Six not so sexy things men might want to avoid.

band mid-80s
Okay, we’re almost going from the sublime to the ridiculous as far as these photos are concerned. This is me in the band making an awful noise circa mid-80s, Germany.

Ladies! Would you say I’ve covered most things here?

To the majority of the male species:

Farting in front of your girlfriend might be permissible after you’ve been going out a few weeks but it’s a bit of a turn-off when you’ve just met. Not to mention it can be especially awkward when there’s no dog around on which to blame it. You boys are quick to point out what you don’t like to see in a new girlfriend such as the above breaking wind, her clothes, how she wears her hair and make-up, so I guess it’s only fair I give you a few pointers in return.

Got a minute?
Good! Use it to read my list of what not to do in front of the latest lady in your life.

Bare and Share!
Okay! When your lady is in the bathroom getting ready to go out or you’ve had what you deem to be a successful night and she’s getting ready in the morning… say no more… leave her alone to get on with it!

Not so much mysterious but mandatory.

I mean, do you really want to see the new lady in your life flossing her teeth? Plucking those stray little hairs from her chin; upper lip; nipples… what! You thought they came hair-free naturally? And neither would she want you to and certainly not at this stage of the relationship.

Don’t pick. Not so much on what she’s wearing although that’s not a good move but I was thinking more along the lines of something else.

Attempting to find my way out of Brest Bretagne airport I was horrified to witness a man pushing his luggage trolley with one hand whilst the index finger on his other was in a vertical stance rooting about inside his nose like he’d lost something and was expecting to find it there. On his face he wore a dazed almost hypnotised expression. Was he perhaps encountering the delights of a nosegasm? It’s hideously disgusting! Don’t do it.

Breaking wind!
I think we’ve covered that. Treading on the proverbial frog is a turn-off but let’s face it we all do it and we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t. However, if you are suffering from an overload of flatulence I suggest you revise your diet. Have a cup of fennel tea, quit blaming the dog, and to help discharge any lingering odours burn a stick of incense or light some scented candles.

She’ll think you’re being romantic.

Espousing virtues!
When it’s about a previous girlfriend keep your endearments to yourself. We don’t want to hear about it. Like you, in the beginning of a relationship, we’re not overly confident whilst doing our best to put across the good vibes and hopefully hiding our less attractive ones. And hearing about the merits of your past conquests will only serve to put an emotional and possibly a physical distance between you and your lady. Wrong direction, right!

Make sure you have them. We appreciate, and notice, manners in a bloke.
Be courteous. Open doors and allow the lady to go first. But be polite to others as well. A little courtesy will go a long way.

Personal hygiene!
I know I’ve covered this partially with the nose thing and the trumpet blowing but personal hygiene is a must. Keep your hands clean and all your other bits and bobs too. Nothing turns a woman off more if the bloke she’s about to kiss has breath on him that would challenge that of a yeti. And when in bed, boys, if the scent of sweet roses is noticeably absent and strains of what’s been put on them to make them grow is more reminiscent – be prepared to sleep alone.

And you’d deserve it!

And so ends my list of helpful hints in how to keep that new lady in your life just that little bit longer. So happy hunting and good luck! But basically, boys, just be your friendly and charming self and she should love you just the way you are.

Personally, I can’t be doing with all these dos and don’ts it does my head in.

So, if you need me, I’ll be here farting like a fox that’s just caught sight of a red jacket whilst leisurely plaiting the hairs hanging from my nipples.

Rosemary as a daffodil  Littlebrooke  circa 1965
And here I am again dressed as a daffodil as one does. Mid-60s, Crowthorne, Berkshire.

Podcast? YouTube? Me, talking on the Internet? Like being on telly? Not on your nelly!

Still with the jewellery. Here below is my “Bistro in France” and “Egyptian Sea Princess”. Do you like them? Would love to know your thoughts.



Many thanks to each and every blogger out there who took the time to read my stuff, like it, follow me. Don’t follow me I’m lost too. Boom! Boom! In the 70s I wore such a patch on my jeans depicting a rather hairy caricature of a figure looking like Russell Brand who’s just come in from a hurricane below which said just that. “Don’t follow me I’m lost too!” It summed me up at the time. And on and off since. Anyway, my old fruit cakes, I will get round to visiting your blog maybe not this week or even month but in six months time but I will visit. What’s the big deal it only takes a couple of minutes I might hear some say, hmm? And fair point except it doesn’t take me just a couple of mins. I like to make my visit count and do it right. Properly look through your stuff in return and perhaps spend up to an hour on your site. I tried to keep up and cut corners but it didn’t sit well with me and it doesn’t work. Again, thank you.

