Bitch on the Blog

June 6, 2018


Early this evening I cut off seven heads. I then gutted the bodies. Butterflied them by gently pressing my hand down the back of their spine and removing same, namely their backbone. And, no, I did’t call any of them Nick by the time they were spineless. I doused them with hot smoked pepper and fried them in olive oil. Served with Padron peppers and other full in your face delicacies.

Yes, sometimes you need to bloody your hands before stuffing your face. Admittedly I only do this with fish. Possibly because, when very very very young (between the age of five and later) I went fishing with my grandfather. First we dug dewy earth and caught the early morning’s worm. Then we set out. On a rowing boat.  In the middle of the (small) lake he’d cast the line. And we’d wait. Quietly. Smiling at each other in conspiracy. I think watching my grandfather reeling in fish of some size – giving a little slack, reeling in, giving a little slack, reeling in, slack, patience and calm – is how I learned to conduct my relationships.

Back at the shore, bucket with fish unloaded, poured onto the grass, my grandfather showed me how to kill. Tool being a piece of fairly substantial wood. Essentially, a bit like Agatha Christie and the butler in the library, a wack at a precise spot just below the back of the head the most benign way to be dispatched if you are a fish. After the gutting, it was over to my grandmother to fry them into a feast. Happy memories.

Six of tonight’s fish heads looked resigned to their fate, Zen like. Number seven looked astonished (mouth wide open). Know how he felt. Whilst I tend to keep my mouth shut other than when smiling (default mode) I too am astonished at times what life has in store for you.



April 16, 2018

Soft boiled

Filed under: Future,no return,Roadkill — bitchontheblog @ 19:31
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I have done the maths.

How best not to waste time considering how little there is.

“How best to not waste time”? As in “what’s left”? Who am I kidding? It’s my life’s purpose to waste time. Not yours. Mine.





May 11, 2016

Cost benefit analysis

Filed under: Amusement,Children,death,Human condition,The Reaper — bitchontheblog @ 09:04
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In response to the question of someone contemplating motherhood one commentator left the following:

“Don’t bother, it’s a waste of time. All that effort and then one day they will just die anyway. Pointless.”

Seriously, not even Sartre can beat this for a laugh.

Take it from this mother: The joy outweighs the certainty.


February 11, 2014


Filed under: Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 15:10

Every one dies. So far so common place. However, it’s getting worse.

Renee who I am very fond of buried her mother recently. There is no comfort to the fact that her mother lived to, how does the phrase go, “a ripe old age”. God damn it. I still have both my parents. They too are getting riper and I dread the day. I dread the day I won’t hear their voices (our communication being mainly over the phone). The day that phone won’t ring. The day when I, absentmindedly, dial their numbers (they do have two separate ones) and no one will answer. I basically dread old age.

OLD Age? Don’t make me laugh. Forgetting the likes of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe, Philip Seymour Hoffman and many others leaving the playing field prematurely, the brother of LSF (longest standing friend) died at 51. Last summer. A golden boy. Just like that. No warning. No foreboding. Nothing.

Death has always been my friend, close to me, never far from my mind. But he (has death a gender? In German he does) is beginning to get on my nerves. I am not religious though did get married in church and my son was christened in the very same. But there are phrases in sermons at the grave side, taken from the Bible, I love. “Man born to woman”, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust”. Comforting. Grand words. Grand gestures. Expansive. Evocative. You almost don’t mind being dead – and the only who can’t hear the words.

I would love, and please don’t think me morbid – I am not, to hold a memorial service for both my parents (though separately as to give them their own spaces) whilst they are still ALIVE. So they can actually know how much I appreciate them, appreciated them even when Sunday afternoons were blue torture because my father made me sit down and listen to classical music and “guess” the bloody composer. How I miss it. Now I know my Mozart from my Beethoven. Even though they do overlap in temperament in certain pieces.

What brought this on? Apart from Renee,  – and I could write a whole essay on the above, except I do not lack self discipline: Shirley Temple has died. How dare a child die? At age 85.


June 10, 2012

Genius running on empty

Filed under: Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 11:19
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Last time we discussed the merits of an orderly desk.

