Bitch on the Blog

March 31, 2017


One of the less palatable facts of life (apart from death, obviously) how, at times, to cope with the whole caboodle. I have found myself at points which didn’t bring me so much to breaking as having to take some deep breaths, thank my lucky stars that it’s too far and damp to walk to the next cliff, and then regroup. It pays to have shoulders. And brings to mind camels and backs, and straws that break the camel’s back, and taking water from the well till the vessel cracks, you name it there will be an image for it.

Which reminds me, apropos of nothing, and one Looney may have the patience to answer: What’s it with camels, wells and donkeys? And going through the eye of a needle? That camels feature large is, geographically speaking, not a surprise. Still. Wait till a Llama spits at you, not out of spite – just because that is what Llamas do, and you look at life, as only a five year old can, through a heightened lens.

That’s how animosity starts. One moment you are meandering through your own overgrown backyard, the next someone offers you to borrow their lawn mower. Obviously the latter never happens but as an idea it works.

So, what do you do? Accept that your neighbour lends you their lawn mower not because you don’t have one but because they don’t want to be seen living to someone who is perfectly happy to walk among daisies? Or do you mow that meadow of yours to keep the peace?

Let me know. Not that I do have any land, overgrown or mowed, at the moment.



September 9, 2014

Dream on: I have started so I’ll finish

Take it from me, Sweethearts, and I am the expert in falling into holes: Some projects are best never started.

Why? Because to finish them is the devil’s own job. One moment you amble along happily, the next I get a bee in my bonnet. When I, full of the zealot’s zeal, tell the Angel that I am on a “roll” he is happy. Two weeks later he asks me why I appear to be stuck in the jungle. I don’t know. Let’s leave aside that my eyesight is now so shit it’s like wading through fog. Let’s leave aside that I inherited (from my father) that most unfortunate trait of things having to be just so. Ever since part of my life and believes collapsed a few years ago I tell the Angel (correction, I tell myself by way of mantra and to soothe shattered nerves) that before order there is chaos. And it’s true. I have proven it so many times I’d qualify as something … a chaos expert. God. The Universe. Before it all went pear shape in paradise.

Back to “best never start anything”, particularly if you intend to bring it to a satisfactory end. I remember my great grandmother (paternal side). She was tiny even before she shrunk in her old age. To the last she was independent (she lived well into her nineties). She was the wife of a painter (my great grand father). He died early, and her daughter (a portrait paint) lived with her. My great aunt a person full of mystique. When I was young they lived in a mansion, rambling. An Aladin’s Cave for the very young me. Circumstances reduced them to move to a much smaller house. Yes, how to cram a quart into a pint pot. Have been there, done that. So, to my then, say, ten year old self, their abode right on the shore of the sea became even more of an Aladin’s Cave. Treasure (and cobwebs) wherever I nosed about. It was brilliant. It was phantastic. Then my aunt died, some years later my great grandmother. Enter my own father. Oh, my god. I still haven’t forgiven him – and we are talking decades. He ordered a skip. And made order out of chaos as only he can. Unfortunately, at that time I was freshly married and marooned in England, under my husband’s watchful thumb. So I couldn’t intervene. A shocker if ever there was one. Never mind. I am having the same conversation with my father now that, sooner or later, he’ll be on  his way out. I besiege him not to throw away all his files and folders of  “intellectual property”. Forget it. I know exactly what I’ll find: Zilch. He’ll probably scrub and desinfect the place before he takes his last breath.

Where was I: My own shambles. I need people, say,  a secretary, an IT wizzard, my sister-in-law (if ever there was Ms Efficiency no barrels held it’s her), a cold compress, and most of all, and dearest sweetest hearts, count your blessings if you have it: SPACE. Apart from time,  SPACE is the ultimate luxury.  The less space the more organized you need to be, the less forgiving daily life is.

To be continued … If you can find me that is.

No hugs today, only a hiss from underneath the mountain,


April 19, 2012


Filed under: Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 20:47
Tags: , ,

Seek and you shall find. Yeah, well, pull the other one. It doesn’t always work.

I spent the last twenty minutes searching for my favourite knife (it’s small). So small I took the garbage apart. One does throw things out with peel. I know. I do it all the time. The things you do for love [of a knife]. It wasn’t in the garbage. Neither have I chopped my onion yet. Yes, I know it’s half past nine. A woman is nothing without her knife. However, I knew blogging is good for something. I thought to throw myself at your sturdy shoulders in my moment of need, and what do you know: There it is [the knife] on my desk. Why on my desk? I don’t know. Maybe it formed a bond with an apple, also on my desk. So thanks for that, Sweethearts. May your dinner taste as great as the one I have haven’t yet started cooking but the Angel will devour on his return.

Hugs and kisses,


January 29, 2012


Filed under: Despair — bitchontheblog @ 19:05
Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

As the casting director of my life’s drama, this minute I am lying prostrate on my own couch. Sweethearts, loosen my corset, pass me some smelling salts, and a script.

In the wake of rich Nick pickings, and truly generous replies from the rest of you on my beef with censorship,  my fields are now lying bracken. Maybe Captain Tom could get his Wuenschelrute out and find me a fecund source of oil. As an aside: That’s the trouble with script writing: One moment you dream of riding on a hand granade, the next, with a mind of its own, the dialogue becomes all slippery. Was it Eddie Fisher who let his hand hang out of a gondola only to find himself that which Venice’s waterways were full of?

I rarely visit my blog’s dashboard since I don’t need statistics to sustain my happyness. However, whilst contemplating how best to deal with mounting back blog, I idled over there and what do I find under today’s four Top Searches: “Men with heaving bollocks”. No bull. Am resolved that, from now on, I will venture over to dashboard at short intervals. It’ll stop me mid stream, if not mid scream.

Whilst my inner Drama Queen is trying to regain some sort of exposure to the natural world, I have gone all Bambi when he first meets Feline. Bashful. My tongue is tied. Why not write my acceptance speech, as to your  “praise” heaped on me, first? Rough draft.

Ignoring the trophe handed to me I shall thank my mother for not having aborted me. I will thank Phil and consorts for many things as yet to be detailed, and now Angola lusts after me. The Goth giving me a leg up. My reputation upheld, my wit shot to bits, caustic and all other acid supplies running low, my well in need of refilling, my status as head of mind nunnery in jeopardy.

In Magnus Magnussum’s spirit I have started, not that that”ll finish me. Where there is fire there will be ashes to rise out of.

Talking of which, and to give the star of this week’s show first billing, never trust a man who will not only drop commentators but litter. I am outraged. Pet hate, John Gray? Make that my Hound of Baskerville:

Nick, I ask you: You, the always upright citizen, dropping litter because there are NO recepticles about and you can’t be arsed to take your garbage back home? Let me ask you a question: Who, the fuck, do you think is going to clear up after you? And if you are going to tell me that that is what you pay council tax for I’ll never talk to you again. Come on. I dare you.


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