Bitch on the Blog

May 17, 2018

Coincidence?

This post is dedicated to Ramana who is a great fan of synchronicity, mentioning it often. Call it synchronicity, call it coincidence, call it what you like … but here, dearest Ramana, is one to trump them all. Spooky …

A few weeks ago we had a spot of flash flooding at midnight coming through the ceiling.  I don’t want to relive the experience. Let’s just say there was a lot of water – not least in my study. A frog and a goldfish would have been very happy.

Water and paper only mix in as far as they bond like glue. My idea of a marriage made in hell. I did what I do best: Limit the damage. I even managed (don’t be sad) to avoid electrocuting myself as water trickling into extensions leads and their sockets sizzled, giving off ominous smoke signals. If there is one thing I am proud of  in myself it’s how I manage a crisis, any crisis. Methodically. Stay calm now, go into (after) shock, if necessary, later. So, yes, switched off the electrics at the mains, did my salvage work in the romantic glow of an industrial strength torch.

So where does synchronicity come into it? Simple. In the aftermaths of Noah’s Ark I have been reorganizing my study, boxes of photos, all my papers, not least letters. Letters which I have kept from the day dot. All sorted by sender/addressee. Yesterday afternoon I re-read those written by my father. I nearly didn’t because they were strong tobacco at the time (twenty/thirty years ago), nothing to revisit in a hurry unless you want to upset yourself. I don’t know what came over me. I steeled myself and read. Holy shit.

And here it is: My father and I haven’t had any contact for about nine months. None. And I wasn’t going to ever instigate any again till he bloody well himself picks up the phone or writes or something. Which,  my mother once said to me, “he won’t”. Well, fine. So be it. Why is it always me doing the running? Enough.

Remember, I re-read his correspondence yesterday afternoon. Four hours later, as if by magic, my father sends me a tentative email asking for renewed contact. If that isn’t synchronicity then I don’t know what is. And the only reason I didn’t fall off my chair in wonderment is because a) my sense of balance is superb and b) I was standing.

Awaiting a round of awe and applause,

U

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March 12, 2018

Martyr to the Cause

Kant’s Categorical Imperative. Sounds grand, doesn’t it? Well, it isn’t grand. There is nothing remotely difficult about it just because a philosopher put words to a concept.

In fact one may accuse Kant (his name is pronounced – English readers – Cunt not Can’t) of plagiarism. The Bible said as much as his Categorical Imperative spelling it out in so many words: Don’t do onto others as you don’t want to be done by.

My inkling that Kant was inspired by the Bible’s scriptures an idea that I’d love to run past my father. Alas, him, the great advocate of the Categorical Imperative, hasn’t spoken to me since 1 August last year (his birthday). It’s not that he doesn’t want to speak to me. It’s just that unless I call him he can’t (Kant) be arsed to pick up the phone himself. A virgin on her wedding night has nothing on my father. Anyway, as I have no interest in playing his game I am now in the unenviable position of not benefiting from his various morsels of insights into an original mind. What use is his original mind if it closes down lines of communication?

U

April 9, 2017

Not Trump – MY father

Filed under: Family — bitchontheblog @ 16:07
Tags: , , , ,

This is pretty raw stuff since it only happened a few minutes ago.

Most of you, obviously, will have/had parents.  My father drives me to despair. I am trying, hard. The expenditure of energy when talking to him (on the phone) bears no relation to how terrible I feel afterwards. For ages.

The man doesn’t let me finish one thought, not even one sentence. If I make it to a comma I count myself lucky. Talking over me. Shouting down the line. Am I deaf? It’s awful.  

Bloody hell. It’s a Sunday afternoon, the sun is shining, I tried to phone my mother (she was out) served with my father answering the phone. Now I am sitting here, not exactly five years old any longer, crying. And yes, I did put the phone down on him, eventually. There are limits. And mine stretch far,

Leaving aside that he has always been overbearing, are we now entering that land of the lost old? The land where they are so obtuse they don’t know what they are doing? For heavens sake, I am the one of his children who loyally holds out. The one who is always at the end of the telephone line.  I can’t do this any more.

Anyway, any of you, please let me know what you think.

The odd thing is, my mother being four years older than my father (he will be eighty later this year) is who she always was (albeit physically wilting as roses do) – but fully compos mentis. My father? I hate to think of him like that but I think he becoming more of what he always was. And maybe – unlike his wife, my mother – not with it that much any longer. Or maybe, likely, he is just frustrated how his life has panned out.

