Bitch on the Blog

April 2, 2018

Alternative Comment Box – Nick

If I were a teacher having to face class every day I’d be both overjoyed (facing class) and in despair (when marking their work).

Dear Ramana, on his blog, writes a heart warming “first page”, in response to which Nick – who appears to be incapable of talking about anything other than himself – writes, and touching it is:

“The first page of my novel would be rather too long to reproduce here. The first sentence maybe. Someone else has already used “It was a dark and stormy night”, so I’ll have to think of something else. “I was born in one of the coldest winters of the century, when strict rationing was still in force a year after the end of the second world war.”

To which I replied, and I am aware of how cruel yet instructive my comment is:

“You need an editor, Nick:

The Allies and their enemies had bombed the shit out of each other. To little gain. As is my wont, I was born in March – an unusually unwelcoming one. Strict rationing in full swing, my mother wasn’t able to nourish me to full potential. The year was 1946.


If my father taught me one thing it’s that “dog bites man” does NOT make a headline. “Man bites dog”? Yup. In the meantime just keep barking.

Belated Happy Birthday, Nick. And don’t worry about the dog. Rarely, though occasionally, even I don’t expect an old one to learn anything new.




August 13, 2017

Pressure cooker

I am torn. Not for the first time, for the umpteenth time.

Yes, I need to write a letter (an official one). I wish I had two options but I don’t. Option Number One to tell them exactly what I think and where to fuck off. No doubt it would add hilarity to their otherwise dull day yet land me in shit big time. My aim being to come out of a hairy situation smelling like roses.

The world is full of Hypo Crazy. Sometimes I wish I’d gone into being a stylist (ref. photography).

So, in order to NOT land me in shit big time, I have to duff my cap and toe the line.

You know what the worst of writing an official letter is? You can’t employ sarcasm. No, not because it’d be wasted on the officials in question. The opposite. They’ll see it exactly for what it is. Taking the mickey. Which, privately, they may enjoy, officially they have to condemn it to the sin bin with the power of making you pay.

Thanks for listening. Am now bracing myself for keeping it all under a lid whilst simmering.




August 1, 2017


I have taken to wearing scarves. No, not Grace Kelly style. Isadora Duncan more like it. Long and floating. You’ll never know when next occasion arises you may wish to hang yourself whilst out and about. Better prepared than wanting, I say.

Why do people look in the mirror the moment before they set foot out of the house? I did earlier, and what I saw resembled an Afghan. The dog. My over the shoulder long hair accentuated by a scarf round my neck (similar colour to my hair) made me look not so much hangdog as, well, an Afghan. What dog do you resemble on a bad hair day? Not, of course, that I am not able to answer the question on your behalf. But then people do see themselves differently to how they are perceived by others. Ask Iris.



April 13, 2014

Running deep

Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 08:53
Tags: , , , , ,

I imagine jealousy to be a rather trying emotion. Luckily I am not the jealous type. By which I don’t mean sexual fidelity, just generally. For which I am grateful because, from what I have observed in others, it is a truly ugly self  and others destroying emotion. However, and as an aside: If you are jealous don’t beat yourself up over it. It happens. Cry on my shoulder. Won’t make it go away. Yet sometimes a pain shared magnifies it. Making it combust.

What I don’t like is the big R. REGRET. Whenever I regret something I don’t know what to do with myself. First of all I feel bashful. A bit like Bambi when he meets Feline. Blushing. It’s what I call my Basil Fawlty moment. The one where he bashes his Mini with some twigs. I’d rather be Manuel: “Que?”. He is from Barcelona.

The thing about regret is that you can’t turn the clock back. I’d love to be a screen play writer. You write and rewrite till the plot fits the initial idea.

Yes, regret. You can recycle it. But you can’t make it go away. Sometimes from the recesses of my vastly overworked little grey cells I retrieve a memory. To make me shrink. I can’t believe I said that.

