Bitch on the Blog

May 4, 2017

All is well

This morning I woke with a sense of foreboREdom. Don’t believe a word of it.

Package it as you like. I woke with a sense of doom. I didn’t so much have a head rush (when you get up from your seat too quickly), I was positively faint with my heart racing me to death’s door. Nothing unusual in that: Healthy specimen that I am, my body has always played out my psyche to its soma. I am sure there is a reason we have a solar plexus. If only to keep us nauseous.

Anyway, as usual, my optimism was surpassed by reality three hours later. And to think I nearly cancelled the appointment because I didn’t trust my balance to make it.

Never mind. It’s not the end of the world. And I’ll live – just in case you were hoping I’d leave you alone any time soon. I won’t. I won’t see you for dust. Or, maybe, I’ll see you, myself and the rest of the world more clearly. Which would be good, a great relief and a great saver of wasted energy.

Made me think, on my way back, how hope makes you postpone the evil moment. Because, as long as you don’t hold eye contact with reality, there is always that chimera “Hope”. I know people who have wasted their whole lives waiting in hope which, essentially – and please do contradict me if you think otherwise – constitutes the con of all cons.

Onwards and upwards,



June 22, 2016

My heart is aflutter

What a perverse world we live in.

Sweethearts, I do have butterflies in my stomach. I won’t think about it till the morning after the day before (make that Friday) but holy cow. Normally I don’t raise political issues in blogland and I am not doing so this minute but …

The sequence of events being that until a few weeks ago I paid sod all attention to the EU referendum. Sure, since I read the world’s press for both professional reasons and my private amusement I’d skim the headlines on the subject. Didn’t take any of it seriously. Of course, Britain would stay in. Why was this referendum called in the first place?

Till, one day, not so long ago I spoke to an Englishman. Him of the velvet, oh so soothing voice. Yes, Magpie, you. Oh my god. To understand – Magpie is measured. And told me in no uncertain terms that whatever the merits of staying in Europe that cat was by no means in the bag. Though I did vaguely poo poo his notion our conversation was enough to unsettle me slightly. Since when I bloody read anything coming my way on this whole disaster. It’s like scratching a scab on your knee after your ten year old self has fallen off the bike. Fascinating, yet totally self defeating. My gall bladder’s bile rising, my stomach feeling vaguely and permanently nauseous, my colon trying its best not to anchor me to the toilet, my brain calling for reason and calm.

Let’s leave aside that I don’t hold a British passport. So even after over thirty years living in this country I have no say. Doesn’t matter. What matters is the future. And that is – and here we are getting back to my first statement, namely, “perverse” – that the very group this will affect most, namely the under twenty five year olds are so dastardly lazy. They don’t give a shit about their own future and – guess what – a lot of them (though not all) will NOT vote. How did one of them say to me the other day: “I don’t give a toss one way or the other.” Pardon? One might, of course and at a push, argue NOT voting is part and parcel of democracy. However, my father instilled in me that NOT voting usually plays into the hands of those you want the least at the helm of your country.

And, if I believe everything I read – despite my best efforts not to, the loudest voting for EXIT are those who have had it all. Those past their sixties with mortgages paid off, sitting on a pile, pensions in place. What the hell do those of you in that position think you are doing for the future of your kids and their children, your grandchildren? To make a point? A cheap point at that, one which will cost future generations?

Why am I writing this now? The day before the day? Because I have just come across a “youngster” who at least will vote – if out. His brother (honestly the things people will freely tell me without much prompting) who is also voting OUT has put an obscene amount of money betting that Britain will stain IN. Perverse, or what?

Anyway, when he – not so tactfully – asked me how EXIT would affect me, foreigner after thirty years in this country, I told him truthfully: Ask me on Friday. I tend to cross bridges when I come to them. No point wasting energy on something that hasn’t happened yet. Try and tell that to my stomach.

At least the whole caboodle won’t affect the Angel. Whatever the outcome he holds the key (dual nationality) to what both Britain and Europe have to offer post referendum. And, yes, he will vote. And, to his credit, he sees both sides of the argument. However, in chime with the Libran he is you throw a pound on one side of the scales and a Euro on the other. And then see how it balances out.

