Well, not exactly instalment 15 of The Lord of the Rings / Hobbit brain drain but rather the Return of the Keenan's. It was one of the appendices in The Silmarillion. Peter Jackson bought the rights last year and you should see the 12 hour movie version of our trip, in 2017.
We are in fact returning exactly to the day that we left the UK thereby not completing our first year in Singapore. I thought this was rather cunning but actually it's fairly irrelevant. Anyway, it is with great excitement and a strange sense of dread that we countdown the next two and a half weeks before we leave on a jet plane to good old Blighty. How we have missed you, our island in the sun with a little drizzly cloud above it.
I say I have a sense of dread just because now that I am rather well settled in Singapore, all the opposite things that scared me about moving here are scaring me about coming home. Driving, negotiating motorways and buying bus tickets. Do they still have conductors on a bus? I don't know and this is what is keeping me awake at night.
I am trying to reassure myself by remembering that I have only spent 364 days in Singapore as opposed to 14,235 in London and Surrey so I reckon using an oyster card and speaking English again will hopefully come back to me in a few days.
What I have been thinking about is all the things I am looking forward to about coming home and focusing my anxiety drained adrenals on that to avoid worrying about the flight home on my own with the kids and trying to understand what a collision damage waiver is at the Europcar office at Heathrow.
It is of course a given that seeing friends and family will be truly lovely. But there are some smaller things that I am looking forward to immensely. I have detailed these below:
1. The Weather
You may scoff at this given I am returning from 35 degree heat. However, it is not the tropical paradise you may think. It is 35 degree heat, every day and every month. There are no seasons. There is no change. Just humidity and sweating, sweating and humidity. I am praying to the UKip God's that they will cast down upon us cold crisp mornings, bright sunny days and cool evenings so we can relive that experience of warming the cockles as opposed to literally roasting them when sitting on a bench in Singapore.
2. Milk
Give me some of that good old British super fresh milk. I want it straight out of the udder into the bottle and onto my doorstep. We have sampled a few different milks over here. Generally the expats tend to favour the Aussie brands but even they taste a bit like feet. We did settle on a Japanese brand which we have been guzzling for the last year but recently found out from a reliable source who works in the food trade out here that this Japanese milk brand is actually made in Thailand. Thailand has no regulations on how they process the milk and the word on the street is they are packed with hormones. This does not surprise me given I have a face full of acne and my husband and son have developed breasts.
3. Roast Chicken
Eating out in Singapore is outstanding. No question about that. It is wonderful, varied and cheap. However, if you want to cook your bird at home, the supermarket offering is a bit depressing. I am looking forward to eating a big fat roast chicken. A chicken that is actually a chicken and not a decapitated pigeon that has been run over by a car, shaved and washed.
4. Chewing Gum
I am going to buy a packet of double mint and chew the whole damn thing in one go ... with the wrappers on. I am going to chew those suckers until there is no mint left to give. And then I might stick it on to the bottom of my trousers and sit on a tube seat for at least eight stops so it's nice and warm and sticky. I just want the freedom to commit a major crime without punishment. Unfortunately, I can only do that back home. I would be arrested here just for possession.
5. Clear Skin
This might have to do with our hormone replacement therapy milk but the sweat fest that is life over here has not done wonders for my complexion. I am hoping the cooler climate back home will turn me back into the flawless beauty I once was. Things have got so desperate that I succumbed to buying some makeup today, something I have never done before. Other than a bit of tarts cheeks and mascara on special occasions I have generally gone slap free. I am now officially too old and ugly to continue down this decaying path so on advice from my two closest friends who are both doctors and therefore entirely trustworthy I went to MAC. One of these friends is also a makeup addict so her credentials for recommending makeup to me are sound.
The makeup shops are a little bit tricksy as the lighting in those places do make you look a bit like Katie Holmes. The truth was I looked more like a wax work of myself even though the makeup lady really did a pretty good job matching my skin tone, evening out my 5 o'clock shadow and colouring in my zits. Waxwork or not, it was an improvement so I purchased a bunch of stuff at a rather worrying amount of money and trooped home.
Of course as I left the air conditioned wonder of Sephora and stepped out into the sauna of the street what happens to most waxworks happened to me, but I thought, yes I can feel the beads accumulating but she put a base thingy coat on and then the primer, undercoat and the foundation on top so I should be absolutely fine. A few people looked at me as I walked to the bus stop home and I did think.... wow, I must actually look like Katie Holmes. Of course when I got home and looked in the mirror all the stuff she had put on my face had started to combine with the sweat and I had long creamy drip marks running down my chin and cheek. Less Katie Holmes and more the Nazi's getting melted at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.
I will be taking most of it back tomorrow.
6. Automobile Contraption
We are renting a car for the duration of our stay. As much as I am dreading the initial signing of papers,
checking for dents and dings and working out how to get into 5th gear
without stalling as everybody seems to do when they first take a hire
car out of the car park I am really looking forward to having some
wheels again.
I have thoroughly enjoyed the public transport in
Singapore because it is clean, cheap, convenient and to quote Dr
Secretan of Green Wing fame, not the "mobile asylums" of home. That said, the
freedom of the road is very exciting and I intend to drive everywhere
just to avoid embarrassing myself on the bus asking if I can buy a
little serrated paper ticket from the conductors fanny pack machine.
There are probably twenty other things that I am itching for when we return but they are long boring and about as superficial as all the things I listed above.
It is a hectic two weeks before school breaks up for the children and then it is going to be a hectic one month in the UK. But even though we will be on the road a lot over those 30 days I know it will be great because there really is no place like home.
Wednesday, 4 June 2014
Monday, 14 April 2014
Cycle Spaz
For those of you who follow my Facebook feed you will know that I recently passed my Singapore driving test. This news was met by many congratulations, "likes" and general kindness by my Facebook chums. I should admit that accepting these compliments is slightly fraudulent on my part.
Firstly, I have been driving a car since I was 18. Secondly, the driving test I did in Singapore is for foreigners wanting to convert their local licence to make them kosher on Singapore roads. Thirdly, the basic theory test which I sat is without question the most moronic test you could possible take in your life, particularly if you are already a driver. An example question would be, "If a pedestrian is stepping onto the zebra crossing, should you: A. Slow down and come to a complete stop giving way to the pedestrian. B. Honk your horn loudly to show your presence. C. Drive fast around the pedestrian or D. Run them over. Believe me, I only slightly exaggerate.
Anyway, I did study fairly hard for this test as there are some questions that they throw in there about the law and sentencing should you drive under the influence, get caught on your mobile phone or be kneading dough while on an expressway. These can trip you up if you muddle up your imprisonments from your lashings and your fines and you only get five wrong'uns before you fail the test and have to resit.
