Bitch on the Blog

July 12, 2017


One of the fairies at my cradle made sure that I’d never be bored.

Her intention was good. In practice it brings problems. None of which can’t be solved; but problems nevertheless. The main one being that I waste (how does one define “waste”?) on wastes of space. I do I do I do. Because I never give up. And if there is one adage I cling to like a calf following her mother’s udder it’s that only the boring are bored. That way you dig your own bore.

Be still, my beating heart.

In the motherland there is a saying, and I have no idea what it means but it sounds good: Den inneren Schweinehund ueberwinden. Roughly translated: To overcome your inner swine (where the dog comes into it I do not know). It’s taking me forever (the present continuous wisely chosen) to overcome my swine’s dog – but, I am getting there. With regret, I shall concede that some in blogland (no, not ye, my faithfuls) will bore. Even me. Actually, that’s not true at all. The more boring the more amusing and interesting they are. In a sort of forensic research type of way.

Hugs and hisses,



August 24, 2016

Food heaven

Despite what most bloggers wish to believe – none of you are saints, and even saints may have a mean streak.

My mean streak? It is a shocker if ever there was one. And I am not proud of it.

Before you hyperventilate in anticipation of my confession – do sit down at my table and enjoy (food cooked by me). And you will [enjoy]. What you don’t do, because thus disappointment lies, ask me for THE RECIPE. I know people think it’s the ultimate compliment. It isn’t. Trust me. It’s a gross intrusion into, nay violation of, my treasure trove. I will NOT give you the recipe. Come back again for more of the same – but don’t ask me for the recipe.

The above notion problematic in reverse – as I learnt as a young bride having landed on these culinary shores ca. mid 1980s. You enthuse over someone’s food; the host(ess), oh so polite and sweet mannered, will beam at you: “Would you like the recipe?” No, actually, I don’t. Naturally, I didn’t, and still don’t, say that. It’d be plain rude if I did. Instead of which you (that’s me) walk away feeling ashamed knowing full well that I myself would never offer full disclosure of my biggest successes. Though – mitigating circumstances – will give veiled hints how NOT to do it.

If none of you ever speak to me again – that’s my loss.

Hugs and hisses,


October 24, 2013


A chunk of my life’s studies has been on death. The inevitability of death is awesome. I understand the deal: You are born, you will die. Not much of a deal but better than not being born.

What I’d like to know, and I am dead serious here: Why oh why oh why do people bother with embalming (a question hardly ever asked but brought, once more, to my attention just this minute)? I have stipulated in my will and testament, and told the Angel – poor sausage who will have to clear up after me – that I want to be discarded asap, not be drained and then pumped full with formaldehyde. The idea fills me with disgust. Once I am dead leave me alone. Please. Cardboard box. Lid on top. End of story.

To be continued….


October 2, 2013


As you know I am a soft touch. Don’t sneer. It’s true. I don’t like hurting people other than through reasoning. I’d give you my last band aid and fifty pence. In fact, if only it helped, I’d tie myself into knots for you and a stranger.

Which is why I don’t employ ‘blog rolls’ and “blogs I follow”. To illustrate: At school (PE – physical education) sometimes we were not allowed to hurt ourselves on some contraption in gymnastics but were required to form two teams. Give me physical over mental damage any time. And I say this as someone who was top dog – not least because I ran fast and kicked high. Popular by another name. Call me a coward but I dreaded our PE teacher calling the names of two ‘leaders’ to form a team by choosing their players alternately. Florence Nightingale, Mother Theresa and Nelson Mandela couldn’t have squirmed more than I did (already chosen by team leader A or B) facing that moment of diminishing returns for the team. There is something so blatantly humiliating to watch rejects – the last two or three no team leader wanted. To see the slow’s and fat’s anguish painted on their faces. Awful. Plain awful.

I (say, age 16) was given the dreaded task of team leader only once. I made choices. Boy oh boy oh girl did I make  choices. My PE teacher (and she was fond of me) thought I was taking the piss. I was. Deliberately. I chose all those no-hopers – one by one – first. Seeing their faces light up. Seeing those first class sports women (girls), used to success, their smug faces fall in disbelief as I called one name after another. My teacher made a written note of this on my record. Let’s say her wording was ambiguous.