You know what the biggest shame in all this is? Elements of Britain (obviously not all of the British but sometimes you do take a nation as a whole) have shown themselves from a truly ugly side. Namely immigration, immigration, immigration. It’s always the same. Look through history. You latch onto a minority group and blame them for the shortcomings of your own government’s policies. Yes, I know I am simplifying but that is precisely what the lowest common denominator of this country is doing: Throwing a whole populace to the dogs over some Angst over Polish people wiping old British bottoms in British care homes.

I do believe in damage limitation. However, Britain in the eyes of some of the world have done themselves huge damage. Regardless of how the referendum pans out. Empire – my foot!

So disappointed,




July 26, 2012


Filed under: Communication — bitchontheblog @ 22:58
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I do battle with myself. Daily.

It’s entertaining. And awful.

What to say, why to say, how to say, when to say, where to say – it. The only thing certain is the WHO says it – that’s me.

What to say? That’s easy. I have plenty to say. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it needs to be said. How? Now we are running into serious difficulty. When? Not now. Where? Well …

So should I die of bowel cancer you only have yourselves to blame.


April 17, 2012


Filed under: Errors — bitchontheblog @ 10:42
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I have an aversion to what I call ‘banana skin sydrome” aka a spot of Schadenfreude.

Let me tell the blogger who says “Usually it’s quite hilarious when people fall”: It isn’t hilarious in the least. The reason people “laugh”, let’s call it snigger, at others’ misfortune is because they are embarrassed and don’t know what to do. Like people at funerals will say “life must go on”. It’s when I feel like punching something, even if only the air.

Mens sana in corpore sano, healthy body healthy mind – and the other way round, particularly the other way round: Healthy mind equals a healthy body. Before I am misunderstood: I do not subscribe to the happy health police who will tell you that if you are of strong enough mind you’ll overcome a cancer eating your insides. That is enough rubbish to make me vomit. First your hair falls out then the choir of the self help industry (purleeeeeeeeeeeeeese) will tell you that it’s in your mind to make you better, to hit that five year marker. Fuck off.

However, I am a firm believer in the psychosomatic. A phrase coined, I think, in the seventies. Where the body plays out what’s on your mind. It’s happened to me many a time. One of the more memorable occasions when I lost my ability to swallow anything, even water, my doctor fast forwarded me, in what appeared a mild panic, through many a sophisticated test. Naturally, nothing could be found. As healthy as the day I was born. My doctor, a wise man, summoned it up perfectly: “You can’t take [swallow] any more, Ursula”. I was going through a rather interesting divorce, spiced up with a stalker complete with knife and one or two other players on the side lines. Oh the relief: I was HEALTHY, my body just translating what disturbed my soul. Like a dream reflecting your day life; a pointer; nothing to be afraid of.

There is a school of thought that subscribes to when, by way of example, you get bladder cancer it may be an indicator that you are unable to shed tears. That if you suffer continual backacke you are most likely to be rigid in your attitude towards life and other people. Who knows. Sounds plausible. And that, if like me, you are extremely shortsighted (yet, without lenses, my near vision so perfect I can find you the smallest screw/pin should you drop it) it’s a dead give away, don’t you think?

To make a long story even longer: I went half a century never breaking anything. Nothing. Not even my little finger. Then in a fit of romantic notion of gliding along the ocean’s promenade with my son who had just discovered that, long forgotten by me, joy of  roller blades I bought into the dream. First day fine. Second day (practicing on my own patio hence not wearing wrist guards) I bumped into the table and fell backwards. As reflexes go I stretched out my left hand to cushion the fall. Cushion, my foot. Thus the first time I found myself immobilized for a while; not that badly since I am right handed. Still, it did slow me down. Considering that my lively hood depends on the use of my hands I had time [on my hands] to reflect on my life. Fast forward [not too fast] and I lose my footing on the pavement on a sunny early Sunday afternoon. Like a puppet on a string I collapsed – just like that. Pothole?  Since I believe in the healing powers of sleep I didn’t go to A&E (accidents and emergencies) till the next morning. I knew one wrist/arm was broken, when they told me the other one was worse I shed a tear. It was like that scene out of Camus which had made a deep impression on my very young self. The sun blinds you and within a moment your whole life falls apart. Obviously mine didn’t fall apart on impact.  I had a lot of time to bond with my sofa and watch Bette Davis do what Bette Davis does best (more of which another time). Yes, both my arms so plastered up I wasn’t able to even hold a book. Since the Angel doesn’t like to get his hands dirty his girlfriend did the washing up. That time was an exercise in patience. Maybe a lesson I needed to learn. Neither did it make me any earnings. Maybe another lesson I needed to learn.