Furthermore, while most ladies of my age have recurring dreams of a Fifty Shades of Grey type with passion, romping and throbbing, my recurring nightmare since I was about 20 was turning up to my University finals not having revised. This continues to haunt my dreams nearly 20 years later which is a testimony to how miserable I was at university and also what a total dork I am. Therefore, study was implicit and luckily I passed. Amazingly, with full marks.
Now, given I passed my test, normal Beverly Hills form is for ones Daddy to buy them a new car. Sadly, I don't have my Daddy anymore, I don't live in 90210 and my husband did state from the outset that my total budget for this endeavour was $17.65 (cost of the registration and test) as opposed to the $75,000 required to buy a four year old beat up Toyota.
Instead, as I felt I deserved a reward for reading a book for three weeks and answering fifty multiple choice questions, I have bought myself a bike. I have justified this by my ongoing commitment to not taking taxis anywhere, always walking or riding the bus and continuing to wear my four year old Primark clothes for another four years. All false economy as these have been my self-imposed restrictions for many years while I continue to buy extravagant things that I don't need.
My key criteria when making enquiries about a bike was that it was a Raleigh (because that was the only bike make I know), it was 24inches because I could reach that comfortably without hurting myself, that it was aluminium instead of lead as I believe that makes it lighter, that it was baby blue and has a basket, not a wire basket, but a rattan basket. I was very specific about the rattan basket.
The nice gentleman on the phone asked me about Shimano gears and I responded, "yes, why not? Throw those things in too my good man". The next day my pretty new bike was delivered.
Now, we live on a very steep hill and my only way to town on the bike was down said steep hill at a pace and then left on to the very busy three lane road which goes on for about a mile and then left into Holland Village.
It must be pointed out that I have not really been on a bike officially since I was about 8 years old. I had a chopper then which is frankly like riding around on a comfortable dining chair. I have done a few saunters in the New Forest with my family and on the Canal Du Midi in France which was glorious because it was flat. That said I still managed to fall off my bike twice. Once trying to get through a four metre wide gate and the second time because I saw some people approaching about 100 metres away so threw myself and my bike on the floor so I didn't accidentally ride into them.
I generally consider myself an excellent driver. However, I am a complete numbskull on a bike (see above). I wobble all over the place. I have no sense of direction and as Pilates does not apparently count as proper exercise I have no stamina to get my lard arse up a hill. That said, I can do a shoulder stand, not that that helps much with cycling.
My first trip out was horrific. It was midday sun which was not my brightest move and cycling up the major Holland Road which takes you into the village was to me like cycling on the fast lane of the M25 when there is no traffic other than speedsters. It was absolutely terrifying as unfortunately, most motorists in Singapore, specifically taxi drivers suck and the concept of a wide berth does not exist.
After getting sucked into the wind of a few cars that decided to drive at 60mph as close to me as possible and then wobbling off my bike before coming to a complete stop, I decided to give up and do the thing I hate the most as a pedestrian and cycle on the pavement.
Given by this point I was scared, trembling and drowning in my own sweat I had little patience for the people at the bus stop and general amblers who refused to give way to me as I very slowly cycled down the pavement. Instead of stepping aside they would wait until I had reached them, braked and then would move so I would have to start off again which is always an ungainly wobbly affair, often heading in the direction of the road I was trying to avoid in the first place before sharply regaining my balance and righting my bike to cycle straight.
I did manage to get my lunch but by the time I got back home I was too hot, dizzy and nauseous to eat it.
Yet, as awful as my first trip out was, sheer doggedness did get me back on the bike yesterday whereby I took a different route to town. Cycled on the quieter roads, hopped onto the pavement on the faster roads and dismounted my bike when approaching people as by rights I should not be on the pavement. I think it is a fair compromise. I only plan to ride my bike to Pilates three times a week and for the odd trip to town. Of course on Monday I deliberately got to Pilates early because I needed fifteen minutes to stop sweating and shaking.
It is fairly clear if I continue to risk my life in this reckless manner I need to get a cycle helmet. Unfortunately, the bog standard cycle helmet is not the most flattering of items. I have purchased a particularly ugly one which sits high on the head as most cycle helmets do but is that much higher as it has to sit a further three inches off my scalp due to my enormous Singapore high hair mullet.
Ideally, I would have liked one of those little helmets children wear when scooting or on the ski slopes, however on adults they tend to look like the helmets one wears before getting shot out of a canon. So I will have to resign myself to looking like a pratty girl on a pretty bike.
Ultimately, the bike is good exercise and eventually I should have the muscular body of Fatima Whitbread to match the muscular hair of hers that I currently sport. It is my ultimate goal as long as I don't get run over first.
Firstly, I have been driving a car since I was 18. Secondly, the driving test I did in Singapore is for foreigners wanting to convert their local licence to make them kosher on Singapore roads. Thirdly, the basic theory test which I sat is without question the most moronic test you could possible take in your life, particularly if you are already a driver. An example question would be, "If a pedestrian is stepping onto the zebra crossing, should you: A. Slow down and come to a complete stop giving way to the pedestrian. B. Honk your horn loudly to show your presence. C. Drive fast around the pedestrian or D. Run them over. Believe me, I only slightly exaggerate.
Anyway, I did study fairly hard for this test as there are some questions that they throw in there about the law and sentencing should you drive under the influence, get caught on your mobile phone or be kneading dough while on an expressway. These can trip you up if you muddle up your imprisonments from your lashings and your fines and you only get five wrong'uns before you fail the test and have to resit.
Furthermore, while most ladies of my age have recurring dreams of a Fifty Shades of Grey type with passion, romping and throbbing, my recurring nightmare since I was about 20 was turning up to my University finals not having revised. This continues to haunt my dreams nearly 20 years later which is a testimony to how miserable I was at university and also what a total dork I am. Therefore, study was implicit and luckily I passed. Amazingly, with full marks.
Now, given I passed my test, normal Beverly Hills form is for ones Daddy to buy them a new car. Sadly, I don't have my Daddy anymore, I don't live in 90210 and my husband did state from the outset that my total budget for this endeavour was $17.65 (cost of the registration and test) as opposed to the $75,000 required to buy a four year old beat up Toyota.
Instead, as I felt I deserved a reward for reading a book for three weeks and answering fifty multiple choice questions, I have bought myself a bike. I have justified this by my ongoing commitment to not taking taxis anywhere, always walking or riding the bus and continuing to wear my four year old Primark clothes for another four years. All false economy as these have been my self-imposed restrictions for many years while I continue to buy extravagant things that I don't need.
My key criteria when making enquiries about a bike was that it was a Raleigh (because that was the only bike make I know), it was 24inches because I could reach that comfortably without hurting myself, that it was aluminium instead of lead as I believe that makes it lighter, that it was baby blue and has a basket, not a wire basket, but a rattan basket. I was very specific about the rattan basket.
The nice gentleman on the phone asked me about Shimano gears and I responded, "yes, why not? Throw those things in too my good man". The next day my pretty new bike was delivered.
