Bitch on the Blog

September 30, 2017

Location, location, location

Unlike most of you and other squeamish, sanitized and contemporaries, there will be no fire for me. Brimstone more like it.

Yes, I shall be buried. Come maggot and worm. OH MY GOD. I can see it now. Particularly my eye sockets. Never mind. Whilst aesthetically not pleasing I shall stick with earth to earth. Ashes go with the wind. Earth is solid.

In one of the more wonderous moments of my life, a few days ago I found the cemetery cum graveyard I would like to be buried in. If push comes to shove I’ll move into its vicinity to ensure a place. It’s pure magic. Absolute magic. Acres and acres, largely not yet populated. Proper graves. Can’t wait.

Urns (and their ashes), by comparison, measly. Measly. Meagre. Mean. Cheek by jowl.¬†Reminds me of some two years ago when the Angel and I visited Minstead’s graveyard where Arthur Canon Doyle (think Sherlock Holmes) and his wife are buried. The Angel remarked that it’s so much nicer to be able to visit a grave (and, naturally, to the Angel’s horror, I managed to stand on it) rather than being restricted to, well, a measly, teensy, weensy spot with an urn of which there are quite a few on Minstead’s cemetery too, ¬†even if blessed with a “view” over rolling country side.

I am not particularly tall though some people think me so. There is something to be said to be buried stretched to your full length rather than reduced to your volume in ashes. I am sure that’s what Archimedes thought when displacing water, resulting in his joyous “Eureka”.



August 24, 2016

Food heaven

Despite what most bloggers wish to believe – none of you are saints, and even saints may have a mean streak.

My mean streak? It is a shocker if ever there was one. And I am not proud of it.

Before you hyperventilate in anticipation of my confession – do sit down at my table and enjoy (food cooked by me). And you will [enjoy]. What you don’t do, because thus disappointment lies, ask me for THE RECIPE. I know people think it’s the ultimate compliment. It isn’t. Trust me. It’s a gross intrusion into, nay violation of, my treasure trove. I will NOT give you the recipe. Come back again for more of the same – but don’t ask me for the recipe.

The above notion problematic in reverse – as I learnt as a young bride having landed on these culinary shores ca. mid 1980s. You enthuse over someone’s food; the host(ess), oh so polite and sweet mannered, will beam at you: “Would you like the recipe?” No, actually, I don’t. Naturally, I didn’t, and still don’t, say that. It’d be plain rude if I did. Instead of which you (that’s me) walk away feeling ashamed knowing full well that I myself would never offer full disclosure of my biggest successes. Though – mitigating circumstances – will give veiled hints how NOT to do it.

If none of you ever speak to me again – that’s my loss.

Hugs and hisses,


August 31, 2013


Filed under: Animals,Despair — bitchontheblog @ 16:08
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Am lumbered:

“One hundred and one (101) uses for a dead cat.” I can’t think of even one. Other than burying it and planting some catnip on top of it. Where my imagination leaves to be desired you might come up trumps. Please. As long as you don’t stuff it.


July 14, 2013


Filed under: Food — bitchontheblog @ 10:52
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Struggling with this piece of advice I have just been given: Be like Teflon.

I don’t want to be like Teflon. I am not Teflon. Not one pot or pan in my kitchen is Teflon. I don’t trust Teflon. Why? Because when you scratch the surface (of Teflon), and you will, it’s poison. That’s a fact.

My pans are stainless steel and I can scratch as much as I like and still live another day to scratch some more.


PS Come to think of it, and don’t know whether any of you have ever been to a Chinese street market or floated side by side a Hong Kong Harbour sampan: Teflon can’t stand heat. Think about it. And whatever you do: Do not replace Teflon with aluminium. Yes, I know it’s now common knowledge that aluminium does not give you Alzheimer’s despite the rumours. Still.

PPS I never thought Ronald Reagan and I had anything in common: We are both non-stick. Do google. Or just ask me.

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