Happiness to you and do something nice for yourself and at least one other.

And apologies for missing last week’s blog but energy took over or rather the lack of and I was completely incapacitated when I did a silly thing in pulling a muscle. You never appreciate how much you use your muscles until they are damaged. I’m talking about the muscle under my breast bone but fear not! I was fine just as long as I didn’t lie flat or sit up, cough, sneeze, talk, blow my nose or breathe too deeply. Apart from that it was fine. When I did have to sneeze or cough or blow my nose I soon discovered the only way to achieve this with the minimum amount of pain was to squat down and stick my bottom out behind me. I mean, can you imagine if I had to do that in public? Really!

Anyway, blog as below. It’s all true apart from the time frame. Allow me a little artistic license.

What was behind this podcast? Well, as a professional writer, I… oh, go on! You can let me dream, can’t you? As a writer, I am supposed to have what is called an ‘author’s platform’. Okay, I thought, a platform, is it? Podcast? YouTube? Like being on telly? Me, talking on the Internet? Ooh, I don’t know, might damage my sales. Dry mouth. Voice on me like a hinge that’s in need of oiling. Grinning like a chimpanzee to cover up the dry mouth and voice on me like a hinge that’s in need of oiling.

As tempting as it is I’ll have to think about that.

Each time I switch on my computer and dare to venture out of my safety zone I manage to come back feeling either bewildered or that I wish I hadn’t bothered. However, unbeknownst to me, I already have a platform. Due to the fact I have up and running a few blogs, my own websites, LinkedIn, and I’d unintentionally become a member of Facebook.

Yes, I joined Facebook but can’t get my head round it. And on the one occasion when I was making a valiant attempt at doing whatever it is Facebookians are supposed to do or even allowed to do (ridiculous amount of rules and regulations involved) a rude message popped up stating I was trying to enter on an illegal computer.


“Whatever!” I believe I may have muttered seeing as I was using my own PC at the time. So, I exited on out of there, determined someone’s medication should be stronger, and have never bothered again. Far too much hassle for something I don’t even enjoy. Or understand! Or have any desire to spend my time doing. Am I signing my death warrant where author’s platforms are concerned?

No doubt. But I can live with that.

It’s not easy these days to scrape a living from writing. Scribbling alone appears to be insufficient. It’s all so complicated. You have to be an expert in self-promotion, publicity stunts, angles, and a computer whiz to boot. Plus, joining every available communications network appears to be expected and mandatory. But, if that’s the case, when you are out there tweeting, trending, twitting and twotting… is there such a thing? Not yet perhaps but just give it time – when do you actually find a moment to write?

Bring back the days of the old quill and ink.

Not quite, but it sure is tempting. I mean, Mr Shakespeare didn’t have to put up with any of this, did he! Telling Wills he needed an author’s platform would have had him pointing at the stage of the Globe Theatre wondering if you’ve been spending too much time with the fairies.

And Skype! I don’t know what Skype is. Or, at least I didn’t.

You can laugh, berate, and exclaim, as per the norm these days “OMG!” but that doesn’t change the reason why I do my best to avoid immersing myself in all these techno gadgets. I don’t have the energy or concentration to spare. It’s why I don’t actively encourage relationships over Facebook or with fellow weirdos who subscribe to the same writing magazine as me because there will always be at least one individual who will get an idea about me into their head. And when I don’t fit into their picture or category in which they have me pinned… they get peeved!

One particular individual comes to mind, a delightful character that expected me to be this busy bee who had nothing better to do than to correspond with him. I was bombarded with his work which he then expected, nay! He demanded that I give him a full appraisal. Hinting strongly it had better be good.

Eh? I kept my cool and told him most courteously to cease communication. It was the most polite way I’ve ever told someone to “bugger off”. I mean, really? I wouldn’t have minded but he didn’t even ask beforehand!

What is it about me? I’m thinking of posting this standard message. As follows:

Hello there!
Lovely stuff that you’d like to be my friend on Facebook / correspond via my writing magazine, but it appears I’m not cut out for it, as sadly, like every man’s nightmare – I can’t keep it up.

Oh yes, I’ve tried this twittering, tweeting texting-type of chatty “let’s keep in regular touch!” type of thing but alas it’s no good. Not for someone with ME. I need all my energy for getting on with everyday things like getting up (not always possible), getting washed, not putting cat in the fridge instead of milk and scribbling this stuff here.

