Bitch on the Blog

February 26, 2018

The Alternative Comment Box, Interval 1 – Know your onions

Filed under: Amusement,Food,Fortune,Happiness,Joy,Kitchen — bitchontheblog @ 19:15
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Whilst giving forces who think they are [forces] a chance to regroup let me shed a tear over onions.

One of these days I will calculate how many onions I have chopped over a life lived so far. What is remarkable about chopping onions: Unlike when, say, playing the guitar you grow callouses to render your fingertips without feeling (one of the reasons I don’t play the guitar), your eyes will never ever grow used to an onion’s onslaught. You cried over your first onion you’ll cry over your last onion. That’s about it. Scant comfort, unlike with many other deals in life, you know where you stand. And smell.

Secondly, short of the rather irritating, coming at you unasked,  cakes in the motherland and trifles in the fatherland, virtually any dish worth its salt will start with an onion. Onions are ritual. One of these days, when I am about one hundred and twenty and Ms Misery will have died a not so miserable death (I hope) and in order to keep me occupied in her absence, I shall ponder what would actually happen to our palate’s concern, sensibilities and sensitivities if the onion was shown the door and never grown again.

I can see it now: My first memoir and self help book, titled “Life without an onion”. If that won’t make you cry little else will.



April 9, 2017

Not Trump – MY father

Filed under: Family — bitchontheblog @ 16:07
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This is pretty raw stuff since it only happened a few minutes ago.

Most of you, obviously, will have/had parents.  My father drives me to despair. I am trying, hard. The expenditure of energy when talking to him (on the phone) bears no relation to how terrible I feel afterwards. For ages.

The man doesn’t let me finish one thought, not even one sentence. If I make it to a comma I count myself lucky. Talking over me. Shouting down the line. Am I deaf? It’s awful.  

Bloody hell. It’s a Sunday afternoon, the sun is shining, I tried to phone my mother (she was out) served with my father answering the phone. Now I am sitting here, not exactly five years old any longer, crying. And yes, I did put the phone down on him, eventually. There are limits. And mine stretch far,

Leaving aside that he has always been overbearing, are we now entering that land of the lost old? The land where they are so obtuse they don’t know what they are doing? For heavens sake, I am the one of his children who loyally holds out. The one who is always at the end of the telephone line.  I can’t do this any more.

Anyway, any of you, please let me know what you think.

The odd thing is, my mother being four years older than my father (he will be eighty later this year) is who she always was (albeit physically wilting as roses do) – but fully compos mentis. My father? I hate to think of him like that but I think he becoming more of what he always was. And maybe – unlike his wife, my mother – not with it that much any longer. Or maybe, likely, he is just frustrated how his life has panned out.

I don’t know.

Pretty distraught,


May 31, 2012

In tatters

Filed under: Happiness — bitchontheblog @ 06:22
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Sweethearts, pass me a handkerchief. It doesn’t need to be starched, only clean.

Come to think of it, and to take attention away from what is really on my mind and shouldn’t tell you anyway: Wasn’t it lovely when people still carried handkerchieves? I am sure it’s one of the reasons I like “Gone with the Wind”. Clark Gable (what did I see in him?) passing that conniving Vivien Leigh his pristine hanky. Oh the romance of that gesture! Since all of you are too old to bother watching that film again you will never know whether I have just made up that scene or not. Just remember to carry something (preferably white) when you meet me. I may graze my knee. Or get shot (in the foot).

Yes. Insert sigh. Now it’s all tissues. Paper. Disposable. Commendable and most hygienic. Yet you can’t make a knot into a piece of tissue. It’ll tear. Admittedly, unless clumsy, a long string of toilet paper will let you make a knot. But then: Who carries a roll of toilet paper with them? I don’t. Other than when on holiday on Corsica.  My sweet and tiny grandmother used to make knots in her (lacy, white) handkerchief when she wanted to remember something.  No Filofax or iPod in those days. It puzzled me. Greatly. How can looking at a knot you made earlier that day or ten ago possibly jog your memory? I still don’t know. And I smell a rat even before I see it.

Off to do some ironing. No, not handkerchieves. Toiletpaper.

Feeling better now. Hugs and kisses,


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,


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