Now, we live on a very steep hill and my only way to town on the bike was down said steep hill at a pace and then left on to the very busy three lane road which goes on for about a mile and then left into Holland Village.
It must be pointed out that I have not really been on a bike officially since I was about 8 years old. I had a chopper then which is frankly like riding around on a comfortable dining chair. I have done a few saunters in the New Forest with my family and on the Canal Du Midi in France which was glorious because it was flat. That said I still managed to fall off my bike twice. Once trying to get through a four metre wide gate and the second time because I saw some people approaching about 100 metres away so threw myself and my bike on the floor so I didn't accidentally ride into them.
I generally consider myself an excellent driver. However, I am a complete numbskull on a bike (see above). I wobble all over the place. I have no sense of direction and as Pilates does not apparently count as proper exercise I have no stamina to get my lard arse up a hill. That said, I can do a shoulder stand, not that that helps much with cycling.
My first trip out was horrific. It was midday sun which was not my brightest move and cycling up the major Holland Road which takes you into the village was to me like cycling on the fast lane of the M25 when there is no traffic other than speedsters. It was absolutely terrifying as unfortunately, most motorists in Singapore, specifically taxi drivers suck and the concept of a wide berth does not exist.
After getting sucked into the wind of a few cars that decided to drive at 60mph as close to me as possible and then wobbling off my bike before coming to a complete stop, I decided to give up and do the thing I hate the most as a pedestrian and cycle on the pavement.
Given by this point I was scared, trembling and drowning in my own sweat I had little patience for the people at the bus stop and general amblers who refused to give way to me as I very slowly cycled down the pavement. Instead of stepping aside they would wait until I had reached them, braked and then would move so I would have to start off again which is always an ungainly wobbly affair, often heading in the direction of the road I was trying to avoid in the first place before sharply regaining my balance and righting my bike to cycle straight.
I did manage to get my lunch but by the time I got back home I was too hot, dizzy and nauseous to eat it.
Yet, as awful as my first trip out was, sheer doggedness did get me back on the bike yesterday whereby I took a different route to town. Cycled on the quieter roads, hopped onto the pavement on the faster roads and dismounted my bike when approaching people as by rights I should not be on the pavement. I think it is a fair compromise. I only plan to ride my bike to Pilates three times a week and for the odd trip to town. Of course on Monday I deliberately got to Pilates early because I needed fifteen minutes to stop sweating and shaking.
It is fairly clear if I continue to risk my life in this reckless manner I need to get a cycle helmet. Unfortunately, the bog standard cycle helmet is not the most flattering of items. I have purchased a particularly ugly one which sits high on the head as most cycle helmets do but is that much higher as it has to sit a further three inches off my scalp due to my enormous Singapore high hair mullet.
Ideally, I would have liked one of those little helmets children wear when scooting or on the ski slopes, however on adults they tend to look like the helmets one wears before getting shot out of a canon. So I will have to resign myself to looking like a pratty girl on a pretty bike.
Ultimately, the bike is good exercise and eventually I should have the muscular body of Fatima Whitbread to match the muscular hair of hers that I currently sport. It is my ultimate goal as long as I don't get run over first.
Thursday, 20 March 2014
Tinternet
I am in a bit of a mood so this post is most likely going to offend grievously.
Firstly, while out shopping this morning I saw a very pretty young lady who was about as small as me, 4ft 10 or whatever I was last on measuring, wearing platform sandals. Not wedge shoes or Slade shoes but an actual full platform with no heel so she looked like she was walking on those toys that kids have from the Early Learning Centre. Two Tupperware containers attached to string that they stand on and walk about. I guess those particular toys are for the boys who are not interested in being doctors and coppers and the girls who don't want to be nurses or princesses. At least they provide an option for the kids who want to join the circus. Well done Early Learning Centre for moving with the times. I salute you.
This reminds me of how on International Women's Day 2014, one of the malls put on a celebration of women by providing free manicures and pedicures. Wow! Ladies, I bet you feel you have come a long way when that is all anyone can think to offer you in celebration of your political, economic and social achievements.
Sorry, this rant is due to watching Adam's Rib last night.
Anyway this little lass looked like Herman Munster as a result. This annoyed me being a shorty, sadly not a clinically diagnosed dwarf but just short. I would not say I embrace it but I have accepted it and know if you wear three inch bricks on your feet you just look like a short girl with bricks on your feet.
All of this is completely irrelevant to the Internet which is what this post is supposed to be about but I am in a mood, as I said.
The Internet is upsetting me a little bit these days.
I have just done a bit of reading about Trolls. I am sure you all know about Troll's but I was fairly ignorant. I found out that in Internet slang, a Troll is a person who deliberately sows discord by starting arguments or upsetting people. This is often done on a chat room, forum or blog. The purpose is to disrupt normal on-topic discussion and often the Troll plants their mean seed and then says nothing but watches the upset play out as many people who are hurt by the comments thrash it out online.
This is similar to those fights in Westerns when John Wayne hits someone and then he bumps into some other cowboy and then socks him one and so on and so forth by which time all the drunk cowboys are smashing up the bar and it's complete bedlam.
Luckily, I do not have any Internet Trolls on my blog. One, because I only have one follower (thanks Vicks) and two because I have adopted the role of Trolling my own blog. Clever eh?
My surprise is in the bizarre places you seem to find Trolls. Even on the most innocent of sites. I accept you will find these sorts of people on celebrity sites because there is nothing more fun than sitting on your sofa in your pants hating everybody more beautiful, famous, successful and rich than you. However, it is surprising to find it in places which are intended whole heartedly to help.
There is a very helpful forum that I have joined here which is geared to expat wives. Kindly created by a team of volunteers it is intended to be a place for ladies such as myself to help each other out, get advice, provide recommendations, the usual thing and for the most part it is an extremely helpful and friendly place.
A couple of times my newsfeed has been flooded with comments following a snarky post by a lady who obviously saw someone wearing Tupperware platforms and went on an online sniper spree in response, but generally it is a wonderful and helpful forum.
I benefited from this forum recently seeking a bit of information and I was keen to share this while also highlighting the danger of the Internet in the hands of bored housewives. Believe me far more dangerous than in the hands of criminals.
Many of you may know that I am at loggerheads with my lovely little girl and her complete inability to show any enthusiasm for maths. Her defeatist attitude is turning me to drink and after using both the carrot and stick I have now given up. We did say we would continue to help her at home as long as she didn't make her punim face and slumped shoulders and she has continued to make her punim face and slumped shoulders about six times and I have overlooked it because she is so petrified of us hiring a private tutor to get her up to speed with her maths.
Anyway, the final straw came a few days ago when after doing number bonds to 50 and 100 which she did perfectly we moved onto subtraction and she could not take 8 from 9 at which point all patience was lost. Punim face ensued, posture went (for both of us) and I closed the books and the Ipad and told her to go to her room and work on her look so she can make her father's dream come true of becoming a footballers wife.
