Bitch on the Blog

September 26, 2013


Filed under: Atmosphere,Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 17:24
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You can’t capture it in a photo, it doesn’t make a sound:

A cool breeze.



September 22, 2012


Filed under: Despair — bitchontheblog @ 03:01
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That’s it. I shall never ever put my trust in the stars again. I shall only look at them from the gutter, as recommended by Oscar Wilde.

What a fine disappointment (apart from Wednesday late evening) this week has been. My horror scope told me last Sunday (remember?) that I should say ‘yes’ to everything coming my way for the next seven days. This minute it’s Saturday morning and time is running out. And nothing has come my way. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Please do not suggest that this might have something to do with my having put myself under house arrest. Human contact thus limited. There are other ways to communicate in the ether. Any moment now I’ll expect ET landing on the window sill. Peering in. Asking me what I am doing at 0355 BST at my desk and could he please have some scrambled eggs. Of course. Yes. Or an omelet.

The hot water situation (in the kitchen) has now reached critical mass. The plumber took the boiler away. When he asked me whether he could come back today (Saturday) to replace it I was so happy to be given one of my last opportunities to say: “Yes”. I even said ‘please’. Plumber promised to add cost of new toilet seat and fixing it to the fab Fabrizio’s (that’s my landlord) bill for having let the boiler slide into disrepair. “Compensation for your inconvenience”, Handy Andy said. You can’t beat it. Can you? Why did Handy Andy not become a lawyer?

What will the next 48 hours bring (other than a new horror scope)?

Hugs and kisses, please do make up for the deficit of questions I might be able to say ‘yes’ to. Or maybe I should take up growing mushrooms in the dark.


June 1, 2010


Filed under: Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 04:15
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Just as ALL made-to-measure tailors are to be found in Saville Row and, once upon a time, most of the English Press in Fleet Street and all bankers in the City so this house is plunged into ever increasing darkness. Why do all bulbs die at roughly the same time? And no amount of positive thinking will turn back on the lights. What I do need to do before night falls again is to go out and buy some replacements. Yes, really. I knew this days ago. However, no sooner does dawn rise I completely forget that darkness will descend once more.

Yesterday the apple of my eye and his mother had brief exchange on ‘obsolescence’. We came to snappy conclusion that if things were manufactured to last the whole economy would collapse.

The first time I heard about  the ‘obsolescence factor’ was when I learnt that tights and stockings were constructed so they’d eventually LADDER. Only snapping a heel, and limping with the other still intact, is worse than sporting laddered tights. I always, discretely, point out to someone when they haven’t done up their flies/zipper but to tell a woman you have never met before that she is laddered you have to assess her temperament first, likelihood of her carrying a spare pair and whether you really want to make a friend for life.

I remember occasion (at age 17) of snapping the heel of one of my winter boots on my way to school. The choice was simple: Am I going to be late for my lesson or am I going to make a complete ass of myself  in front of everybody (it was too cold to take off the other boot and just go barefoot). So I limped into the next shoe repair, got it fixed on the spot and arrived in the middle of my first lesson. The teacher noted in the registry: “Ursula deserves full marks for getting ever more inventive with foul excuses for being late”.

Thus characters are formed.


April 23, 2010


How does that absurd Victorian saying go? “When you don’t have anything NICE  to say, say nothing at all.” Fair enough. If you are so inclined DO bite your tongue – and those of your children; to bleeding point if necessary.

I prescribe to “If you have something to say, say it”. Not for the first time in recent months have I been silenced by a crowd of self congratulatory blogging hypocrites (and other authors), the likes of which will sooner or later make my warrior of truth seek refuge in a quiet desert devoid of personal blogs; grounding my Robin Hood, resting his sword instead of fighting the middle class smug who wouldn’t know what real hardship is if it hit them right into the stomach, the heart or between the eyes. I am in despair over ignorance; our world being condensed into soundbites of  communication.  And before any of you say anything: There is nothing wrong  with being in despair. It’s as much part of the human condition as are rainbows. Of one thing all of you can be certain: Whenever I resurface from the sticks I am  so much happier than pedlars of permanent luke warm happiness ever will be.

This is not a personal attack on anyone. It is an attempt to bring reason to those of you who protest TOO much.  And my god, PROTEST you do. And I do have a strong stomach – as you know.

Nick, on his blog, drew my attention to the assertions of a French scribbler on whose shrine half of Europe appears to worship. I nearly puked after reading a critique of his book in The Times. I cannot believe it, in fact I am furious at how self centered we have become as society: This guy, forgotten his name already, seriously recommends that we “choose” friends according to “how happy” they are. Is this guy a lunatic? He’d be dead happy, wouldn’t he, following his own advice, if all his friends – in the desperate pursuit of their own measly happiness – would drop him should he ever slip up and be down in the dumps. Has the world gone mad? Have I gone mad? Happiness is a by-product of our existence, to be cherished as and when it arises; whether it lasts as short as a day, or as long as a moment. Not an aim in itself. It’s like saying we should never feel hungry. What bollocks.

If  I were Beethoven, which luckily I am not since my main interest does not lie in putting music  on paper, I’d write “My fury over the happiness industry having lost the plot” set to his “Die Wut ueber den verlorenen Groschen”. 

I am so disenchanted I could cry. In fact, I am crying. As good for the soul as is laughter.

I have had it.

Has it ever occurred to any of those who relentlessly go on and on and on about about THEIR marvellous outlook on life  and pursuit of happiness how you might UNDERMINE those who are in the grip of some grief or other? Of course not. Mustn’t rock the rosy boats of your self delusion.

If any of the above sounds bitter: IT IS. I am sick and tired of people using pastels on the canvas of life when stark colours would be so much more honest – and life enhancing. May all of you dust yourselves down and brush off all that is wrong with the world as long as it does NOT touch you – PERSONALLY.

Remember when, as a child, you were afraid of the dark? How grateful you were when a kind adult left on the light in the corridor and your bedroom door ajar? What if the fuse blew and the light went out anyway? 

The trick to life is to remember where the torch is and not to worry whether the battery will last till dawn breaks once more.


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