Bitch on the Blog

May 5, 2018

Debt to pleasure

Conceited bastard that I am I rarely quote anyone, preferring to make up my own “shit” (reference John’s assessment of my merits). There are exceptions to my rule and here is one, courtesy of Frederic Mistral:

“Aioli epitomises the heat, the power and the joy of Provencal sun, but it has another virtue – it drives away flies.”

Made me think of the limitations of communicating in the virtual world: How not so much DRIVE away flies as not to ATTRACT them in the first place. Or, worse, not to BECOME a pesky fly yourself.

On this happy note I am certain the aioli I am just about to make won’t curdle.




September 15, 2014

See through

Filed under: Atmosphere,Human condition — bitchontheblog @ 03:11

To continue where I left off:  Sometimes I wish I were a character in a cartoon. My tastes being simple Tom, Jerry and Roadrunner come to mind. There is a lot of subterfuge, traps and running around. Whilst no good at subterfuge or wishing to set traps I am fast on my feet. Not to keep fit  (this is addressed to Jane Fonda and my American readers) or because I am in a hurry. Not at all. But because I CAN. Ha. Enjoy it whilst it lasts.

No bull. The sensation of a confident and fast stride is heaven. There is freedom in stride. My heart – being so soft it doesn’t have a shell – goes out to many people and their plight. Yet there is something particularly unnerving about the ‘elderly’. Reduced to a walking stick, inching their way forward, maybe round shouldered, bent forward. Breaks my heart to think of them not that long ago (if decades) skipping, tearing around.

Where was I? Cartoons and ghosts of the past and a future to come. My mine gripe, and as punctual as the yearly advent of Christmas,  the days are getting SHORTER. I don’t like it. Not because I don’t like the dark. I do. I am not afraid of it and dark gives you an excuse to light candles. Nevertheless,  as I am looking out of my window now, it’ll be another two hours or so till dawn dawns (as dawn does). Yes, dawn and dusk. If ever there was a melancholic alliteration.


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