I then emailed my husband who was travelling on business saying "your daughter is retarded. I am getting a tutor". Now, remember what I said at the beginning before you all get cross. Anyway, I am not a bad mother. I did not say it to her face. I said it behind her back and besides lots of kids called me retarded when I was growing up and look at me. I turned out brilliantly, sitting here in the afternoon at the computer, unemployed and living off my husband.
Anyway, I remembered a couple of weekends ago we took her to Universal Studios. There is a rather dull show there within the Shrek section of the theme park where you get to talk to Donkey. My kids love this and always stick their hand up so they can talk to him. Luckily they have long eyelashes so tend to get picked. So, on our last visit Donkey asked my daughter what she wanted to be when she grew up and she said "a scientist". As I thought about this I felt very sad given maths and science are fairly simpatico and decided I can't give up on her even though I am quite sure she has no idea what a scientist does. We needed to find the right kind of help for her to get her confidence up. Becoming comfortable with numbers will make her happy and that will give her confidence. Hopefully from that point on there will be no stopping her.
So, I decided to go onto this expat wives forum. The rough angle of my post was "my seven year old daughter is struggling with maths as she seems unable to apply what she knows to different scenarios, managing quite advanced calculations but struggling with the absolute basics. Can any of you recommend a nice, patient but firm maths tutor". That was about it. Anyway, over the course of the next couple of hours I received 47 messages and about 8 personal emails. I was completely blown away at the kindness shown by so many strangers. They provided me with contact details of tutors they have used, suggested websites, teaching practices such as Kumon, talked about their own experiences with their children and some who were teachers in their home countries offered to meet with me and my daughter to see if they could help. It was a genuine desire to help and plenty of empathy to boot. I felt very grateful.
Of course there were some comments that got me worried. Some of the ladies, again much of this from their own experience and 100% kind intentions suggested that my daughter could have a learning difficulty if she is not grasping basic number concepts by this age. In fact one ladies experience sounded almost identical to my own. She had her child assessed by a paediatrician who diagnosed this child with dyspraxia. She suggested before I waste money on tutors and Kumon that I have her assessed by the doctor. I remind you that I am an idiot so of course thought, ooh eck! I never even considered a learning difficulty.
So, in a panic I googled dyspraxia. Dyspraxia is a developmental coordination disorder. It is a neurological condition which affects movements. Often accompanied by attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and diagnosed if it is not obviously cerebral palsy, muscular dystrophy or multiple sclerosis.
I received about four messages to this effect and knowing quite confidently that my daughter has none of these problems I realised that these ladies were muddling dyspraxia with dyscalculia which is basically the maths version of dyslexia.
Like I said, the Internet in the hands of bored housewives is a dangerous thing. Anyway, they were all genuinely trying to help but clearly didn't read my request very thoroughly as I was not looking for a cure for my child's cerebral palsy and dyspepsia but a maths tutor. How we got on to neurological disorders from not being able to subtract 8 from 9 I have no idea.
Luckily, following conversations with close family I was rightly reminded that there is almost too much information out there and with the Internet the speed and ability to attach an amateur diagnosis or a label to something is very easy. It is also quite an attractive proposition as it to some degree alleviates responsibility when you make it medical and I am certainly not ashamed to absolve myself of responsibilities when I can by linking the fact my kid can't subtract to an article in the latest edition of the Lancet.
But I am her mother and I should feel relieved of the fact my daughter does not have dystopia and just simply accept she is a bit crap at maths. After all, I was too.
I will fondly remember my dear old Aunty Molly who one summers day sat with me in my back garden on the grass with 60 pebbles when I was around 8 years old and explained the times tables to me which I had been struggling with for months. No iPads, no online games, no Internet, not even pen and paper. Just some pebbles. Those few hours that she spent with me set a light bulb on in my head and I never struggled with maths again and today I am a brilliant scientist here in Singapore.
Well, that is not true but I do still know my times tables to 12. No further of course.
Firstly, while out shopping this morning I saw a very pretty young lady who was about as small as me, 4ft 10 or whatever I was last on measuring, wearing platform sandals. Not wedge shoes or Slade shoes but an actual full platform with no heel so she looked like she was walking on those toys that kids have from the Early Learning Centre. Two Tupperware containers attached to string that they stand on and walk about. I guess those particular toys are for the boys who are not interested in being doctors and coppers and the girls who don't want to be nurses or princesses. At least they provide an option for the kids who want to join the circus. Well done Early Learning Centre for moving with the times. I salute you.
This reminds me of how on International Women's Day 2014, one of the malls put on a celebration of women by providing free manicures and pedicures. Wow! Ladies, I bet you feel you have come a long way when that is all anyone can think to offer you in celebration of your political, economic and social achievements.
Sorry, this rant is due to watching Adam's Rib last night.
Anyway this little lass looked like Herman Munster as a result. This annoyed me being a shorty, sadly not a clinically diagnosed dwarf but just short. I would not say I embrace it but I have accepted it and know if you wear three inch bricks on your feet you just look like a short girl with bricks on your feet.
All of this is completely irrelevant to the Internet which is what this post is supposed to be about but I am in a mood, as I said.
The Internet is upsetting me a little bit these days.
I have just done a bit of reading about Trolls. I am sure you all know about Troll's but I was fairly ignorant. I found out that in Internet slang, a Troll is a person who deliberately sows discord by starting arguments or upsetting people. This is often done on a chat room, forum or blog. The purpose is to disrupt normal on-topic discussion and often the Troll plants their mean seed and then says nothing but watches the upset play out as many people who are hurt by the comments thrash it out online.
This is similar to those fights in Westerns when John Wayne hits someone and then he bumps into some other cowboy and then socks him one and so on and so forth by which time all the drunk cowboys are smashing up the bar and it's complete bedlam.
Luckily, I do not have any Internet Trolls on my blog. One, because I only have one follower (thanks Vicks) and two because I have adopted the role of Trolling my own blog. Clever eh?
My surprise is in the bizarre places you seem to find Trolls. Even on the most innocent of sites. I accept you will find these sorts of people on celebrity sites because there is nothing more fun than sitting on your sofa in your pants hating everybody more beautiful, famous, successful and rich than you. However, it is surprising to find it in places which are intended whole heartedly to help.
There is a very helpful forum that I have joined here which is geared to expat wives. Kindly created by a team of volunteers it is intended to be a place for ladies such as myself to help each other out, get advice, provide recommendations, the usual thing and for the most part it is an extremely helpful and friendly place.
A couple of times my newsfeed has been flooded with comments following a snarky post by a lady who obviously saw someone wearing Tupperware platforms and went on an online sniper spree in response, but generally it is a wonderful and helpful forum.
I benefited from this forum recently seeking a bit of information and I was keen to share this while also highlighting the danger of the Internet in the hands of bored housewives. Believe me far more dangerous than in the hands of criminals.