So, if you don’t mind carrying on a somewhat one-way conversation do feel free to continue to visit my Facebook page or do pop by my website and blogs. Sorry I can’t offer more than that. But seriously, you’ll thank me in the end.

At which point I would paste a grinning ‘smiley’ face if I only knew how. Hmm… on second thoughts, I won’t bother. It’s not worth it for the one and a half Facebook requests I get a year. And one of those was in error.

Keep things simple. Keep to the job in hand. Employ a publicist.

And this is one twit signing off.

Be well and be good or at least halfway competent,

N barkham road 17 3 95
Ninja, six months old, March 1995, Wokingham, Berkshire. In a perfect backwards arc hanging on to her fish on a string and showing how to be graceful. I could learn from that strong little minx.

So, what’s been happening lately?

Organ played by JS Bach, Leipzig

Johann Sebastian Bach’s organ in St Thomas Church, Leipzig, Germany.

JS Bach, St Thomas Church with orbs

And here is one inside the church and I’m sorry to go back to ghosts but I can’t help but point out two orbs one of which is totally prominent. Don’t need arrows for that one but the other is a little harder to spot. It’s large but faint about halfway down the picture to the left of the large white pillar. The church was full of orbs as discovered later when looking at the pictures. Amazing.

Before I begin I’d just like to thank very much indeed each and every one out there in bloggy land who takes the time to read and/or like and/or follow my stuff. It is not unappreciated. Honest. Immense apologies if I don’t get around to thanking each blogger personally or swiftly but if I may re-direct you to my other blog (under my real name) as that little entry may go towards explaining the reasons behind that. No doubt I could put the direct link in here but that would mean a good working relationship between myself and computers, ha! I’ll do it this way and give you instructions. and if you are still with me and haven’t been put in a coma my admiration goes out to you. Simply toddle along to last week’s effort entitled “So, that’s how it is, is it?” and sincere thanks once again.

Hello you lot out there. Hope all is well and groovy. I’ve been busy. Absolutely! When one is ill one is being busy being ill which is par for the course so we won’t talk about it… um, what else. I now have a total of seven websites (one main site and six little static ones re-directing you to my main website which is predominantly their reason for being) and three blogs. What do you mean, do I have to?


Actually, four blogs counting my book blog but it’s been so long since I’ve even popped by I’m not sure it still exists. Have to hack away at the virtual cobwebs when I do venture on to there. It will become more active once I’ve published and released my autobiography on which I am currently working. Not, actually, but I’m hoping talking about it will expel me into action. Takes time especially when I’m doing other things, being other things, hence the inactivity on the corresponding blog and… phew!

I’m also at the beginning of a new creative venture. Yes, typically, I got this bright idea and in my usual inimitable style have gone into all gung-ho. I’ll let you know how that turns out. It should be fun. In the meantime two words with which to tantalise you: Jewellery. Heavenly. Okay make that three: Designer. Jewellery. Heavenly.

And for my visual trip down memory lane, today I have a picture of JS Bach’s organ if you’ll pardon the expression. Took a trip there to St Thomas Church in Leipzig almost as a pilgrimage. Most emotional. Spiritual and touching. Was very moving.

TTFN. Best, best.

“Blue Deep Ocean”. Pretty. Pretty. Personally I’m not a huge wearer of jewellery although I quite like to wear the odd one of my bracelets especially when the charms tinkle (good Karma apparently) but that doesn’t stop me from making quality stuff I hope others will enjoy and that which makes them happy.


“Rose Garden”. Pretty in pink.

Spookiness comes to its conclusion.

GSY Polaroid (2)

Royal Hotel, Guernsey, CI, 1977. Chrissie, school friend of mine at the time. Wearing my jacket holding my soft toys as one does sitting in the haunted lounge. Behind her the French doors leading to Mum’s room and the bathroom.

GSY Polaroid (1)

And here I am also in the lounge wearing my I’m-cool-I’m-in-stripes-bought-from-the-shop-that-sells-incense jacket.

Final part of my real-life spooky and scary I have to admit, encounters…

‘Have a look. I dare you!’ Chrissie whispered.

‘Absolutely not,’ I replied pulling the blanket up over my face. It was all right for her she was always seeing ghosts and took it all in her stride. I, on the other hand, had never seen an apparition and was scared stiff at the prospect of doing so.

