Bitch on the Blog

June 1, 2018


Filed under: death,Ethics,Food — bitchontheblog @ 13:39
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You can’t help but feel for a guy whose mother was dying on Wednesday, her still hanging on on Friday, reflecting on his blog about his dietary aberrations in the meantime. I dearly hope she left him some chicken soup in the freezer to heat up when she has finally snuffed it. They say chicken soup is good for the soul.




August 15, 2016

The land of shadows

Filed under: Atmosphere,Communication,death,Future,Human condition,Psychology,The Reaper — bitchontheblog @ 03:53
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On the whole I do find my dreams entertaining. My dreams are stories, often riddles, mostly pointers as to where I need to find my feet in waking life.

However, there is one type of what I call a “half” dream which I find disconcerting. This usually involves other people (mainly the Angel) and their wellbeing. And – please don’t laugh – the phone will ring (in my dream). The phone will ring so convincingly in my dream that I wake and reach for it. During that moment of reaching for it I wake and realize it was “just” a dream.

Bear with me. It’s not remotely amusing. It’s frightening. And I am not easily frightened, if at all.

Tonight, and I write this with my heart as heavy as only a heart can be heavy in the middle of the night, my father “phoned”. It is the call I dread. The call I will not know what to say to my father. He said my name, and then he fell silent. So we stayed silent – it’s not easy to say nothing when on the phone.

And then I woke, the phone wasn’t ringing – and I trust my mother is still alive.


May 11, 2016

Cost benefit analysis

Filed under: Amusement,Children,death,Human condition,The Reaper — bitchontheblog @ 09:04
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In response to the question of someone contemplating motherhood one commentator left the following:

“Don’t bother, it’s a waste of time. All that effort and then one day they will just die anyway. Pointless.”

Seriously, not even Sartre can beat this for a laugh.

Take it from this mother: The joy outweighs the certainty.


August 22, 2015


Filed under: Amusement,Animals — bitchontheblog @ 17:31

Sweethearts, the older my mother gets the more I cannot cope. She is fine. Though excitable. Even for my taste.

She also goes into amazing detail.

Anyway today she relates how she swallowed some cold fruit tea and got stung by a wasp at entry point to her gullet. Brill. Can’t beat it. Particularly when my mother is involved. Sarah Bernard and Liz Taylor have nothing on her.

What does she do? By way of first aid? And this is where my mother and I part ways and explains why we are so different. She first swallows some high Vat liquor, then she makes herself a boiling hot cup of tea. You may ask why? It appears her first concern was not so much about herself, with anaphylactic shock in the wings, as revenge. REVENGE! On the wasp. Which was already half way down on the way of no return.

You can’t but marvel how people’s minds work. If that had been me … – but we’ll get to my superior measures in a minute. Yes, so swallowing alcohol followed by a hot brew which scalded her throat she killed a wasp. The wasp which had stung her. Now, and this is act four before the curtain falls and you have to hand it to her: She managed to regurgitate a now dead wasp. Only then did she alert her husband, my father, for him verify that indeed she had taken her revenge.

Naturally, and because I am to the point, I couldn’t help venturing in response that it might have been more sensible to swallow lots of cold water, suck an ice cube and generally keep a level head. Not so – as far as my mother is concerned. Three days on the wasp is still dead and she talks with a rasping voice.


October 24, 2013


A chunk of my life’s studies has been on death. The inevitability of death is awesome. I understand the deal: You are born, you will die. Not much of a deal but better than not being born.

What I’d like to know, and I am dead serious here: Why oh why oh why do people bother with embalming (a question hardly ever asked but brought, once more, to my attention just this minute)? I have stipulated in my will and testament, and told the Angel – poor sausage who will have to clear up after me – that I want to be discarded asap, not be drained and then pumped full with formaldehyde. The idea fills me with disgust. Once I am dead leave me alone. Please. Cardboard box. Lid on top. End of story.

To be continued….


March 14, 2012


Filed under: Ethics — bitchontheblog @ 20:18
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On my own blog, little lamb that I am, I don’t go for subjects that may ignite political, religious or any other bees in bonnets. I will occasionally succumb to voicing views in other bloggers’ comment boxes – on the very subjects I try to avoid in public.Though have currently put myself in quarantine.

HOWEVER (I hate it when I use the word ‘however’. It’s rarely a bearer of good news.) HOWEVER, this minute I will make an exception to my rule: Just read about a woman (well known author) whose son donated one of his kidneys to her. Who wants to die? Yet, unless my son wrestled me to the ground, I would NOT allow him to mutilate himself for me. Put his own life at risk. Naturally, one could now discuss whether that’s selfish of me. I believe life goes FORWARD and, as hard as it is, we need to leave our parents behind.


August 17, 2011

Back to black

Before I try and climb Looney’s rope I will declare my hand:

I loathe blogs.

NO,  not yours. Mine. Such a ridiculous half way house between a PUBLIC confessionary and a diary. Always with the breaks on: You can’t spill ALL the beans, can you. Unless certifiable. So you spill some beans and ask yourself what the hell is the point. Other than getting some feedback from BHB, Magpie and Looney.  Those three are worth keeping this blog alive, if it kills me.

That I hate comment boxes on other people’s blogs even more than my own blog goes without saying.

Anyway, this minute’s gripe, and needs  to be vented before I think better: You know what I don’t like about life? What unsettles me more than any surprise or misery that can every befall me?