I don’t know.

Pretty distraught,

U

February 12, 2017

Hell, water and drowning

Just when you think yourself as snug as a bug in a hug with, more or less, all questions of ethics and their answers under the belt one sneaks up on you.

Holy cannoli – the noose tightens.

This, drawn to my attention a few minutes ago, is so awful I am in knots.

For sake of argument you have to assume you have more than one child. You find yourself at the mercy of the elements and you can only save ONE of your children. Which one would you save? This is so awful I can barely get my head round it. Naturally, as one does, I cast my eye back to my family of origin. Who would either of my parents of four have saved? I dare say, being quite a bit older than my siblings and therefore stronger, both my mother and my father would have left me to fend for myself. But that still leaves them with three to choose from. I’d rather not pursue this line of thought. It’s unsettling beyond belief. At least that’s tonight’s nightmare guaranteed. Not that members of my family normally play much of a role in my dreams.

Any crutches of your own thoughts on this truly horrendous scenario welcome.

U

December 5, 2016

Strife

Filed under: Family — bitchontheblog @ 12:11
Tags: , , , , ,

Just because November has gone and I am still alive doesn’t mean the worst is over. It isn’t.

To take my mind off things I phoned my youngest sister yesterday. As I do every Sunday. You may remember that my youngest sister, think Mona Lisa, is the militant in the family. She digs in her heels at the slightest provocation. So, for years, she has broken off all contact to my father. My mother appears to be a write off too. All in the name of my youngest sister being indignant. I try and steer the boat but do not flatter myself that I can avoid her Titanic sinking before my mother snuffs it. It’s awful. Awful, awful, awful. Yes, so it’s awful, and Dog Almighty, me, the older sister, can do shit all to make it better. Rarely have I felt less helpless.

On a lighter note (please do note pun: “Lighter” as in match) my sister reported that three of her four children do smoke. And she found them out. The last bit the bad bit. If you are being found out by my sister your marching orders will be given before you know where your feet, never mind your boots, are.

I tried to convey that whilst good mothers make sure that their children’s grazed knees, bruised egos and whatever, you can make better”,bla bla bla bla, as long as they are little and run to you, there comes a time in life when you have to abdicate (with a heavy heart) and leave those well honed bodies, souls and health to be wrecked at your kids’ leisure – or not. Oddly, my/our mother knew this – instinctively. I moved out from home – one minute to the next, literally – and my mother gave me her blessing. My father went ballistic. He always does. Sometimes I think, don’t tell her, that my youngest sister and my father are so alike they should be locked in a padded room and sort it out between the two of them.

I am sure it’s marvellous to have siblings. Only surpassed by being an only.

U

March 8, 2014

Open Letter

Filed under: Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 13:14
Tags: , ,

I have little opinion on anything. Give me a cause and I’ll play devil’s advocate if in the mood. Otherwise I’ll just knock you out by conventional means.

Yes, boxing. ‘Schuesseleffekt’. It’s when your brain wooshes around its bowl, a bit like jelly warming up. How anyone can encourage their son to take up boxing is beyond me. No offence to you, Chuck, should you read this. Your brain seems to have survived remarkably well.

My father who was always good at being blunt about how the real world works explained “Schuesseleffekt” to me. Can’t remember why. I wasn’t in the market for boxing.

Yes, boxing. Insert pregnant pause. Of course, at times we all pummel a cushion. Better than kicking the cat. Or shouting at the dog you don’t have. But boxing? At age five? Yes, Sweetheart, you know who I am addressing. Guns? Driving? Under age? Sexist remarks you make all the the time. Disparaging. Taking suggestive photos of your teenage nieces. Publishing them on the internet? Mother of your son going ballistic when your joint five year old drops his trousers? Only re-enacting what he does experience?  Give me a break. Go back to the drawing board.

You can’t have it both ways: Either you enhance testosterone at – possibly too early an age – or you let it rest.

One piece of advice: I know you and your mother don’t see eye to eye. No doubt, in MY eye, HER fault. But do not, and I mean it – and obviously can only go by your blog’s narrative – make both your sons’ mothers into the bogey women. Your sons won’t thank you for it. As good a father as you may be: Little gets between a son and his mother.

U

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