‘I can see the face of a young man and a lady dressed in Victorian clothes and they’re both smiling down at me.’

The atmosphere was certainly chilling. ‘What do you mean they’re smiling down at you?’ I whispered.

‘I can’t understand a word you’re saying,’ replied Chrissie. ‘Come out from underneath your blanket.’

‘I said, what do you mean they’re smiling down at you?’

‘Well, they’re on the wall blending in with the pattern of the wallpaper.’

At this stage I was debating with myself whether to pluck up the courage and have a look or not when after a few more moments of dithering I made my decision.

‘I’m going to have a look,’ I announced in anticipation of having my name put forward to receive a medal of bravery along with a brief mention on “Newsround”.

‘I wouldn’t bother,’ she said and chuckled. ‘They faded away about half a minute ago!’

I had missed my opportunity of actually seeing a ghost or two but I had no reason to disbelieve Chrissie, not with her track record. It wasn’t unusual for her to mention in passing her latest encounter with someone casually as one does, but most people would be referring to a solid form as opposed to the other kind.

‘I bumped into a cricketer last night.’

‘Really? Who was it? Viv Richards?’

‘No, it wasn’t her… we were driving along at the time when I happened to mention it to my friend. He ended up practically steering the car into a ditch. He told me at that exact moment I’d seen the cricketer we’d been driving past an old cricket ground.’


‘It’s a cricket ground that hasn’t been in use for over a hundred years.’

The apparition stayed with Chrissie in full view through the windscreen for about five minutes before eventually disappearing and blending into the velvet stillness of the night. Her friend hadn’t seen a thing. I, on the other hand, believe I can’t see ghosts and for a period I dithered as to whether I wanted to or not. Now, however, I know for certain. NOT. Definitely not.

Then it happened.

Mum had gone out on the town with Harry to a fun packed evening of ‘chicken in the basket’ followed by cabaret and dancing to Sid Jazz and his Band at one of the numerous hotels to be found on the island. They saw The Krankies live one evening direct from Las Vegas or was it Little Wallop? Nonetheless they enjoyed the performance immensely.

Chrissie and I were getting ready to go to dinner in the beautiful dining room downstairs. It was a large room full of starched white linen tablecloths, gleaming silver and crystal chandeliers hanging from its beautiful high ceilings. A mirror ran along the whole length of one wall giving the impression of an even larger and luxurious room. The hotel wasn’t ostentatious at least not back in the late seventies during the period when Mum lived there. It gave off an ambience of nicely comfortable with hints of an old genteel lady clinging to a bygone era. It was a friendly place. It wasn’t snobbish or affected. I found both the hotel and the island exciting and attractive although that wasn’t to last.

I was in the bathroom. It was a compact room but bright due to its large window which let in a lot of light and sunshine. I’d showered, dressed, had applied my full make-up and was battling with my bleached and recently shorn hair. Chrissie was in the lounge putting the last-minute touches to her outfit, when suddenly, I became aware of a change in the atmosphere.

It was exactly the same experience, at least momentarily, which had led me to the discovery of Dad’s body. A feeling that something life-changing had happened or was about to happen. And it was just like the time when I had this strong compulsion to turn round only to encounter a shark bearing down on me. And it didn’t thrill me with joy. It unnerved me. And it was scary. That was the main difference. I was acutely aware of being scared which hadn’t been the case at the time of my father’s passing at least until I actually found his body and then the terror set in. But this was scary. Scary because I’d suddenly turned into Mystic Meg but mostly because I knew, I was absolutely convinced, something was happening over which I had no control.

And I knew from the depths of my soul it was something bad.

My first thoughts went to my friend in the lounge. I called out to Chrissie but received no answer. That alone alarmed me. I took a deep breath, turned away from the mirror, took a couple of steps, peered round the doorway of the bathroom towards the lounge but as the French doors were half closed my view was obstructed.

I stepped from the bathroom and slowly but steadily walked through Mum’s bedroom and into the lounge to find Chrissie standing in the middle of the room staring at the front door of the suite. An atmosphere was certainly present in the room. That much was certain. I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t touch it. I couldn’t smell it. And I couldn’t hear it. I had no idea what it was but something, or, someone was there, close by.

I think I might have whispered something along the lines of, ‘What is it?’ and in response, almost as if in a daze, Chrissie slowly turned her head to look at me before eventually turning back to stare at the door. I stared back at her and without speaking we managed to communicate with each other. We acknowledged we were in the middle of something supernatural and it was something that couldn’t be explained.

