Bitch on the Blog

July 15, 2017

To one who is unlikely to recognize it’s addressed to him

Filed under: Accuracy,Communication,Formalities,Observations — bitchontheblog @ 21:17
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Some people are lovable piss heads; piss heads one will forgive transgressions. There is veritas in vino – and some who imbibe several too many most charming and insightful with it.

Others? Others, the angry, vindictive, twisted and bitter brigade, amount to little more than the proverbial [pub bore] once their glass is so empty they barely see the bottom of it. Rude, ill mannered, self pitying, grandiose. Well, mate (the one this post is addressed to), I will clear up your sick. Don’t expect me to take you seriously. If you can’t hold your drink stick to candy. Or keep shtum.



October 19, 2012


Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 20:03
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There is comfort in chaos.

Who’d have ever thought that I, of all people, Ms Organized, would commit those words to paper?

There is comfort in chaos. Well, let’s not exaggerate: Maybe not so much in ‘chaos’ but certainly in disorder. I look around me and ten years ago I would have blitzed the place to within an inch of its comfort zone in ten minutes flat and filed everyone and everything in alphabetical order whether they liked it or not.

Now, this minute, I look at my desk, the window sill the desk runs along and whilst it’s a shambles there is comfort in it and reluctance to do anything about it. And no, I am not depressed. I am undecided. Who is the real me? The old one or the even older one?

Don’t worry: The rest of what can only loosely be described as a ‘study’ is a disgrace – and I am so glad that people who knew me earlier in my life can’t see what my back is facing when I sit at my desk. That’s one of the reasons I am so happy that I don’t have eyes at the back of my head.

The secret to life is storage. Which is why I always wanted a plan chest, preferably an old and weathered one. Plan chests will be familiar to architects to hold their, well, plans. I need a plan chest to hold all my paper. And photographs. And everything.

Just shows you: You can take an orderly person out of order. But you can’t take the urge to order out of me.

Wish me luck. I am not sure where this is leading. But I do fear for myself. This might sound oddball but I think I can pinpoint the moment paralysis set in. On 12 January 2009 the police knocked at my door and asked me whether I was the owner of vehicle ………. Indeed. I was. I had taken it to the garage for its annual check up and various repairs. For a handsome fee. Only the garage parked the car – ready for collection the next day – on the road. Yes, Sweethearts, someone shortened what was quite a vehicle – in the middle of the night. Identity unknown. It was a write off. Not that the car and I were joined at the hip but I loved the freedom, the spur of the moment, following your impulse, it gave me. Since then I walk which, yes, keeps me fit and trim – nothing new there then – but I think I’ve lost a gear or two.

Anyway, I can feel a tidal wave of determination coming on. So should I be a little quiet (unlikely) it’s because I am on a mission. Please do let me know what you’d like to be filed under. I’ll even coloUr code you if you wish. Make an inventory of you. And a duplicate. Should you prefer being dumped I will make sure you’ll go into the right recycling container.

Hugs, kisses and clinging to the wreckage of my life,


October 5, 2011

Don’t bank on it

Filed under: Despair — bitchontheblog @ 11:01
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Am in repose (a state of calm and peace).

Have decided that I live in the wrong time. It’s all very well not to be plagued by cow pox after Jenner squashed them. I have missed my boat. Just contemplated Virginia Woolf and the stones in her pocket before she entered the stream. And no, I am not suicidal. You do have to admire the woman’s forethought. Imagine she’d changed her mind half way into the river – minus the rocks. That would have been me: Result: Zilch. I’d still be alive. Only wet. With a lot of explaining to do.

I hate water. Always have. Not water you wash yourself and surroundings with. Just water. Deep. Swim across a lake. Don’t know what’s lurking down there. Try and think of other things – like the shore. Try not to think that you will have to swim back across same lake. Why do you do this? To please your grandfather, and anyway a sense of adventure (yes, I know I said it yesterday) bred  in my bone. In truth I wish I lived in Victorian times, with a corset stringing me up so tightly the slightest (e)motion would make me faint. Smelling salts. Gently lifted onto the sofa. Everyone (mainly the paid to do so) fawning to my every sigh and whim.

There is an author whose heroine I could have been and made him even greater than he already is. Yes, Dickens too, Though he is not my first choice. But he’d have loved me. As much as he loved any of his characters. I wish I were Dickens myself. His output. And that was before typewriters. Instead of which I am … in repose. Neither is my phone working. I can receive calls, but can’t call out. Post tele philosophy. Have added to my will that I wish to be buried (not burnt, buried) with a phone – surely someone will keep my credit topped up.


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