Bitch on the Blog

May 6, 2017

Sea Change

Have you ever got lost? I don’t mean in the metaphorical sense but its literal meaning.

Were you frightened when you did? How old were you?

I got lost twice in my life. Once age six or so. In Berlin which we had just moved to. My mother asked me to go to the bakers to get some fresh rolls. Not only was I honoured to be trusted with such a task I found a bakery. Bought the rolls. A bag full to bursting point. With a smell to match. Came out of the shop and stood in wonderment. There were all these high rise buildings caving in on me. Which sort of gave me something to look up to whilst trying to work out whether to turn right, left or walk straight ahead. After the first minute of confusion had worn off I was perfectly happy. I had visions of never finding my family again, being adopted by a kind fairy and living a life of bliss. Alas, it was not to be. Once I had realized I couldn’t ask anyone to give me directions since I didn’t even know the name of the street we lived on I just relied on my innate sense of direction. High rise or not. Never told my mother. “What took you so long?”, she said. Some things best kept to oneself.

The second was not that long after, and yes, we had moved again, when we visited the sea side. There we were, complete with beach hut and I went for a swim with one of those pesky blow up rings round my body. Don’t trust salt water. And don’t lose yourself in reverie. By the time I got back to the shore my parents, their friends and one sibling (tiny) had gone. I took it in my stride. Fairy tales are full of children, abandoned. Main thing in life is to keep your nerve. And let little surprise you. As I was trying to work out where to go from where I was my poor mother and one of our friends were running down the promenade shouting my name. “Sonny, Sonny”.

Apparently the current had taken me further and further and further sideways.

So? Did/do you ever get lost?



October 4, 2016


Filed under: Communication,Ethics,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 08:46
Tags: , , , ,

Despite the years marching on I have not grown into a cynic. Thank dog for one of his smaller mercies.

Which is why, yesterday morning, I was chilled to the bone. And wished I were five again to run to either my mother or grandmother to make it all better, nay, take it all away.

I quote “Ask me what you want to know, but I won’t tell you the truth, of that you can be sure,” saying she liked the passage [of another author].

“Of that you can be sure” … Breathe in, breathe out.

Let’s leave aside who “she” who “liked the passage” is. Doesn’t matter. What matters is the content of the quote (incidentally by an author I have on my shelf for good reason, namely, Italo Calvino). Who knows in what context Calvino said those words. But HER liking not telling the truth? And this on publishing her AUTObiography?

The pole of my esteem I hold others in I don’t grease that much. One needs to make allowances, and that way most stay up there high. Those hell bent on getting down can always jump or use their own spit. But, by golly, when someone’s spouting chills me (see above) to the bone I am on red alert. Whoever “she” is I’d not trust her with my frying pan.

Which reminds me: Why, when in court, are even atheists, agnostics, expected to swear on the bible to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth? One would hope so. But why on the Bible? Being made to swear on your grandmother’s grave possibly more effective in making you think twice before bending that “truth” to your advantage.



March 31, 2011


In about ten hours I’ll be on train to Magistrates Court, Poole, Dorset, England, to face the music. Luckily I am tone deaf.

Postponing the inevitable I haven’t YET written a word, neither outlined budget why they can stick their fine where my monies will not stretch to.  That can wait till two hours before legging it down to the train.

However, by way of diverting anxiety as to imminent incarceration, explained earlier today to son how to work washing machine in my absence; not least to not forget to turn OFF the oven. It met with little amusement: Not because he doesn’t want to do his own washing but because he is worried that going to a cell will blow my already stretched mind (think knicker elastic ca. 1955, slightly worn by life’s joys and tribulations).

I packed into today more than most people will into their spring clean spread over weeks: Tottered to doctor, did NOT cry at his shoulder, nevertheless made it clear that after the last three years testing my patience above knicker elastic might need replacing. Him, of a kind disposition, realising that I’d react allergic to anything he might suggest by way of pharmaca handed me a tissue instead and a copious supply of Vitamin D tablets to keep – for my age – apparently borderline thin bones in shape. Brill. Have just blown all my chances with Ramana.

Staggered into town to keep various people in humoUr (depleted), queued quietly at post office; had heartbreaking conversation with son on return, eating muffins which, naturally – in attempt to keep some sort of resemblance to normal life – I had baked ca 0700 instead of writing that blasted court thing. Now, and don’t say it doesn’t pay to speed (unbeknown to me) on 20 August 2008: As displacement therapy goes I have excelled myself: Filed like the devil,  hoovered like Dyson, cleaned like Doris Day and Mr Muscle rolled into one.

With a bit of luck, tomorrow afternoon I shall return to an immaculate flat, alphabetically ordered.

Oh, shit.


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