Once again, Chrissie’s eyes were fixated upon the door as were mine. I stood perfectly still too scared to do much else but not only that, I felt like we were caught up in this thing. Whatever it was, it had us in its grip. Chrissie continued to stand a little in front of me, a few feet away, absolutely motionless as together we satisfied this strong compulsion to watch the front door to the suite.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, when very slowly the door began to open. No noise, no other movement in the room, nothing else was happening apart from this door slowly opening. We continued to stare as it opened further and further. The atmosphere in the room turned oppressive, menacing, and the air became littered with slivers of sheer terror and what was left of my hair really did start to stand on end, when suddenly, a state of semi-consciousness returned and I knew I didn’t want to be a part of it any longer. Something deep down in me or from a higher realm, fought back, and the spell broke. The door slammed shut. A quick glance at Chrissie told me she was still in her trance-like state and hadn’t even reacted, so if I wanted to look on the other side of that door, I knew I had to do it alone.

I wobbled towards it. My free hand – not the one grasping my hairbrush like my life depended on it, reached towards the old brass door handle. I hesitated. I wasn’t sure if I did want to see what was on the other side after all. Visions of blood and maggots oozing from some old sea captain’s face like Stephen King’s idea of Captain Bird’s Eye, was not immediately appealing but then spurred on by the fact Chrissie was there with me, at least in body, curiosity won and I yanked the heavy door far enough open to be able to see into the hallway beyond.

Nothing. No one was there. At least no one I could see. The entrance hall was completely empty. And it was impossible for someone to have made their escape in such a short space of time, besides which, there was nowhere for them to hide. I checked the two exits but the doors, one upstairs and one which led outside into the hotel’s courtyard and car park and was only ten feet from the suite, hadn’t been touched. I know this for a fact because once opened those doors which were on a type of heavy spring mechanism took ages to close. I returned to the suite and Chrissie. Chrissie! Her complexion looked like uncooked bread and it didn’t occur to us to have a large brandy but if anyone ever deserved one we did.

We didn’t know what to think but agreed we had probably experienced something not of this world. We didn’t understand what had transpired and we had no idea what the outcome would have been had I not broken the spell. But we were ninety-nine per cent sure it hadn’t been a joke as we had momentarily suspected. Bizarrely, we didn’t talk about it that much, if at all, we took it on the chin unlike nowadays when I wouldn’t be able to leave it alone. We simply accepted it and that was that.

One last thought, the door to our suite was a big heavy fire door and how it managed to shut with such ferocity and swiftness remains a mystery to this day.
My next brush with the supernatural was with a dearly departed cat of mine nearly twenty years later, but nothing has been as intense as on that occasion which took place on a warm summer’s evening in Guernsey back in 1977.

Reads like from a book, doesn’t it! Maybe that’s because it is. Forthcoming autobiography not in Wolfie’s name, my maiden name, Rosemary Bach. That’s if I ever get around to finishing it… so close, final checking to do, final this, that and the other…

Best to you,

GSY Polaroid (3)

Me again. To the left of me is THAT door. Yes, the front door to the suite. It’s just out of range.

GSY Polaroid (4)

And once again this is me in the spooky lounge looking rather spooky myself. Why I included this I have no idea really. Wearing a bikini and sun visor as obviously it was extremely warm and bright inside the room during the evening.

Rosie blog:

Working website:

Logo featuring my books

Now you see them now you don’t.

Orbs in French property (8) for sale

Luzy, France, 2004. Orbs? Dust? What do you think? I was viewing a house which was really a shop that was for sale. Practically every picture taken has in it an orb or whatever they are. Worryingly I appear to be surrounded by them. Only glad I didn’t know that at the time.

mum and C

Summer 1977. The car park and back of the haunted Royal Hotel in Guernsey, CI. The hotel has since burnt down. Yes, spooky indeed. To the left is my mother to the right is Chrissie, a friend from school, and someone who could see ghosts lucky her NOT. And hidden from view on the left is the ghostly gate with its rattling chain and padlock.

To continue with this ghost theme I have included a few relevant photographs which makes a welcome change from showing pictures which have nothing to do with my blog whatsoever.

So what’s with the ghosts? Well, for starters, if you’re looking for an absolute fright night of a hair-raising experience cease reading and move along. Seriously. You won’t appreciate these accounts you’ll possibly find them too tame and fair enough each to their own. But, believe me, you had to be there. My interest in ghosts is not because I enjoy or want to be frightened out of my wits. I only have to look in the mirror in the morning for that little delight. My interest in ghosts is purely platonic. I find the subject fascinating and with that in mind, let’s get down to business.

