Bitch on the Blog

February 27, 2017

On this note

Filed under: Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 22:42

For light relief:

Leaving aside whether you already play one, what would be the instrument of your choice?



August 30, 2016


Filed under: Amusement,Animals,Atmosphere,Beauty,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 15:03
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For light relief, and please forgive me before you continue reading, I have just come across an article stating the obvious. Namely that dogs react to the way you speak to them, your intonation.

Who’d have thought it.

I once, and once only since I am not cruel, tested this on our then two cats, Fleury and Bouncer. Despite being mother and son they couldn’t have been more different in temperament. Which was great. Who wants sameness in everyone around you?

As an aside: Unfortunately (for Bouncer) he inherited his mother’s looks and his father’s brain. The other way round would have been better (for everyone) but, being placid and not destined to be an alley cat, he made the best of both his beauty and his deficiency.

My experiment? Mitigating circumstances – both my arms broken and in plaster cast, being more or less immobilized lying on the sofa, I needed diversion from watching Bette Davis films on the loop. So, there they both were and I told them truly horrendous not so sweet nothings in a soothing voice. They purred. Oh, did they purr. Not a clue what I was actually saying. It wasn’t nice. No one talks to ME like that. Then, some time later, I shouted at them that I loved them to bits. And – guess what – just on the strength of my voice they bolted through the cat flap. It broke. Served me right. Collateral damage.

Don’t report me to the RSPCA. I wanted to prove a point. And I did. As they say in the motherland: “Intonation makes the music”. Pity in many ways. I’d rather content set the tone. Still …


March 24, 2015

Chickenfeed – on a drip in seven daily instalments

If I had to liken my life to an art form I’d say I am a sculptor. One who once more has managed to slice her thumb open whilst finally being nailed to the cross of her involuntary own making.

I am faced with a stark choice: Begging, bankruptcy, prison (or, naturally, as discussed recently, prostitution). All of them intense in their own ways. Only one an option I can stomach whilst still blushing.

The damage I can’t service this minute in one fell swoop? £1,285.48. Yes, I know. In the scheme of things it’s nothing. Nothing. But then in some countries they chop your hand off for stealing a loaf of bread. The second time round you are left without either of your tools.


March 3, 2015


Some headline tells me that we need to address the lack of female composers.

Be still my beating heart. Why don’t I just lie down and die instead? Has the world gone completely bonkers? Why do we NEED to ADDRESS the LACK of FEMALE composers?

Sweethearts, there is a reason [why women – on the whole – don’t compose]. Mainly – try not to reinvent the wheel – that men and women are different. We have to get to my life time to be told that we can, should and are all able to do the same? Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrleeeeeeeeeese!

So glad I don’t have a daughter. What would I tell her? “Address the lack of female composers, girl.” Here is a Bechstein for you. Try not to sleep with your piano teacher. And, whilst you are at it, I have also installed a glass ceiling on top so you can prepare for a time when you’ll be pushed to push through it. Try and time it so you don’t give birth at the same time and on the board room table. Men might faint. And then who will make you push? To the right beat. Who? That’s right. Your female comrade losers. The ones who can’t distinguish between a hearth and a mine.

I am sick of it. Sick of it all. Even sicker of women who tell me, WOMAN, how to live my life. If I wanted to be a man I’d go to Canada and fell trees. In the meantime can you please leave me and my inner as yet not unleashed brain surgeon in peace. Please.

What prescriptive times we live in.


November 13, 2013


Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 06:14
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Brought on by John I was reminded that smell is the last sense to fade. Maybe it’s because we don’t stem from monkeys but cats. And, no, this is not going to be a sentimental post on how nay to impossible it is to slip a cat a pill. It’s about music. Yes, Phil. Music.

As people get older, not me personally – I am still five, one can’t but help panic about loss of senses. Without wishing to go into specifics a couple of years ago the Angel pronounced that if one of my fears does come true: “Well, Mama, then we are BOTH fucked”. It’s the latent accountant in him: Add up, subtract, draw bottom line.

Yes, music. Compared to most people I don’t listen to music much. I find it distracting when I need to concentrate. I like silence other than incidental and necessary noises like those made by children, birds, the wind and people putting their trash out.

The Angel will sit me down and MAKE me listen. It touches me that it is so important to him to keep his mother in the now (know). Having had a classical upbringing in music – yes, my father also used to sit me down on a Sunday afternoon (and make me guess the composer) – I know the forefathers of what the Angel is doing so very well. For reasons unimportant I blended classical music out of my life for many many years. Other than the ‘accidental’ listening when cooking Sunday lunch – say, the Radio 4 programme “Desert Island Discs”.

Forget what people read. That’s just pretentious shit. And I can say this with some authority since my life is lived in and on paper. You’ll learn more about anyone by knowing what music their heart cherishes. Emphasis on ‘heart’.

Writing this whilst listening to the divine, on earphones donated to me by the Angel. What is it? HA. That’s for me to know. Intimate. Personal. Come to my funeral. You won’t hear a sermon. You’ll hear this. Take it with you. May it make you happy and cry.

Possibly – for the first time in my life – I have understood something about music. Once heard – and again and again and again – you “hear” a piece in your mind. It’s quite wonderful: You don’t actually physically need to ‘hear’. Like an ear worm it’ll play itself out in your brain. So, Sweethearts, keep listening. Might come you in good stead one day. Not least when you find yourself in prison.

As to touch and sight – we’ll come to that another time.


February 13, 2011


Filed under: Despair — bitchontheblog @ 21:05
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Am in shock.

Son came home briefly for pit stop before heading out again. He briefly mentioned argument he had last night with Lawrence (do people still christen their children Lawrence/Laurence? Whatever).

I don’t know what Laurentio is on but it should be withdrawn from the market this minute. Hence the argument. Lawrence tried to sell to my son that the only way forward is to PROCREATE. Think about this, Ashok, before you do. Thus, apparently, you leave your mark to posterity. Bull. Bull. And more bull. Luckily son is not stupid. Hence the argument with Lawrence.

Is this what the world has come to? You shoot sperm in some as yet to be specified direction and become a FATHER to make your mark? Go and chisel. Son being son of his mother would have none of it. And Lawrence better not show up here any time soon – till I have forgotten all about it. Told son to tell Lawrence, not of Arabia, to pen a poem, write a piece of music, or if need be a novel if he wants to leave a mark. Bloody hell. Lawrence is 19 years old.  Wiping my brow.


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