Bitch on the Blog

April 20, 2017

Ship shape

Filed under: Amusement,Dizzy,Happiness,Psychology — bitchontheblog @ 15:34
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Don’t ask for my star sign since I do not wish you running to the hills, screaming and abandoning me. There are only twelve months in the year and someone has to occupy one of them. Well. Never mind. On which painful note: Father of son who is a Gemini through no fault of his own would leave the table (forget any guests) as soon as the subject turned to astrology which – invariably – when his sister was present it would. On the whole I had him down as rational with a sense of largely absent humour – but give him astrology, Catholicism and Americans and you have another thing coming. This is not withstanding that for the last twenty odd years he has been married to a Catholic American who is interested in astrology (no not me – my successor who, on succession, became a good friend of mine). She is a miracle worker.

Yes, so this post has nothing whatever to do with astrology (of which please do tell me what you think) but all to do with the fact that I like chaos. Chartered chaos, organized chaos, gentle disorder by another name. Why? Because (being the star sign I am) little gives me more satisfaction than making order out of the aforesaid dire. Both my desk and my study/office in general are witness to this. I let books and papers pile up till they make more waves than me being at sea. Sweethearts, oh the satisfaction, as – just now – when I blitz the place.

i can’t tell you how marvellous it is to suddenly spring into action of the most ruthless kind – my waste paper bin my most loyal friend, books flying back onto their shelves, documents filed. I don’t know if my theory holds water or seeps but there is something deeply zen like about tidying, putting everything where it belongs. However, and this is where a (dis)orderly cat chases its own tail – in order to experience this you first have to let it all go to pot. But then, by way of illustration, never does food taste better than when truly hungry.

U

September 25, 2016

What a pity

Filed under: Family — bitchontheblog @ 14:19
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Loosely linking in with my last post, the enchantment of being the eldest sibling.

What “only” children and eldest have in common that they came first. It’s indisputable. And in the latter case you will be resented – by those who come later.

Do I understand? Not really. But that’s because I AM the eldest (by a long margin) and have never had to walk in anyone’s steps.

My brother (number three in the line up) isn’t difficult. He is affable. My two sisters? Well, since they are my sisters I shan’t say what I really think. Except that when I have my mother (age 83) on the phone weeping over her youngest daughter’s negligence I feel like going ballistic. Obviously, that won’t help. So I don’t. But what do I do? What can be done?

My first instinct, but I am too far removed (geographically), to bang my fist on the table and ask questions. My sisters aren’t ticking alright. Both of them in their own way. Though one of them (the much adored by me till she sold me for a shilling) my parents always excuse. I understand my parents. I don’t condone it. But I understand. In all our lives there are people who get away with something close to murder.

Back to my youngest sister. She herself is the mother of four children – yet finds it in her heart to make that of her own mother a misery. How this will pan out once we gather around a grave I do not know.

I can see it now. They’ll be looking to me.

U

 

 

 

 

 

September 22, 2015

Pencils in the Ritz (London)

Filed under: Amusement — bitchontheblog @ 14:12
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In wake of my last post had a thought (they [thoughts] easy to come by).

How come that we take writing more seriously than spouting by talking? Let’s forget for a minute that the word vanishes in the wind – particularly when no one is listening – whilst the written is, obviously, written. That’s where my waste PAPER basket comes in handy.

My father, a meticulous man with a desk so tidy to scare the shit out of you, used to have a MASSIVE mega waste paper basket. He called it Ablage 13. Ablage means “file”. You get the drift. As humour goes I thought it some sort of self awareness.

Yes, where was I? No idea. The Angel this very minute eating cake (as forced in the motherland) and drinking coffee by the gallon (as forced in the motherland) at my parents’ table. Oh my god.

Coffee and cake – one of the reasons i fled the motherland. Only to swap the motherland with afternoon tea and cucumber sandwiches {thinly sliced, no crust). Do not ever think you can escape your destiny. One way or another stuff will be stuffed down your throat.

U

March 27, 2014

Room for manoeuvre

Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 11:48
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You know the secret to a happy life, apart from all the others?  Storage. Shelves. Of which I have run out.

Don’t ask. This Ms Organized is trying to convince the Angel whenever he enters my study and shakes his head that there is method in madness. There isn’t. No use to cry over spilled milk.  Wipe it off. Let it fester. Make yoghurt.

Yes …

Buttermilk greetings,

U

June 6, 2012

Cryptic

Hello Sweethearts, you miserable lot forsaking me. How am I supposed to keep going without fuel? Never mind: A weed is a plant in the wrong place and, if lucky, either a cat will nip you or you’ll die unnoticed.

