when we are so afraid to leave a faint smell of ourselves there is the deodorant. The devil’s invention if ever there was one. When the boys (that’s the Angel and his friends) were between the ages of 14 and 18 I’d gag on the amount of masking odour before they all exited in the morning. One day I had had it. Told them all in no uncertain terms: Clean is good: Shower. Forget the deo: You are young men whose pheromones were invented to attract (subtly) that which you most want: Yes, girls, maybe even a woman. Or if you must mask that which comes natural at least spend some money on a scent, a little more expensive than cheap. It will pay.

My lecture must have worked because these days, and for the last two years – when they leave in the morning – I am still overcome with their whiffs, but not of the synthetic kind. So I will  have to open all windows but at least for the right reasons.

Women are terrible, particularly when they go for the orientals. Meet them for dinner. You sit there, in a cacophony of nauseatingly fighting with each other smells, whilst trying to eat. It’s not only uncivilized, it borders on bad manners. Or let me enter a department store’s cosmetic and perfumery area: You will face spray guns. I wish I were Clint Eastwood. In fact, one of these days, as part of my many researches, I will NOT dodge any of those sweet girls but let all of them spray me. On exit I am sure I will not only CONFUSE dogs but make them howl.

The above was brought on by having had an inordinate amount of garlic, cucumber and yoghurt earlier today. Rule of thumb: Once you can smell yourself do keep a distance.

To be continued …


October 5, 2011

Tall tails

Filed under: Animals,Fairy Tales — bitchontheblog @ 17:03
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Choose your friends wisely. Particularly when given to fainting.

It will, immeasurably, add to my mystique that I can now claim that one of my correspondents, BHB, close to my heart, let her cat out ca 2 in the morning; the cat, half way up the tree, consequently eaten by a coyote. How romantic is that? Anyone can go all Little Red Riding Hood, out in the woods, with her little basket, and ask the wolf in bed and in granny’s clothing: “Why are your arms so hairy?” To have your cat devoured by a coyote raises the stakes.

Hope the cat was fat.


February 13, 2011


Filed under: Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 07:29
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Tip of a SUNday:

Procure a bottle of soap bubbles plus implement. Blow – gently. Preferably outside. Few things will give you as much pleasure. Look at the bubbles’ perfection, drink in the colour spectrum. See them drift away – and BURST. Happiness in a sphere. A perfect allegory for life.

If you are of a sadistic bend you may wish to enter a playful cat into the scenario.


January 13, 2010

Snapshot Nr 3

Filed under: Uncategorized — bitchontheblog @ 23:16
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My life is so fascinating, my mind boiling at all times, I need a double shift: 48 hrs in every current 24.

It’s cold in England at the moment. Not cold as in  Canada, Austria, Switzerland, Bavaria, Siberia, Norway or the Artic Circle. Just cold by Gulf Stream standards. Years ago I bought my son some skiing trousers (lined inside, with a shiny and rather noisy outside); naturally never worn I have just discovered that they fit me. Which is good news since it cuts down on my central heating bill. However, they make a sort of hissing noise whenever I walk around. Which warns everyone that I am on the approach. It makes the cat shoot out of the catflap faster than you can say “Bouncer” (his name). He is completely out of his mind since his mother (of eight years) died last July. And whilst he was once “Fatty Boy” in the words of his owner, my son, he is now a skeleton. Well, so much for 145 keystrokes on twitter. This was an American portion sized one.


PS Completely forgot what I meant to ask: What do you do with a neurotic cat? And do you realise how difficult it is to poison a cat superfluous to requirements? They are suspicion personified – circling anything unfamiliar till deciding “If in doubt, don’t”.  I shall tag this post to draw in the wrath of cat lovers and the benign advice of vets (I should be so lucky).

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