Many of you may know that I am at loggerheads with my lovely little girl and her complete inability to show any enthusiasm for maths. Her defeatist attitude is turning me to drink and after using both the carrot and stick I have now given up. We did say we would continue to help her at home as long as she didn't make her punim face and slumped shoulders and she has continued to make her punim face and slumped shoulders about six times and I have overlooked it because she is so petrified of us hiring a private tutor to get her up to speed with her maths.
Anyway, the final straw came a few days ago when after doing number bonds to 50 and 100 which she did perfectly we moved onto subtraction and she could not take 8 from 9 at which point all patience was lost. Punim face ensued, posture went (for both of us) and I closed the books and the Ipad and told her to go to her room and work on her look so she can make her father's dream come true of becoming a footballers wife.
I then emailed my husband who was travelling on business saying "your daughter is retarded. I am getting a tutor". Now, remember what I said at the beginning before you all get cross. Anyway, I am not a bad mother. I did not say it to her face. I said it behind her back and besides lots of kids called me retarded when I was growing up and look at me. I turned out brilliantly, sitting here in the afternoon at the computer, unemployed and living off my husband.
Anyway, I remembered a couple of weekends ago we took her to Universal Studios. There is a rather dull show there within the Shrek section of the theme park where you get to talk to Donkey. My kids love this and always stick their hand up so they can talk to him. Luckily they have long eyelashes so tend to get picked. So, on our last visit Donkey asked my daughter what she wanted to be when she grew up and she said "a scientist". As I thought about this I felt very sad given maths and science are fairly simpatico and decided I can't give up on her even though I am quite sure she has no idea what a scientist does. We needed to find the right kind of help for her to get her confidence up. Becoming comfortable with numbers will make her happy and that will give her confidence. Hopefully from that point on there will be no stopping her.
So, I decided to go onto this expat wives forum. The rough angle of my post was "my seven year old daughter is struggling with maths as she seems unable to apply what she knows to different scenarios, managing quite advanced calculations but struggling with the absolute basics. Can any of you recommend a nice, patient but firm maths tutor". That was about it. Anyway, over the course of the next couple of hours I received 47 messages and about 8 personal emails. I was completely blown away at the kindness shown by so many strangers. They provided me with contact details of tutors they have used, suggested websites, teaching practices such as Kumon, talked about their own experiences with their children and some who were teachers in their home countries offered to meet with me and my daughter to see if they could help. It was a genuine desire to help and plenty of empathy to boot. I felt very grateful.
Of course there were some comments that got me worried. Some of the ladies, again much of this from their own experience and 100% kind intentions suggested that my daughter could have a learning difficulty if she is not grasping basic number concepts by this age. In fact one ladies experience sounded almost identical to my own. She had her child assessed by a paediatrician who diagnosed this child with dyspraxia. She suggested before I waste money on tutors and Kumon that I have her assessed by the doctor. I remind you that I am an idiot so of course thought, ooh eck! I never even considered a learning difficulty.
So, in a panic I googled dyspraxia. Dyspraxia is a developmental coordination disorder. It is a neurological condition which affects movements. Often accompanied by attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and diagnosed if it is not obviously cerebral palsy, muscular dystrophy or multiple sclerosis.
I received about four messages to this effect and knowing quite confidently that my daughter has none of these problems I realised that these ladies were muddling dyspraxia with dyscalculia which is basically the maths version of dyslexia.
Like I said, the Internet in the hands of bored housewives is a dangerous thing. Anyway, they were all genuinely trying to help but clearly didn't read my request very thoroughly as I was not looking for a cure for my child's cerebral palsy and dyspepsia but a maths tutor. How we got on to neurological disorders from not being able to subtract 8 from 9 I have no idea.
Luckily, following conversations with close family I was rightly reminded that there is almost too much information out there and with the Internet the speed and ability to attach an amateur diagnosis or a label to something is very easy. It is also quite an attractive proposition as it to some degree alleviates responsibility when you make it medical and I am certainly not ashamed to absolve myself of responsibilities when I can by linking the fact my kid can't subtract to an article in the latest edition of the Lancet.
But I am her mother and I should feel relieved of the fact my daughter does not have dystopia and just simply accept she is a bit crap at maths. After all, I was too.
I will fondly remember my dear old Aunty Molly who one summers day sat with me in my back garden on the grass with 60 pebbles when I was around 8 years old and explained the times tables to me which I had been struggling with for months. No iPads, no online games, no Internet, not even pen and paper. Just some pebbles. Those few hours that she spent with me set a light bulb on in my head and I never struggled with maths again and today I am a brilliant scientist here in Singapore.
Well, that is not true but I do still know my times tables to 12. No further of course.
Thursday, 20 February 2014
Inertia
It seems that 8 months is about the point when one settles, well certainly in my case. It is almost the amount of time it takes to grow a baby. Both have caused pain, joy and nausea but I think even though slightly premature, the baby is born, swaddled in its cot and reasonably happy.
I think I am settled finally because I have nothing to say. I read somewhere that Adele has writers block caused by bliss. Apparently she is too happy to write her trademark heart wrenching uber-ballads. Pardon my arrogance for likening myself to this most talented chanteuse but I think I am suffering from the same plight. I am most certainly not in a state of bliss but I think I am now comfortable in whatever this is I am comfortable in.
The kids are settled at school. I have made some lovely friends at our condo. I am enjoying my Pilates classes even though I seem to have become their official studio idiot. I think it started when I was doing a hamstring stretch a few weeks ago and shouted "you are killing me" which my teacher and classmates thought was very funny and ever since been the class doofus. I was serious when I said he was killing me by the way. They were kind enough to tell me the class was not the same without me when I missed it one week and then proceeded to tease me for the next hour when I groaned in pain and could not remember which springs to put on the reformer. Still, it's a jolly class even though they think I am a bimbo.
I have also applied for a job but as it is on a submarine I am not allowed to say very much about it. I should hear if I have been shortlisted for an interview within six months although whether I get it will be entirely dependent on whether I can convince my interviewers that I am fluent in Arabic. I feel reasonably qualified so hopefully I have a chance although if I do get it I can guarantee I will be thinking of ways to get out of it equally quickly.
In the meantime I will potter along in a straight line with my quieter but pleasant life out here. I do need to find something more constructive to do at some point if this job on Red October does not come to fruition.
I will continue to make my posters to hang around my so called "bohemian" neighbourhood reminding people that being bohemian does not mean you don't have to pick up your dog shit. My friend said that she found a bag of dog poo hanging off the tree in her front garden.
Other than that, I will continue to wonder why other ladies smell nicer than me and hope my writers block will be unblocked sometime soon and I will be back with something of interest. Toodlehoo and peace out.