During the couple of weeks when Chrissie came to stay with us at the Royal Hotel back in August 1977, I was to witness one of the most frightening yet fascinating experiences of my life.

The Royal Hotel in Guernsey was reputedly a favourite with all things supernatural and could even boast its own haunted bedroom. Well, perhaps not boast exactly as they didn’t like to advertise they had a resident phantom on the premises and refused to allow anyone to stay in the room unless it was absolutely unavoidable as come the following morning it was always the same story.

The guest would complain of a freezing room and the feeling of being continuously watched. My mum and I were shown the allegedly haunted room and it was spooky. The day was warm, the sun was shining, but in that particular room it was cold and oppressive. I couldn’t wait to leave it and never return.

‘This is such fun! It reminds me of “Blithe Spirit”.’ Mum looked round eagerly at the deserted reception area. ‘George, there you are, this is my daughter Rosemary home for the school holidays and whom I’ve brought along with me this evening,’ she said. She lit a cigarette and laughed.

George, the elderly night porter, looked up at her in something approaching adoration. He couldn’t have been more goggle-eyed had she been Vivien Leigh.

And so we settled down with a silver pot of hot coffee and began our vigil. George, along with another porter, continued to make his rounds. The two gentlemen stopped now and then to chat with us on their way. We’d swap notes. Check times. Apart from the four of us the place was deserted. All guests and staff were asleep or in their rooms upstairs and rightly so at two o’clock in the morning. Sensible lot.

As I sat there sipping on my hot drink I was open to the possibility of witnessing a ghost and I was both fascinated and terrified of what I might see. I believed in ghosts but quite frankly I didn’t know what to expect.

Mum had told me about the strange noises she’d been hearing outside her bedroom window late at night during our weekly phone calls. At the time Mum was renting a suite in the hotel. Her room backed on to a private courtyard that was chained and padlocked every evening. Mum would hear the padlock rattling and thinking it was George would shout out ‘Good night, George,’ but he’d never answer. Night after night the same thing would occur. Come three o’clock in the morning the chains would rattle Mum would shout out and receive no answer.

Finally she cornered George. She thanked him for checking the gates every evening but couldn’t understand why he didn’t answer her when she called out to him.
‘It’s not me, Mrs Bach. No one goes out there at that time of night.’
‘Who rattles and checks the padlock?’
‘Well,’ he said quietly. ‘Put it this way, no one likes to go out there and quite frankly no one does,’ he paused. ‘At least no one from our current staff.’

And so Mum was introduced to the spirits of the Royal Hotel and from that moment on she dived into her ghost hunting with gusto.

We’d been sitting on our velvet-covered chairs drinking endless cups of coffee for about an hour when George and the other porter returned from making their rounds. It was quiet. No one spoke. It was still. And it was cold. Suddenly, the heavy door that led from one of the bars into the reception area about twenty-five feet in front of us began to swing open. Fascinated I watched as it opened slowly, deliberately and steadily exactly as if someone was pushing it from the other side. Except, no one was there. And I know this because the door was made of solid glass and I could see right through it. Suddenly it banged shut. We simply stared at it. Knowing what we had witnessed but unable to comprehend it. A moment later, one of the glass doors that led through to the dining room began to swing open. It was exactly as if someone had come in from the bar, walked down the large L-shaped reception area, turned the corner where we were holding our vigil to walk right past us and through to the dining room beyond.

But, as for an actual apparition having being sighted, none had been, until now.

To be continued…

Sweet dreams tonight,

Royal Hotel

A few years down the road and this is us standing in front of the Royal in July 1980. The hotel, still haunted and prior to it burning down has been painted a rather unattractive fleshy pink colour rather like a steak going off. In the picture is yours truly, my mum, and the wife, lovely lady, of an old Salem (Bavaria) school friend of Dad’s, the eminent ex-Dean of Ohio State University, Dick Meiling.

Rosie blog:

Working website:

Ghosts, UFOs, and nothing kinky.

Orb in France (6) Ninja

France 2004. Considering the topic of this week’s blog I thought this picture appropriate. No, it’s not about cats doing their yoga the subject is touching on ghosts. Did you spy the orb to the right of Ninja’s foot? Hmm… any comments? Love to hear them.