And I can’t. One of the worst was when my dear sweet English mother-in-law died. I sat with her for an hour. On my own. A dead body, changing pallour. Such tricks does the mind play I was convinced she was still alive. Flicker of an eyelid. As much as I am able to delude myself she was definitely dead.  Yes, so one of the worst things I ever said was on the eve of her funeral. I am not English so wasn’t aware of need of hat to wear at someone’s funeral. Last minute foray into center of town, York/Yorkshire, to find me a hat. Her bereaved son and husband of mine rather impatient at the mission. I hissed at him, and this many years ago and still makes me want the earth to swallow me up: “Just because your mother has died doesn’t mean I need to look hideous.” You can’t beat it, can you? Just because your mother has died doesn’t mean I need to look hideous. Savour that for value.

Anyway, one minute before closing time (six in the afternoon) I found a truly snazzy number. That night my sister-in-law and I did the flowers for her mother in a little country church – and, yes, a vampire bat flew along the ceiling just to complete the picture and its atmosphere. And the next morning that little veil attached to my hat hid my grief stricken eyes at the dying of a wonderful woman. Whilst not looking hideous.


September 9, 2012

Writing with my brakes on

Filed under: Atmosphere — bitchontheblog @ 17:35
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I am a responsible person. Which is why a lot of my thoughts and observations do not make it into the public domain of my blog. Rather a pity since you don’t know how much you are missing.  Still, sometimes we have to giggle, snort, pontificate and slaughter in private.

Oh, Sweethearts, one thing I have learnt, to my amusement and frustration, that there are always at least two ways of putting something in writing. The one that makes me laugh the most I can’t possibly publish, and I am no coward. I hold it with one of my heroes though can’t say I particularly like the man of whom was said: “No one pisses from a greater height than …. does”. I love pissing from heights – yet withOUT so much as a grain of malice. Just for fun. Which has landed me in so much trouble in my life that, just as I am refining the art, I now have to curb myself sincerely, nay severely.

Well, what do you expect? Once I was a young Beaujolais (drink without delay), now I am a fine Chablis. A bit like those – on purchase – rock hard pears, peaches and avocados which you will have to let ripen (at their own pace) in the privacy of your kitchen. Those of you who have no idea what I am talking about live in California. Or shop at Harrods Food Hall.

And then there is Cider. Are any of you Orchards? Ripe for the picking to find your destiny in smashed form next to a nice bit of roast pork? I can think of at least person who’d make eye watering horseradish next to roast beef. Yes, I know: You can tell it’s Sunday. Roast being on my mind.


August 1, 2012


Filed under: Style — bitchontheblog @ 09:48
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The jury is still out though I have cast my vote: What’s the uglier joint? The knee or the elbow?

Considering that few photographs of you will be taken from behind, the knee wins hands down. Don’t get me wrong: I do appreciate the knee. Without it we wouldn’t be able to walk, sit down, crouch or do much of anything. Just had reason to contemplate this (again) when looking at one of my nephews’ official photographs on occasion of taking his A’Levels. The girls at age 18 – looking like tarts or Stepford wives in the making (and before you say anything I am very fond of tarts – they are street wise, do have big hearts and will accommodate any of your fancies; just don’t slit their throats, please).

Most of the girls got it right. Just that little bit of skirt to cover the knee. The one in the middle, front row, got it so wrong she most likely will have torn up the print already. And will wish facebook had never been invented. There for posterity. I pity her future children. A fashion faux pas if ever there was one. If I were her mother I’d hide in the closet and slash my jumpsuits.

Once upon a time my claim to fame was recorded in the school magazine: The shortest skirts in the vicinity (my mother had bought them for me). How did the copy read: “Attention. Here comes Ursula. Do not blush. Look away. If you must.” To this day I have no idea how one can cause so much with so little. However, my mini skirts and hot pants served an important purpose: Diverting the eye from the knee. Setting your sights higher.


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