Phil and David (respectively) put forward notions that chaos denotes genius and an empty desk reflects an empty mind. Not so. Neither. I can’t recommend order enough. As Conrad said it’s cyclical. And it is. Ebb and tide. I will not go all Feng Shui on you but there is no doubt that the less stuff there is flying around you the better you’ll think. You’ll breathe lightly. You’ll be less distracted (more is the pity).

And Renee is right: The moment you throw something out the next you’ll need it. It’s called Sod’s Law. Which is why it pays not to be married. That way you can’t point a finger of blame. Only berate yourself.

May I put forward a theory well worth giving a moment to:

Leaving personal momentos (like photos, letters and emails) aside nothing is irreplaceable. I firmly believe, indeed could fashion this into a mission statement of mine, that hoarders do NOT trust life. I do trust life. Any moment now I’ll break out into song “You lose some, you win some” but it’s true: I know people whose garages are so overflowing with screws and broken widgets they may need “some day” they let their cars rust outside. If you are one of them don’t buy a Citroen.

Yes, so throw out all that gunk, tidy your whereabouts, don’t keep things for that rainy day which, in all likelihood, will never come AND first and foremost: Trust life. You’ll find another screw if you really need it. And you won’t [need it] A book shelf doesn’t collapse on being one, or two,  or three [screws] short. It’ll just be a bit wonky.


August 17, 2011

Back to black

Before I try and climb Looney’s rope I will declare my hand:

I loathe blogs.

NO,  not yours. Mine. Such a ridiculous half way house between a PUBLIC confessionary and a diary. Always with the breaks on: You can’t spill ALL the beans, can you. Unless certifiable. So you spill some beans and ask yourself what the hell is the point. Other than getting some feedback from BHB, Magpie and Looney.  Those three are worth keeping this blog alive, if it kills me.

That I hate comment boxes on other people’s blogs even more than my own blog goes without saying.

Anyway, this minute’s gripe, and needs  to be vented before I think better: You know what I don’t like about life? What unsettles me more than any surprise or misery that can every befall me?

Yes, you got it in one: I’d be so much happier if I knew the hour/the day/the year. It’s  not funny. It’s not control freak. It’s wanting some peace of mind. Let’s say I knew I’d drop within the next 59 minutes (blod clot or some other sudden inconvenience) I’d tackle the remainder of my life differently than if,  say, being given one month to tidy my affairs. Or twenty years to meander around dreamily (whilst tidying my affairs). I don’t like uncertainty. And yes, I know it’s what has given us philosophy in its endless quest of finding out what life and its loyal friend, death, are about

All I want is an expiry date.

Is that so much to ask for? Go to your supermarket. Everything (even cans which last forever) are given a sell and a use by date. It’s only the human being left in the dark. With regards to the sensitivities of those who believe in God and an afterlife, I shall not be too harsh but seriously: Along with your birth certificate couldn’t you be given a pointer?

Back to black,


May 5, 2010


Filed under: Despair,Fairy Tales,Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 02:43
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It’s three in the morning and I have just woken. Yes, I KNOW it’s the sort of newsworthy stuff that should go on Twitter and leave your friends yawning.

However, and before I answer three excellent comments to my last mind-blowingly profound post, I have to divest myself of what I have just learnt (source BBC): Lack of sleep has potential to shorten your life. Which is regrettable since I like living. Neither can I pass on to my mother – who has a knack for sleeping unrivalled – that more than nine hours might contribute to her premature demise. She wouldn’t like it and probably toss and turn all night worrying. Worry, naturally, no doubt, also contributing to going to an early grave. You can’t win, can you? One way or another the old tosser will get you. It’s like playing chess with someone you know is most likely to make your king abdicate (two hours in): You’ll still agree to play, indeed give it your best shot instead of  conceding defeat immediately; anyway, you do want to give those pawns chance to fulfill their destiny by being mowed down serving their queen.

That’s what’s so great about lack of sleep: Clarity is lost. You start on one subject, the next you are talking about chess. Then like Hansel and Gretel trying to find their way out of the woods all the breadcrumbs have gone. Wouldn’t have happened to clever Ariadne.

The upshot being: Whether sleeping too little or too much,  living really is a minefield. As my father once observed (at a time when I was still easily impressed): “Life is dangerous. It usually ends by snuffing it.”


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