I think I am settled finally because I have nothing to say. I read somewhere that Adele has writers block caused by bliss. Apparently she is too happy to write her trademark heart wrenching uber-ballads. Pardon my arrogance for likening myself to this most talented chanteuse but I think I am suffering from the same plight. I am most certainly not in a state of bliss but I think I am now comfortable in whatever this is I am comfortable in.
The kids are settled at school. I have made some lovely friends at our condo. I am enjoying my Pilates classes even though I seem to have become their official studio idiot. I think it started when I was doing a hamstring stretch a few weeks ago and shouted "you are killing me" which my teacher and classmates thought was very funny and ever since been the class doofus. I was serious when I said he was killing me by the way. They were kind enough to tell me the class was not the same without me when I missed it one week and then proceeded to tease me for the next hour when I groaned in pain and could not remember which springs to put on the reformer. Still, it's a jolly class even though they think I am a bimbo.
I have also applied for a job but as it is on a submarine I am not allowed to say very much about it. I should hear if I have been shortlisted for an interview within six months although whether I get it will be entirely dependent on whether I can convince my interviewers that I am fluent in Arabic. I feel reasonably qualified so hopefully I have a chance although if I do get it I can guarantee I will be thinking of ways to get out of it equally quickly.
In the meantime I will potter along in a straight line with my quieter but pleasant life out here. I do need to find something more constructive to do at some point if this job on Red October does not come to fruition.
I will continue to make my posters to hang around my so called "bohemian" neighbourhood reminding people that being bohemian does not mean you don't have to pick up your dog shit. My friend said that she found a bag of dog poo hanging off the tree in her front garden.
Other than that, I will continue to wonder why other ladies smell nicer than me and hope my writers block will be unblocked sometime soon and I will be back with something of interest. Toodlehoo and peace out.
Saturday, 18 January 2014
The Best Medicine
Happy New Year!
It has certainly been awhile since my blog juices were last flowing. What a disgusting sentence.
Anyway, it has been rather quiet on the Grumbler front as since my last post we have had family, Christmas and a holiday getting in the way.
I did write a post just before Christmas in the form of a letter to Santa but it was so depressing that my internal critic shelved it. I am sure in about twenty years when I have finally become THE most famous Hollywood actress in the world, died in mysterious circumstances and the FBI rifle through my belongings, they will find that particular blog post, it will win the Noble prize for blogging and you will then get to see it “when I was at my most vulnerable and unfetlocked" or whatever such nonsense used by reviewers at Booker and Nobel prize time.
So, this blog post is about medicine.
Medicine was a small part of the reason for our colossal funk prior to Christmas. We were not feeling very Christmassy, the six month homesickness had kicked in and then the hard core osteoporosis and collapsed spleen curing drugs that my other half and I were prescribed to help a backache and a mild infection finished us off. The results in both cases were the most horrific side effects that left my dear husband with two weeks of stomach cramps and the runs over Christmas and me with nausea and stomach cramps too. When my daughter was diagnosed with a verucca and the recommendation was amputation of her big toe I walked out.
Needless to say, the next time I see a GP in Singapore will be after I am dead, cremated and my ashes thrown overboard as I am quite happy to suffer with minor symptoms than help pad the coffers of the GPs here who prescribe five different types of medicine for a cold and cough or to translate, screw your private medical insurance.
I do miss the NHS. Okay, maybe it could not afford to prescribe five medicines you don't really need but I do believe patient care was still at its heart.
Anyway, where Singapore GPs prescribe the worst medicine, the best meds to relieve the blues are holidays and we had a cracker. We packed our knapsacks and got a cheapy airways flight to Siem Reap in Cambodia to see the magnificent Temples of Angkor, which were spectacular. I am not going to warble on about the wonders of Angkor as this is not a travel blog but what I will say is where Singapore was beginning to annoy us, Cambodia was the antithesis and a welcome relief.
After arriving at our hotel we headed out for the early evening in a tuk tuk, flying along by the seat of our pants and all around us was rubbish, dogs with rabies, noise and just the right amount of mayhem. It was a snapshot of a real country with a pumping heart.
Even walking past the tragic victims of the Khmer Rouge rendered me excited as these poor people were part of the landscape of a country that has a deep albeit volatile history and culture.
Being a fathead tourist I am sure those poor men, women and children hobbling around with one arm and half a leg listening to me shout about how wonderful Cambodia was would have given anything to swap lives with us in Singapore with all its lack of soul, because they would be able to afford to get a decent prosthetic leg.
After all my guffawing at the fabulousness of travelling somewhere with such a rich culture, history and palate, I did leave Siem Reap feeling sad. It is certainly one of those places where you leave desperately wanting to do something to help the charming people, but as usual with me, get back home and think, "Ahhh can't be bothered. Bit busy”
Our slightly politically partisan guide talked endlessly about how even the temples are managed by outside investors, the Cambodian government are puppets to the "evil" Vietnamese, a couple of the ruling triumvirate are former Khmer Rouge and none of the money made by these world famous sights stays in Cambodia. I could believe this to a degree given between each grotesque opulent monstrosity of a giant hotel, one of which we stayed in by accident, were local properties of little wealth and tiny businesses, not getting much business.
That said, while it is sad if it is true that the money being made through the temples is not staying in Siem Reap, certainly Angkor and my lesbian fantasy Ms Jolie have contributed to the growth of the tourist industry in Siem Reap and that has to be a good thing for at the very least, local employment.
Either way, we came back from that holiday refreshed, the kids can recite the names of all the Angkor temples, our wanderlust was reaffirmed and we have a more positive view on how we will spend our time in Singapore. Use it, abuse it, enjoy it, ignore it, don't get ill and travel, travel, travel.
It is the best cure for the grumps.
It has certainly been awhile since my blog juices were last flowing. What a disgusting sentence.
Anyway, it has been rather quiet on the Grumbler front as since my last post we have had family, Christmas and a holiday getting in the way.
I did write a post just before Christmas in the form of a letter to Santa but it was so depressing that my internal critic shelved it. I am sure in about twenty years when I have finally become THE most famous Hollywood actress in the world, died in mysterious circumstances and the FBI rifle through my belongings, they will find that particular blog post, it will win the Noble prize for blogging and you will then get to see it “when I was at my most vulnerable and unfetlocked" or whatever such nonsense used by reviewers at Booker and Nobel prize time.
So, this blog post is about medicine.
Medicine was a small part of the reason for our colossal funk prior to Christmas. We were not feeling very Christmassy, the six month homesickness had kicked in and then the hard core osteoporosis and collapsed spleen curing drugs that my other half and I were prescribed to help a backache and a mild infection finished us off. The results in both cases were the most horrific side effects that left my dear husband with two weeks of stomach cramps and the runs over Christmas and me with nausea and stomach cramps too. When my daughter was diagnosed with a verucca and the recommendation was amputation of her big toe I walked out.