Yes, so. Blog rolls, blogs I follow. You may have noticed that I do not publish either on my page. I feel very much that who I read – always, occasionally, only once or obsessively – is private. It’s my affair. AND, this is the important part: Who appeals to me or not is in NO way any reflection on the blogger. Try and sell THAT notion. Good luck. It would be disingenuous if I didn’t admit to being ‘flattered’ when I find myself on someone’s blog roll, right there on the right. Of course I am. Which, and I hope you get it, makes my point entirely.

Since I always trust my readers to tell me what they think (even those silent ‘followers’ who have nothing to say) I look forward to hearing from you on this delicate subject.


September 25, 2013

Picking apart at the seams – 2

Filed under: Errors — bitchontheblog @ 10:32
Tags: , , , , ,

Another question “What is your greatest accomplishment” aforementioned blogger answers with:

“My daughter. She is a happy, healthy, intelligent and creative young lady.”

How can one’s child be a personal ‘accomplishment’? A success story? Sure, credit where it’s due when a parent provides fertile soil for their offspring. Let me turn up the volume: What of genes? What of what’s bred in the bone? Immutable.  I wonder what the writer’s answer as to her greatest accomplishment would have been if her daughter had turned out not so much a medal to stick to her mother’s lapel.

Let me ask this blogger another question, not that she will answer it: “What is your greatest failure in life – so far?” Do you want me to write down your oh so predictable answer? No, thought not. There are no failures. You didn’t drop a stitch once.


February 20, 2011

Vanitas vanitatum (Futility)

One of these days I will declare war on the ADVERB. Just came across “rather pleased”. Forget rather: Either you are pleased or you are not.

I am NOT pleased. Deep down I knew that I am not of this internet world. I just went onto my ‘dashboard’, courtesy of wordpress. Rarely do I go there. Who needs dashboards and their graphs?

However I am gutted, like one of my sardines, to find lots of comments I need to “approve” before published. Why? People can say what they like on my blog. So am lumbered with a graveyard of favourable comments of many months. Which is a pity. How to revive the dead?

Magpie, no, make that Daphne, drew my attention to “vanity”  (not mine, just generally). Naturally, all the most stylish of my loyal readership will claim that NONE of you are “vain” – vain NOT being nice. Don’t believe yourselves. Of course you are vain. How many mirrors do you have in your home? How many times do you glance sideways at yourself when passing a gleaming shop window? How many times (please do not count) do you preen yourself when in company? And no, I am not addressing my own gender: I am addressing both of you. And remember nasal hair.

Vanity only evaporates when you are in grip of poverty, depression or both and can’t be bothered to wash your hair;  or you are Miss Haversham straight out of Dickens with lots of spider webs to keep you and your miserable memories company; or you neglected to pay your electricity bill. Don’t be hasty: I am NOT depressed, I do wash my hair, neither does my den feature spider webs (mainly because there aren’t any spiders) and I have paid my electricity bill. Claim on electricity bill  having made my nose grow by 0.000001 mm.

Dashboard: According to one of those long ignored I am “good value”. Good value: I’d rather be a banker. And if I had a twin you’d get two for thrice the price.

I am on a mission now: Dashboards. Best ignored.  How do you think I get speeding tickets? Some bloggers appear obsessive: You will find people recording on the side columns of their blog (in public) the time their visitors have made their entrance: Southampton, United Kingdom 1 minute ago.  Port-of-Spain 5 minutes ago. Yes………….? Come again. So what?

Being of a generous dispostion, I take my hat off to bloggers freely admitting to obsessively checking their statistics every few minutes. Are they ok? How do they do it? I keep being told that we live in ‘stressed-out’ and ‘time-poor’ times.  I don’t. Neither do I keep an eye on the inconsequential.

Maybe those people who qualify on the Richter Scale of their blogs statistics need to be constantly reaffirmed that they exist. I know I exist: I only need to look at my kitchen this minute, my to-do list, the mirror, comments I leave. And generally kick myself.

Keeping it brief as not to stretch attention span of your average blog dung beetle. Word count 529.. You can tell I am in  a good mood, can’t you?

Happy Sunday.


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