And yes, Sweethearts, for the full flush albeit not five cards, not long after the above  someone sent me flying across the floor, not intentionally. He was on the run, I am a lightweight. Operation, K-wires, the lot. It didn’t work. They call the way my bones set a “mal union”. Sounds a bit like many a marriage. For a  whole year one ill advised move and the pain would make me gulp. They call it “triple trauma” to that particular wrist. And yes, time does heal. That wrist doesn’t click any longer every time I move it the “wrong” way. I don’t hit the roof any longer with pain. Neither, enter the violins at this point, am I able to carry as much as I used to. And I used to be so strong, priding myself that I don’t need anyone. As an aside to aspiring brides: If you want carrying you get a donkey not a husband. (Lorna, you will agree, won’t you, that last notion was a rather inspired Dorothy Parker moment).

Yes, so these last three years of continued breakage taught me to slow down; to a snail’s pace in reverse gear. Have I learnt anything? I don’t know. Don’t think so. All I know is that I can’t afford another breakage and am now so paranoid every time I set foot out of the door that, instead of my eyes and my nose up in the air, I negotiate the pavement. As they say: Pride comes before the fall.



November 14, 2011

Anaphylactic Shock

Filed under: Despair,Errors — bitchontheblog @ 12:08
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With no one else to hand: Why not throw myself onto my blog? Anonymity such a cloak of comfort.

I have a peculiar, physical reaction when I find out that I have been lied to big time: My heart starts racing like crazy. Always has. Most unpleasant sensation. And that’s just the body. Never mind the mind.

This will be closely followed by my throwing up. My body is good that way. It translates – literally.

Some of you may remember that I have a peculiar relationship with lying. I don’t like it. Trouble is that – like a pig trained to find the truffle – I will, unintentionally, find out when someone deceives on a level where it pulls the rug from under my feet.

Don’t get me wrong: White lies. Sure, I do them too. Mainly on behalf of others. What is it to me when someone needs an alibi to save their marriage, stop them being expelled from school or whatever? Being a story teller I come across so convincing I will stand up in court and the accused will go free.

But when I find out someone lies, big time, to ME, I go stone cold. Apart from my heart racing and throwing up (see above). And no, dear readers, do not jump to conclusions: What I have just found out  has nothing to do with “romance”. This has to do with such a mega shit that the person who has caused an INNOCENT to lie to ME will pay the price. Big time. One day this will out. Not today. Not tomorrow.  But when it does there will be tears. Probably mostly mine because everyone is always so good at justifying their actions. Naturally, I will have brought it all onto myself. Sure. Whatever you say. In the meantime go on and destroy my life. Why not? As spectator sports go I am sure it’s entertaining.

How did I say the other day: The unimaginable is slowly but steadily happening: Like a weed in my heart: Hatred, or what I imagine hate to be, is growing.

And no one, no one give me “drama queen”. You know what: Life is drama. On the very stage you are standing on. Unless it’s a flop.

To think the innocent I once was. The good in people. Oh, I find it. There are those. Unbelievably so. And then there is foam.

If I weren’t me (made of steel) I’d probably kill myself within the next few hours or so; after having cleaned the house top to bottom – mustn’t leave a mess, must we? Oh no. Everything just so. Ship shape. Good old Ursula. Always to be relied upon to deliver. Well, let me tell those of you who do not know about this blog (which is family and some friends): Fuck off. You have done enough damage. Find yourself another soap opera. And don’t you even think about attending my funeral. Or I will rise from my grave in most unbecoming fashion.

Hugs and kisses,


January 13, 2011


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.


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