Well, that’ll teach me. Going to sleep whilst in the background a documentary about ghosts and UFOs rattles on. I awoke the following morning to discover a strange mark upon my person. Nothing kinky, I assure you. I sleep solo. Alone. Apart from the odd visit from Tina who burrows herself under my duvet with the ferocity of a mole and then proceeds to take over the whole bed.

On my arm was not one scratch but three and they were formed in the shape of a perfect “Z”. I’d been visited by Zorro! Seriously. It looked liked I’d been marked by the masked man himself.

Spooky, or what?

Love all this ghost stuff. Even if half the time I do scare myself silly. Especially the stories about ghosts who knock at the window or door asking to come in. It might sound tame and you might be thinking ‘oh, how polite,’ but good manners do not come into it. Absolutely not. Scary thing to have happen and I can do without it thank you very much. I’ve never seen a ghost and I never want to but I have been witness to bizarre smells, chilly sensations, and doors swinging open and closing all by themselves.

I kid you not.

Predominantly thanks to a mother who was interested in all this stuff way back in the ‘70s before the likes of Zak and his ghost hunting team and such programmes guaranteed to make you smile and cringe in equal measures.

My mum did it first!

To be continued…

Wear it spookily. And sleep well tonight.

Rosie blog:

Working website:

Enigma by Wolf Black aka Rosemary Bach-Holzer

Insects, Fiat 500s and naked legs

Rosi and cats

This is me doing my impression of an Afghan hound and succeeding wonderfully. Bremerhaven, Germany, circa 1983. On the left in front of me is Friske and to the right, her sister, Bu. Why are my legs naked? Nothing saucy, I assure you. This was pre-tracksuits and leggings. It was summer, hot, I’d just got home from work, removed my tights and pencil skirt for comfort, and apart from a sort of dressing gown didn’t have what you now call leisurewear. Didn’t exist. On reflection I could have worn some dance leggings in a large size. That didn’t occur to me.

When an insect the shape of a flea, brown in colour and the size of a Fiat 500 invades my space, I do tend to become more than a little concerned. Especially when they, please note I refer to the aforementioned insect-come-car in the plural sense, congregate in the kitchen.

But what occurred last week is the limit. I mean, first it was the invasion of the Mosel worms and now this. Whatever they are! The Mosel insect-come-small-aircraft?

Really, I put up with the ‘Och,’ curses wrong accent. ‘Ach, zat is only zee German Mosel verm, zay are harmless,’ for long enough. Crawling all over the worktops and draining board until I put an end to their excursions by covering the overflow hole with a small strip of masking tape. Ha!

But, I diverse.

I’d left out overnight to drain on the draining board my small amount of clean washing-up. It’s more hygienic that way. Yes, in theory, certainly not when insects-come-small-abode-in-town-with-river-views descend upon it.

I grabbed my new ladle, bright yellow handle, good quality, heat-resistant plastic so not to scratch nice iron frying pan and was about to start stirring my garlic mushrooms when I spied something. I leant in closer only to recoil almost immediately. One of those insects-come-whatever was there right in front of me on my ladle partially squashed and half dead. Horrors! It could have ended up in my meal. Thank you very much!

My ex-husband was bemoaning the fact he hadn’t bought himself one of those snazzy utensils.

That was soon amended.

Until next time be well.
Wear it well.

PS. Plug time. More about the Mosel verms and other daft tales (and tragically they are all true) can be found in “Musings Amusing”. It’s free! Visit, if you feel like living dangerously, my website as below for more details.

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It’s a dog’s love.


Meet Rex. A beautiful Alsation or German Shepherd. Family dog circa 1965. Mum adored him and it was mutual. They were practically married.

Rex was a large and beautiful dog. He was only one year old when this photograph was taken by Daddy during a social event at the local rec (recreation ground) in Crowthorne, Berkshire.

Rex adored Mum and Mum was crazy about Rex, however, Rex also had another great love. Male dogs. He tried on more than one occasion to impregnate a fellow dog and for his troubles he contracted a disease which resulted in a bright purple solution being applied to his… err… lipstick. Well! I’m being polite. As I say, he was a big dog and this applied to all parts of his body. Including his lipstick.

The vet duly painted Rex’s pertinent part with this aforementioned medicine which was so bright the poor dog may as well have had a neon sign on his head saying “Look at me!”

As much as Mum loved Rex she was too embarrassed to be seen out in public for all the world to see her dog going about with an aubergine hanging between his legs and thus taking the dog for a walk became Dad’s job. At least until the disease cleared up and things went back to normal.

