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?

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

September 14, 2016

Summer

A swallow just caught my attention.

Once upon a time we lived in the middle of nowhere. Even our immediate neighbours, one either side (we were in the middle) were a good walking distance away. Let’s say, not in earshot.

Yes, surrounded by fields, meadows, a little stream, dried out ponds (spare a thought for the frogs), and generally all that I was accustomed to from my earliest childhood I’d spent with my grandparents. And, the FREEDOM. I was allowed to just wander anywhere. Then I met a bull. But that’s another story. I am a fast runner.

So, on the outhouse right next to our patio/terrace there was the swallows’ nest. You think bricks and mortar, the pyramids, the London Eye, a miracle? Look at a nest. That’s a miracle. An act of perseverance, ingenuity, hard relentless work and focus. Not to mention purpose.

Enter the farmer’s (on the left depending which direction you were looking from) cat. When I say cat I mean panther. Nowadays probably classified as feral. I dare say there was no “cat food”. Cats fed themselves doing it by means cats do best: Hunt.

Great. So far so good. Here is the recipe: Enter the swallows, their freshly hatched brood, my father AND the CAT into the mix. Watch this for a while as the baby swallows are being decimated. Swallows getting agitated, cat getting bold, my father getting ANGRY.

So, one morning I wake up and there is a big black panther lying under the outhouse roof. Shot. There was no blood. But that big black Tom of a cat was dead.

Not so. Apparently it was all in my imagination. I was never to breeze so much as a word to said farmer neighbour and generally condemned to silence. That’s when I decided to become a spy.

I don’t know why, twelve years old, a long time ago, I do remember the cat’s body.

The swallows? Did they come back the next year? I don’t know. By then we had moved.

U

September 30, 2013

CH4

Sweethearts, I am in awe of myself. I was given four choices as to the correct formula for methane and I scored bulls eye. I hope you are duly impressed. And if any of you run a chemistry lab and looking for staff I am more than happy to blow up the place. A price well worth paying for having me on your pay roll.

I don’t do cross word puzzles or quizzes other than in idle moments when, perversely, I want to prove to myself that I know nothing. Or rather: When I want to confirm a long held suspicion of mine that I know very little indeed. Which makes most my ticks guesses. Educated guesses – but guesses nevertheless. There is something peculiarly satisfying to still score high. Foam over substance.

Hazy greetings,

U

September 12, 2013

Obstetrics

Filed under: Despair — bitchontheblog @ 14:50
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

A wasp has nothing on me this minute. Mad as a hatter, closely following my last post’s theme which I wish I’d never posted. But that’s posting for you: Once in the box don’t blush.

If I open one more (quality?) broadsheet paper and get shit like “Childfree” I am not sure what I AM going to do. I’ll do something. At least throw up if nothing else comes to mind.

C H I L D FREE? May you never regret not having been shackled.

Naturally, those who pride themselves on being ‘child FREE’ also spout, in the same breath: “Why would I breed?” Indeed why would you bitches BREED? Remember, sweethearts, you are not dogs, horses, cattle put to work by a BREEDER.

Can’t attribute this quote, just as well: “Sexually active yet childfree is a relatively new achievement.” Achievement? What achievement? Are you guyesses out of your fucking mind? If your biological destiny passes you buy – fine. Don’t make a virtue out of it.

To clear up any misunderstanding: All I object to is the term child “FREE”. Can’t even blame Americans to put this crap expression at our doorstep since the English have latched onto it like a baby to its mother’s breast.

My father once reminded me (in a different context): “Not freedom FROM what, but freedom TO what?” Hope you get the drift.

In the line up of women accompanying a particular article on the subject I am ashamed of what complete vacuous arseholes some women make of themselves. Do what you want to do, don’t do what you don’t what to do: But, for heaven’s sake, don’t brag about your life choices at the cost of those who made a different one.

And, when you spout “Life is better without kids”, do remember that once upon a time, when your parents couldn’t help themselves, you (A KID) did come about.

U

July 23, 2013

That stinking feeling

Filed under: Communication — bitchontheblog @ 17:11
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I don’t filter everything through the fine sieve of my brain.

But I do have gut feeling. And when something doesn’t ring true it usually isn’t [true].

U

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