Needless to say, the next time I see a GP in Singapore will be after I am dead, cremated and my ashes thrown overboard as I am quite happy to suffer with minor symptoms than help pad the coffers of the GPs here who prescribe five different types of medicine for a cold and cough or to translate, screw your private medical insurance.
I do miss the NHS. Okay, maybe it could not afford to prescribe five medicines you don't really need but I do believe patient care was still at its heart.
Anyway, where Singapore GPs prescribe the worst medicine, the best meds to relieve the blues are holidays and we had a cracker. We packed our knapsacks and got a cheapy airways flight to Siem Reap in Cambodia to see the magnificent Temples of Angkor, which were spectacular. I am not going to warble on about the wonders of Angkor as this is not a travel blog but what I will say is where Singapore was beginning to annoy us, Cambodia was the antithesis and a welcome relief.
After arriving at our hotel we headed out for the early evening in a tuk tuk, flying along by the seat of our pants and all around us was rubbish, dogs with rabies, noise and just the right amount of mayhem. It was a snapshot of a real country with a pumping heart.
Even walking past the tragic victims of the Khmer Rouge rendered me excited as these poor people were part of the landscape of a country that has a deep albeit volatile history and culture.
Being a fathead tourist I am sure those poor men, women and children hobbling around with one arm and half a leg listening to me shout about how wonderful Cambodia was would have given anything to swap lives with us in Singapore with all its lack of soul, because they would be able to afford to get a decent prosthetic leg.
After all my guffawing at the fabulousness of travelling somewhere with such a rich culture, history and palate, I did leave Siem Reap feeling sad. It is certainly one of those places where you leave desperately wanting to do something to help the charming people, but as usual with me, get back home and think, "Ahhh can't be bothered. Bit busy”
Our slightly politically partisan guide talked endlessly about how even the temples are managed by outside investors, the Cambodian government are puppets to the "evil" Vietnamese, a couple of the ruling triumvirate are former Khmer Rouge and none of the money made by these world famous sights stays in Cambodia. I could believe this to a degree given between each grotesque opulent monstrosity of a giant hotel, one of which we stayed in by accident, were local properties of little wealth and tiny businesses, not getting much business.
That said, while it is sad if it is true that the money being made through the temples is not staying in Siem Reap, certainly Angkor and my lesbian fantasy Ms Jolie have contributed to the growth of the tourist industry in Siem Reap and that has to be a good thing for at the very least, local employment.
Either way, we came back from that holiday refreshed, the kids can recite the names of all the Angkor temples, our wanderlust was reaffirmed and we have a more positive view on how we will spend our time in Singapore. Use it, abuse it, enjoy it, ignore it, don't get ill and travel, travel, travel.
It is the best cure for the grumps.
Sunday, 24 November 2013
Wildlife
The braces wearing National Health specs sporting 10 year old and member of
the RSPB was unleashed during our first few weeks in Singapore as we saw
kingfishers in the gardens around the pool, hornbills in the trees above us and
some sort of sea eagle type thingy along with various birds of prey soaring in
the skies above our apartment. It caused such excitement.
That said, like a good sweet juicy mango, these things are all seasonal and I have not seen a kingfisher or a hornbill in four months.
I have seen two dead mice and a good many pigeons, my London nemesis who have clearly followed me here to make my life an ongoing ducking hell. Pigeons are like bats. Bat's we all know pretend they have sonar so we think they are as clever as whales, but like pigeons are unable to fly without brushing your cheek with their diseased wings or take off without caressing the top of your head with their horrid little clubbed feet.
So, while Singapore probably has one of the best zoo's in the world, free roaming orang-utan's, giant panda's, white tiger's and a host of other wonderful creatures and we had a fortnight of seeing some terrific bird action locally, the last month of my life has been spent dealing with a variety of less welcome infestations.
First we had strange tiny black scarab type beetles all over the place. They were rather crispy to touch and I spent most of three weeks picking them off cupboards, walls, floors, just about everywhere. Luckily, I found the source of the problem was the fact they were breeding in the brown rice that clearly cannot cope being stored in the humidity. In the bin it went. The little bugs however seem to have made a home for themselves somewhere inaccessible within the cupboard, so we are still seeing them around.
Then we have the giant ants which we traced back to a hollow door frame in the bathroom. It was quite a shock when I stumbled into the bathroom in the morning half asleep to then relieve myself and find four huge ants in the toilet. At 6am, it is plausible to think they fell out of your body.
We also have some tiny little itsy bitsy teeny weeny insects that run single file from our balcony into the living room skirting the wall. They are rather annoying as you don't really want a thousand insects however small in your house. However we tolerate them as we have noticed they provide a valuable service.
I live with two nail biters who not only bite their nails but spit them out. We found a small pile of said bitten nails collected in a heap in our bedroom where these little creatures had collected them.
My solution to all of this is petroleum jelly of which I am going through tubs. Blocking up holes, vents and gaps. So far it seems to be working as we have found a few little bugs trapped like Frodo in Shelob's web. We leave them there as a deterrent to future insects that try to take us on. Our own version of the Tudor’s Traitors Gate.
Furthermore, I am sure you are thinking the fact I have these infestations is due to the fact I have a dirty house. I can happily reassure you that I have a cleaner who comes once a week and does a mostly crummy job.
Yet, I don't want to be one of those women who is too lazy to do her own housework and then moans about her cleaning lady. I am so ashamed of my laziness that when she comes over I sit on the balcony with my laptop, phone and iPad and pretend I am a stock broker who works from home. I even wear my glasses so I look more cerebral. I sometimes call my husband with regard to something like what we should do for dinner and say a few things loudly in a business voice. Drop a few "touch bases" and "bathing level reality checks" in for a bit of convincing office bull.
I am sure she can see through my facade given when she looks over my shoulder I am invariably on Facebook or watching Homeland.
Anyway, the fact of the matter is I do forget occasionally that even though Singapore does have the architecture of Canary Wharf on acid it is still located in South East Asia and Asia is hot and is a playground for the insect world. It will continue to be a battle ground I fear but as long as the ones who are useful continue being useful clearing up toenails and not getting into my food stores I am happy to share my apartment with them.
That said, like a good sweet juicy mango, these things are all seasonal and I have not seen a kingfisher or a hornbill in four months.
I have seen two dead mice and a good many pigeons, my London nemesis who have clearly followed me here to make my life an ongoing ducking hell. Pigeons are like bats. Bat's we all know pretend they have sonar so we think they are as clever as whales, but like pigeons are unable to fly without brushing your cheek with their diseased wings or take off without caressing the top of your head with their horrid little clubbed feet.
So, while Singapore probably has one of the best zoo's in the world, free roaming orang-utan's, giant panda's, white tiger's and a host of other wonderful creatures and we had a fortnight of seeing some terrific bird action locally, the last month of my life has been spent dealing with a variety of less welcome infestations.