Yes, you got it in one: I’d be so much happier if I knew the hour/the day/the year. It’s  not funny. It’s not control freak. It’s wanting some peace of mind. Let’s say I knew I’d drop within the next 59 minutes (blod clot or some other sudden inconvenience) I’d tackle the remainder of my life differently than if,  say, being given one month to tidy my affairs. Or twenty years to meander around dreamily (whilst tidying my affairs). I don’t like uncertainty. And yes, I know it’s what has given us philosophy in its endless quest of finding out what life and its loyal friend, death, are about

All I want is an expiry date.

Is that so much to ask for? Go to your supermarket. Everything (even cans which last forever) are given a sell and a use by date. It’s only the human being left in the dark. With regards to the sensitivities of those who believe in God and an afterlife, I shall not be too harsh but seriously: Along with your birth certificate couldn’t you be given a pointer?

Back to black,


March 5, 2011


BHB drew mildly irritating pink hanky to my castrated bull’s attention.

Which reminds me: Any of you aspiring writers out there, in need to improve your prose, please read Hemingway, particularly “Death in the afternoon” (yes, on bullfighting). Forget the gore, imbibe the prose.

The curse of the cell phone: Called a mobile in the UK, and a handy in German speaking countries. Which tells you all there is to know about the United Nations. What the French call it I only hazard to guess but I dare say they have enough sense to keep them turned off most the time – by necessity if they want to salvage any of their own and their country’s reputation.

I rarely get steamed up involuntarily but the handy cell phone of the averagely mobile has an edge.

For a while I wondered why people were talking to themselves walking down the road.

What can be so urgent, important as to stem the flow of a conversation with the person sitting next, opposite to you, just because the phone rings? Why does a cell phone take precedence over your self being physically present? Why do we always have to be available (even, see Ramana’s recent contribution, on the loo)? How did we survive in pre cell times? How did we make it to the year 2011 when all we started off with were smoke signals in some Teutonian woodland? Not expecting an answer till the next boomerang hit us between the brows – like months later?  Has self importance, a poor bedfellow to urgency,  become our master? Are we incapable of making a decision down aisle 23 whether to buy fusilli or penne (pasta shapes) without confering with whoever has sent us shopping/does the cooking? Keep the noise down, will you? I have my own decisions to make – without participating in your domestics.

Then there is the vacant look. The vacant look is when – right in the middle of some face to face communication – the other will get a call and lose track of what we were talking about. Sure, no probs. Let’s start again wasting my time (and yours, as it happens). Talk about manners. Atrocious comes to mind. I sometimes wonder what they would have made of it in your average 19th/early twentieth setting of a novel: Can you imagine Mr Darcy emerging from the pond, brooding stare, dark locks dripping, damp shirt clinging to his broad chest and then the tune of I don’t know, say, Adam Ant giving him the jingles: “Sorry, Jane. Just need to take this.” Yes, fuck you too. Doesn’t work.

There is only one person (apart from his friends in need to contact me should the shit ever hit the fan when they are out and about) who has my mobile number, and that is my son. For him I will always be contactable (what a word). Everyone else can wait till I am home in the sweet vicinity of my landline.

I won’t go into texting. I don’t text. Texting is a poor excuse for spelling shite. Apple of my eye texts me – spelling immaculate; but that’s only to humour me.  And because he knows that otherwise I will not know what he is talking about; which in turn will yield zero result. Which is why he prefers to call me rather than waste thumb power.

So yes, as you might have gathered, I am not of this handy cell world, particularly when mobile.


May 5, 2010


Filed under: Despair,Fairy Tales,Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 02:43
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It’s three in the morning and I have just woken. Yes, I KNOW it’s the sort of newsworthy stuff that should go on Twitter and leave your friends yawning.

However, and before I answer three excellent comments to my last mind-blowingly profound post, I have to divest myself of what I have just learnt (source BBC): Lack of sleep has potential to shorten your life. Which is regrettable since I like living. Neither can I pass on to my mother – who has a knack for sleeping unrivalled – that more than nine hours might contribute to her premature demise. She wouldn’t like it and probably toss and turn all night worrying. Worry, naturally, no doubt, also contributing to going to an early grave. You can’t win, can you? One way or another the old tosser will get you. It’s like playing chess with someone you know is most likely to make your king abdicate (two hours in): You’ll still agree to play, indeed give it your best shot instead of  conceding defeat immediately; anyway, you do want to give those pawns chance to fulfill their destiny by being mowed down serving their queen.

That’s what’s so great about lack of sleep: Clarity is lost. You start on one subject, the next you are talking about chess. Then like Hansel and Gretel trying to find their way out of the woods all the breadcrumbs have gone. Wouldn’t have happened to clever Ariadne.

The upshot being: Whether sleeping too little or too much,  living really is a minefield. As my father once observed (at a time when I was still easily impressed): “Life is dangerous. It usually ends by snuffing it.”


April 1, 2010

On the psychiatrist’s chair

Filed under: Despair,Happiness,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 18:35
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Just came across a marvellous cartoon:

A  Sigmund Freud lookalike sitting on a chair; in front of him – on the couch – a skeleton, a bit down in the mouth, dressed in a long black hooded gown with the tool of his trade, a scythe, parked next to him: “I do feel so unappreciated”.

And we thought we had problems.


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