Shortly after this episode I was feeling momentarily impish and I think possibly trying to get to Mum. I walked over to Rex who was pottering about in the garden, stood behind him and pulled his tail. Not hard. I was barely five years old at the time I didn’t have a lot of strength but I gave it a tug and he whipped round and had me pinned to the ground quicker than you could say, “I’m not too keen on little girls either so get lost, kid.”

There was I on the grass flat on my back staring up at this face with fangs staring down at me when moments later he jumped off and I scrambled to my feet. I wasn’t hurt but my little red corduroy pinafore dress was torn on both shoulders.

Right, I thought, I’m not having this. I walked indoors, changed into my little green matching corduroy pinafore dress, stopping only to complain to Mum on the way who basically told me it was my own fault. And it was. But still I hadn’t learnt my lesson as I went outside and did it again.

Quicker than a Bruce Lee kick I found myself back on the ground with a face panting over me. That’s when I gave in. Two dresses ruined in one day I submitted defeat, learnt my lesson, never did anything like that again, appreciated Mum could love both me and Rex, and salvaged what was left of my wardrobe.

RIP Rex. Beautiful dogs. I adore Alsations but for some reason to this day where German Shepherds are concerned it’s never been reciprocated. Weird or what? And with a name like Wolf too.


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Sloppy Joe and Fish Fingers

-4- Rosemary Bach circa 1966

It is I. Circa 1966. My brother, Richard, in the background on holiday on the beach in Bournemouth, UK. Wearing the same hairstyle as of today including the same determined expression. Building sandcastles was a serious business. Photo taken by Dad, Rolf Bach, professional photographer.

It’s a bit nippy out. On the odd occasion I have bravely ventured outside all snuggled up in my cardboard box… I’m kidding! Little joke, or yoke seeing as I’m in Germany. I’m referring to a previous blog entry about expensive coats and the boxes in which they arrive.

I’m snuggled up in plenty of layers consisting of my vest I wear all year round, a long-sleeved thermal top I also wear all year round, a woolly polo neck jumper and on top of that a huge sloppy joe and my Dents cashmere-lined gloves and my hands still feel like frozen fish fingers. And I care not if I do look like the Michelin man. So what! Dare I tell you what I wear on my head? A jumper. Absolutely! An unused jumper I was about to throw away but instead in a flurry of creativity I transformed it into a hat. It works too. And I don’t appear to be on the receiving end of any titters, pointing or funny stares either.

“Ooh, look at her Helga, she’s wearing a jumper on head!”
“Ach ja, what do you expect, Gudrun, these Brits are a strange lot indeed.”
“Ja, I suppose you are right… (pause)… at least it makes a change from knotted handkerchiefs.”

Yep! Done my bit for recycling and it keeps my bonce warm.

On that note I do hope you’re all keeping cosy. My cousin three times and once removed told me how snowy and chilly it is in New York State right now. It hasn’t snowed here, yet. I think it’s waiting for the right moment like when all our Calor gas bottles are empty.

And the significance between joke and yoke? In the German language the letter J is pronounced as Y. Absolutely! I do not yest with you.

TTFN wolf cubs and take care,
Next time,

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Enigma by Wolf Black aka Rosemary Bach-Holzer

Out with the old and in with the new?

MPJ - Mum at Pontins, Jersey May 1966

Looking back as we go forward to 2014. Mum on the far left having won a prize (I think for scrabble) next to her stands the ubiquitous sixties, suave and sexy compère and to his right, Miss Pontins in person. Wonderful stuff.

How was your Christmas? Festive, merry and full of contemplation? Although that last bit probably belongs in the New Year along with your good resolutions that last all of a week. Two if you’re lucky.

Yes, I will be nicer to next door’s cat even if he does relieve himself all over my roses.

No, I won’t swear and wish horrible things on the driver who nips in front of me without so much of a flash of an indicator instead of waiting patiently in line like everyone else.

Actually, cut that one. As for the first resolution personally I have no problem with any animal in my garden but I do wish dog owners would clean up after the poor thing has done its business in public. The animal would if it could and whilst dog owners have this ability many choose not to exercise it.

And finally, yes, I will endeavour to stick to my New Year resolution list for at least six months if not the whole year.

And I have one more to add to that. Why not make it your resolution to read more? And I know just the books… what!

Happy New Year to one and all and let’s wish the same to everyone else.

Peace and Happiness.

See you in 2014!

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