First we had strange tiny black scarab type beetles all over the place. They were rather crispy to touch and I spent most of three weeks picking them off cupboards, walls, floors, just about everywhere. Luckily, I found the source of the problem was the fact they were breeding in the brown rice that clearly cannot cope being stored in the humidity. In the bin it went. The little bugs however seem to have made a home for themselves somewhere inaccessible within the cupboard, so we are still seeing them around.
Then we have the giant ants which we traced back to a hollow door frame in the bathroom. It was quite a shock when I stumbled into the bathroom in the morning half asleep to then relieve myself and find four huge ants in the toilet. At 6am, it is plausible to think they fell out of your body.
We also have some tiny little itsy bitsy teeny weeny insects that run single file from our balcony into the living room skirting the wall. They are rather annoying as you don't really want a thousand insects however small in your house. However we tolerate them as we have noticed they provide a valuable service.
I live with two nail biters who not only bite their nails but spit them out. We found a small pile of said bitten nails collected in a heap in our bedroom where these little creatures had collected them.
My solution to all of this is petroleum jelly of which I am going through tubs. Blocking up holes, vents and gaps. So far it seems to be working as we have found a few little bugs trapped like Frodo in Shelob's web. We leave them there as a deterrent to future insects that try to take us on. Our own version of the Tudor’s Traitors Gate.
Furthermore, I am sure you are thinking the fact I have these infestations is due to the fact I have a dirty house. I can happily reassure you that I have a cleaner who comes once a week and does a mostly crummy job.
Yet, I don't want to be one of those women who is too lazy to do her own housework and then moans about her cleaning lady. I am so ashamed of my laziness that when she comes over I sit on the balcony with my laptop, phone and iPad and pretend I am a stock broker who works from home. I even wear my glasses so I look more cerebral. I sometimes call my husband with regard to something like what we should do for dinner and say a few things loudly in a business voice. Drop a few "touch bases" and "bathing level reality checks" in for a bit of convincing office bull.
I am sure she can see through my facade given when she looks over my shoulder I am invariably on Facebook or watching Homeland.
Anyway, the fact of the matter is I do forget occasionally that even though Singapore does have the architecture of Canary Wharf on acid it is still located in South East Asia and Asia is hot and is a playground for the insect world. It will continue to be a battle ground I fear but as long as the ones who are useful continue being useful clearing up toenails and not getting into my food stores I am happy to share my apartment with them.
Thursday, 7 November 2013
The Ubud Crisis
Have you heard of Ubud? I hadn't, until I read my guidebook to Bali and learned that it was a major artistic and cultural stop on the Bali tourist trail.
Pictures of Ubud looked wonderful and we were at that point where we had decided that every holiday out here shouldn't just be about the beach. The children are now old enough I feel to be subjected to a bit of culture and Ubud was a short hop from the airport and the beach. The perfect cultural break for three to four days getting away from the udder sporting Cujo's, hair wraps and leathery skin. I will leave you to work out whether I am talking about the tourists or the dogs.
I also learned that Ubud featured significantly in the book "Eat, Pray, Love" and the movie of the same name, which starred Julia Roberts. I have not read the book but have seen short clips of the movie so I was unsurprised to see the majority of tourists to Ubud were young couples making a little cultural stop, the fledgling writer (as the Ubud literary festival was taking place when we were there) and the remaining 90% of lone forty something pouting women in flowery skirts carrying a big camera with a big lens and strolling around with a wry smile on their faces.
Our main joy on holiday is to people watch. We get little time for this with the children these days but we are beginning to catch a few opportunities to stare and comment when the kids are goggle eyed playing Angry Birds. Therefore, how my husband and I hooted with laughter every time we saw the cliche on legs that is a lady on her own wearing a moomoo, carrying a journal and staring into space while eating some nasi campur.
I have to hold my hand up as the most cynical of the Witch and Warlock that we are on holiday, who scoffed about the ladies of a certain age trying to "find themselves" in Ubud. Probably after a divorce, maybe hoping to fall in love with a rugged expat masseuse who has made a serene life for himself in Ubud after throwing in the towel working in high finance in New York and opened up a rustic bed and breakfast looking after people with great hospitality between meditation and toning his finely tanned physique practising tantric yoga.
Yet, after a couple of days of leaving Ubud and arriving in Sanur which was the sun and sand end of our trip to Bali I really was yearning for Ubud. And that was because I am nearly forty and I do really like massages and taking photographs and strolling and shopping in markets for colourful skirts and tiny bottles of perfume made from local flowers and if I could find a partner who would at least be willing to do yoga with me than ask whether he should take his Kindle to his first massage I would most certainly jack in my current life and run off to Ubud for a wonderful, beautiful, cultural and peaceful midlife crisis.
I mean, if you are going to have a nervous breakdown, you might as well do it somewhere pretty.
Pictures of Ubud looked wonderful and we were at that point where we had decided that every holiday out here shouldn't just be about the beach. The children are now old enough I feel to be subjected to a bit of culture and Ubud was a short hop from the airport and the beach. The perfect cultural break for three to four days getting away from the udder sporting Cujo's, hair wraps and leathery skin. I will leave you to work out whether I am talking about the tourists or the dogs.
I also learned that Ubud featured significantly in the book "Eat, Pray, Love" and the movie of the same name, which starred Julia Roberts. I have not read the book but have seen short clips of the movie so I was unsurprised to see the majority of tourists to Ubud were young couples making a little cultural stop, the fledgling writer (as the Ubud literary festival was taking place when we were there) and the remaining 90% of lone forty something pouting women in flowery skirts carrying a big camera with a big lens and strolling around with a wry smile on their faces.
Our main joy on holiday is to people watch. We get little time for this with the children these days but we are beginning to catch a few opportunities to stare and comment when the kids are goggle eyed playing Angry Birds. Therefore, how my husband and I hooted with laughter every time we saw the cliche on legs that is a lady on her own wearing a moomoo, carrying a journal and staring into space while eating some nasi campur.
I have to hold my hand up as the most cynical of the Witch and Warlock that we are on holiday, who scoffed about the ladies of a certain age trying to "find themselves" in Ubud. Probably after a divorce, maybe hoping to fall in love with a rugged expat masseuse who has made a serene life for himself in Ubud after throwing in the towel working in high finance in New York and opened up a rustic bed and breakfast looking after people with great hospitality between meditation and toning his finely tanned physique practising tantric yoga.
Yet, after a couple of days of leaving Ubud and arriving in Sanur which was the sun and sand end of our trip to Bali I really was yearning for Ubud. And that was because I am nearly forty and I do really like massages and taking photographs and strolling and shopping in markets for colourful skirts and tiny bottles of perfume made from local flowers and if I could find a partner who would at least be willing to do yoga with me than ask whether he should take his Kindle to his first massage I would most certainly jack in my current life and run off to Ubud for a wonderful, beautiful, cultural and peaceful midlife crisis.
I mean, if you are going to have a nervous breakdown, you might as well do it somewhere pretty.
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