Bitch on the Blog

September 20, 2017

Restraining order

Thanks to ¬†all of you who took the trouble contributing to my last post, not least Looney who I hope won’t cause himself lasting damage.

I am happy to report that my attempt at saying nothing when I have nothing nice to say is paying off. It’s grand. I feel like a violin which has lost its varnish. Soon I’ll be the vision I have always dreamed of, an elegiac Miss Havisham dressed in white and brittle lace, surrounded by hard icing on a cake never cut, cobwebs merrily reproducing, a general sense of decay and, naturally, the vital ingredient, namely silence. Which in my case is not golden. It drips with benign acid.



July 31, 2017


Who’d have thunk it? My blogging tyre is flat. Not because I can’t think of anything to say. Quite the opposite. I always fire on all cylinders – yet, the desire to press “publish” momentarily eludes me. “Delete” does me fine.

The joy has gone.

Why? Most certainly not on account of bloggers who cheerfully “follow” me even if they don’t comment. Most certainly not on account of those who comment here – with unfailing wit, perception, occasional mockery, always thoughtful.

However, and I don’t like admitting to what I perceive a weakness, there have been forces out in the blogging world which have achieved the unthinkable – namely, my, the unsinkable’s, reluctance to put myself into the public arena any further.

Looking back over my life, I have never been bullied. I am not the type. Yet there is one blogger, ably supported by a weak cast, who has shown me the vile side of life on the playground which constitutes blogging.

I am torn. I could name him and shame him. But then I’d be playing HIS game. Makes you think, doesn’t it, how someone else’s maliciousness tempts you to repay in kind. It is to my utter, total, most heartfelt regret that I have decided not to fall for that ruse – as much pleasure as it would give me to tear the guy and his accomplices apart. He hasn’t got a leg, or any other appendage, to stand on. Still, I’d rather not be a facilitator.

Yes, so my joy communicating on the page has momentarily been stifled. Please don’t send chocolate or other sweet condolences. A lime will suffice.


June 20, 2013

Dead end

Blogging, or rather commenting on blogs, has taught me limitations. It’s not a lesson I welcome. But there it is. The result being that when I’d like to spit – in answer to some totally inane opinions – I will not (any longer) do so. Or rather I will, but only in the privacy of my own earshot. Herculean efforts on my part are being made every day to keep the lid on the pan and not let the pressure cooker and its contents be splattered round comment boxes. The only person who has to clear up the mess is myself. Which I don’t mind. I am not exactly lazy and perfectly happy to live with any fallout. Even the toilet has once more given up the will to flush.

But then it’s not about ME, is it? It’s about others. And who am I to tell people that parenthood sure does bring out the little Hitlers in so many, too many? Moi? Not on your nelly. I’d like to. In fact, I am dying to do so. Not least to rescue those poor little blighters subjected to giants in their lives at knee cap height. Do still my beating heart. And I will take a deep breath and hold it. After all, one needs to carefully judge how many friends and foes one can handle. Many a Pyrrhic victory has been won only to find oneself in exile nevertheless. Better men than me have been left to rot because they didn’t know when to quit.

Anyway, a woman’s distractions are many and mine, thank God, this minute being the kitchen. No, not to scrape leftovers off the walls but start a fresh delight.

Hugs and kisses,


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