This minute I have surprised myself. I do this periodically by clearing up my desk. My god, here is Ms Perfection personified, or so I was told a long time ago, and I find a handwritten note of a telephone number. Unfortunately there is no name with it. That’s the optimist in me. I will write down anything – on hundreds of little bits of paper – deluding myself that I will know one week on what they mean. I truly love myself on that note alone.

I also have so many notebooks I can’t find anything I noted. But when I do I am surprised. For the amateur psychologists among you this can only mean one thing: Before my first sibling was born, and in between being entertained by my enchanting grandparents, my mother and my uncles and their then respective fiancees, I entertained myself. Old habits die hard.

I love my handwriting. I love it I love it I love it. When I see my handwritten notes (Staedtler Noris HB2 with a rubber tip in case I want to erase something) I am reminded that I exist.

Yes, you can tell can’t you: I have just tidied my desk. Which amounts to tidying AWAY myself. Whenever my desk is tidy I feel I am my father’s daughter. He is anal about his desk. It’s quite awful really. He used to call, probably still does, his waste paper basket (huge) “File No 13”. Naturally, it was always full. To be emptied promptly. I don’t know how my mother lives with him.

Yes, so everything is in order. Post it notes stacked, pencils sharpened, staplers refilled. All I need now is some action.

U

April 18, 2012

Moliere

Filed under: Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 14:57
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Sweethearts, don’t be alarmed. I am not a hypochondriac (if only) but a spade is a spade even if it’s a fork.

At risk of repeating myself: I wish I knew the date of the day my bell will toll. I’d be so much happier. As it is the uncertainty of whether I’ll still be alive in half an hour does cause me many a minor panic. So much to do. And what can one do in half an hour? Not a lot. I bet my bottom Pound Sterling that I’ll still be around at, say, 92, still not having done all that needs to be done, only wondering why on earth I ever worried decades earlier. April 2012. 2012? YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS. The ‘new’ millenium already 12 years in? YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS. Soon we’ll be one hundred.

U

January 13, 2011

Doolally

Filed under: Health,History — bitchontheblog @ 19:17
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Brief update:

Despite your assurances and my total and utter character defect of not knowing when to give up I can now confirm that red Bambi has gone to the big wide heaven where all staplers meet their forestaplers. On the upside I have found pages 489 to 490 of my Paperback Oxford English which will now allow me to look up and use words like monocolyledon, mop, mood and mother country. Mountain ash being a rowan tree.

Magpie being a continuing source of disappointment to me denies all promises he made to translate wisdom of Graf Herr von und zu Klutter, Monsigneur de Clutteur – the most noble of many a ghost in the loft. As I neither have a loft nor a cellar (not even a broom cupboard) I have now turned into my father’s daughter and am so organised, sorted and recylced I have just started tackling the last bastion of anyone staring their last will and testament in the face: Old letters and photographs. Oh dear. Phoned my mother this afternoon, inquiring whether it really was necessary to send THREE congratulatory cards on occasion of arrival of her grandson no.  3 (Apple of my Eye). Her being in grip of acute tooth ache I was not able to extract coherent answer. Did you know (how would you) that my maternal grandmother was one of the first female dentists in this country? Oddly, and my four year old self was baffled by this, when that ghastly drill went the way of her own mouth she immediately needed to go to the loo. It was my first introduction into the – to me – fascinating subject of how soma (body) and psyche connect and use each other to express mal content.

U

March 2, 2010

Flip side

 

The above is plastered – in a prominent place – on a wall in my study. It was designed to keep up British morale on the eve of the second world war; and has the royal sign of approval – a crown – courtesy of King George VI. Apparently the well intentioned poster didn’t make much of a public appearance at the time;  the original rediscovered about ten years ago. And not a minute too soon – for my purposes.

Though, as the TV advert says: “Lose control and flap about” . That’s why I adore a real crisis. I keep calm and carry on. Give me an average day and I lose control and flop about. Those are the days I make lists. I love lists. They satisfy my hankering after that most futile order, my dormant penchant for perfectionism; they nurture my hope that I’ll still be around tomorrow. After all, you wouldn’t want to leave behind a list as yet to be ticked off, would you?

Considering my backlog I shall have to live till I am overripe. Like one of those apples you find on the ground in autumn, having fallen off the tree some time ago, pecked by birds and in advance state of fermentation making bees bumble about in drunken stupor.

U

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