Little & Often

It has been absolutely ages since the last post, which is shameful, and I apologise to anyone who may actually read this. I would like to blame the baby, because he is the world's best excuse for anything (late to meet friends? Last minute poo. Unshaved legs? Have been spending time with the baby, who gives back more harumph. Late to work? Baby pooed in my hair), but this time it's all on me. I've been working hard at getting my life back to balanced, which means more of these:

Malteser and Toblerone martinis at V13 (photo is Resident Froggie's)

Dinner parties at Casa JamTam

Dinner at my favourite HK restaurant

Time at Angel's Share (photo is Resident Froggie's)

It feels good to get life back on track, even if in a compromised fashion. I can't bear to be away from RJ for too long, and only manage to survive work thanks to the wonder that is the ipcam. When I go out for a drink, I'm a two drink girl these days. After the time I had one whisky and RJ threw up after he was breastfed five hours later (surely unrelated), I haven't really felt the draw of a night on the tiles. Though there are times when I'm relieved to get away. Apart from breastfeeding being akin to being flayed (no joke), I've had some fairly strange low points. These have included poo in freshly washed hair following a projectile moment. Warm vomit into my mouth when I was playing with him after a feed. I am almost totally inured against bodily functions now. So goes parenthood.

Professionally speaking, things have been going positively. I had been concerned that losing braincells through my breasts would mean that I would struggle at work. Thankfully not, though it was touch and go for a little while when I seemed to be employing baby talk in meetings. In fact, my brain has recovered sufficiently well for me to look to further my education. If all goes to plan, I will be starting school just after RJ does. In fact, if all goes to plan, we will be relocating to Singapore and then starting school mid 2012. Finally! The Hong Kong waiting game is almost over.

In fact, I'm in Singapore at the moment. One of the advantages (?) of decent cable and television is that there is more inane television to choose from. My parents are currently obsessed with a particular show called "India", which is potentially worse for my braincells than breastfeeding. It is a Brazilian soap opera (apparently now referred to as telenovellas) that is set in India. The cast wear saris and say things like "arrey baba". It may well be the worst thing for India since poverty. Still, at least I get to watch X-Factor and speculate on Saula.

What Time Do You Call This?

A quirk of life in Hong Kong is that punctuality is far less valued here than it is in Europe, largely because of a dependency on taxis, which are vulnerable to black rain stormsand traffic. An awful combination if there ever was one. This was thrown into relief when the Hubs and I attended our first Chinese wedding in Hong Kong. The invitation arrived two months ago, and cited the reception time as 5pm and the dinner commencement as 8pm. It also contained a mini hong bao (or lai see in this part of the world), which had a token amount in it. I was totally befuddled by this and had to ask some local friends, who told me it was an efficient means of sending the thank-you lai see here. Apparently, it’s the norm here to present the givers of lai see with a thank you, also in the form of a lai see. I suppose it’s the equivalent of a thank you card in western culture. Albeit one that's sent with the invite.

Anyhow, we were frantic on the day of the wedding. It had been raining all day and it was nigh on impossible to get a taxi. We finally arrived at half past five, only to discover that we were apparently two hours too early. Apparently, the tradition of playing mahjong or poker prior to weddings has been scrapped in favour of not actually attending the reception. Shame-faced, we hid our embarrassment in a nearby bar until the wedding was ready to commence.

The banquet itself started at 9pm. Guest spent the hour beforehand eating wedding cake (which was an interesting fruit cake of the sponge and cream variety. It came with layers of hami melon and strawberry) and partaking of the soft drinks. Come 9pm, though, the eating got serious. Chinese banquets are not to be messed with and normally run from eight to sixteen courses. The wedding we were at was somewhere in between with a mere thirteen courses (excluding the wedding cake amuse). We munched through suckling pig (sans glowing eyes*, very sexual looking abalone, evil looking fish
, and copious amounts of goodness. We munched till midnight, pausing only to toast the couple on multiple occasions. The Hubs finally understood why the constant referencing to cognac in Double Impact wasn’t totally bizarre.

I only wish that the banquet hadn’t skipped all the games people play at Chinese weddings. Nothing like making the groom work for it!


* I couldn’t actually find an image that correctly depicts this. When I was younger, suckling pig used to arrive surrounded by pineapple rings cut to look like flowers, with a cherry where the hole is. To finish the presentation, fairy lights were stuffed in the cavity of the pig’s head, and two were pulled through the eye sockets and switched on, so that the pigs would have slightly demonic tendencies.

So Tonight I Can Write...

Not for romance, sadly (though I still think Neruda deserves a shrine), but for reality.

Kami and I went for a drink with the couple who will soon be the Bakers, and on our way home we contemplated normalcy. Something that has always been painful for me is the act of just letting go. The Asian concepts of things like face, tradition and propriety mean that I am often offended even when that may not seem to be the case. To a large extent, I ignore my discomfort and my distaste, explaining differences away to reasons of cultural differences, or (should that fail) my own snobbery. In reality, however, I think these are excuses, and really, it's about linguistics.

Case in point. Random girl says to the Hubs how admirable it is that he tolerates my social schedule. To some this would be interpreted as "concerned female friend expresses concern for her married male acquaintance". To me, the cynic/realist, this reads as "are you envious or just trying to ruin my marriage?". One of these is not the normal perspective... Which though? I think both scenarios are equally likely. Well, ok, I lie. My opinion is skewed.

When I tried to illustrate my point to Kami, I used the example of the perfectly happy couple, much like the Hubs and I, who win the lottery. The Hubs is one of the luckiest people I know, forever winning prizes and landing feet first. Still... we hardly ever buy lottery tickets . If we did win the lottery, would we cash it? Why not? Well, quite simply... if it ain't broke... why tinker with it?

As I explained to Kami, I know too many families ripped apart by good fortune. If you are happy, why would you throw a windfall in the mix? Your life is balanced and well - where would greed take you? Yet, at the same time... would you be happier with more options and more opportunity? I've always said that I work as I do so as to provide opportunity and choice to my children. Should I cash that ticket on that basis? If I did, how would I manage the risk that they turn out like so many of the rich kids , where they choose not to work a day in their lives instead either gambling their easily gotten gains on one scheme after another, or simply trading the family name. How would I respect them?

Sometimes I have to questions whether it's my point of view that's perverted or whether it's just that no one has the same outlook that I do. Is that the same thing?

Alien vs Management

After the annual birthday gig (thanks if you came) at the Light Bar, where I partook in the Texas You'll-Have-To-Hold-Them-Up-After tray of death, I was distinctly feeling my age.




Having ended the night at what I am certain must be the worst curry house in Brick Lane, despite the fact I seem to end up there relatively frequently (probably because they give us free beers with our curries), the last thing I thought I needed on Saturday was another curry. Still, the Peabodies had made plans for a curry about two months beforehand, and Sagar never lets us down, so it transpired that we found ourselves stuffing our faces in idli, upma, utthapam, channa, saag paneer, paper masala dosai and bhattura. A light meal, clearly.

We were so full up after the meal that we decided to roll on over to the Peabodies' place around the corner for a movie. Mr. P is a techno whizz and had rigged their apartment to be a sort of home cinema. By which I mean a projector, killer sound system, popcorn and make out seats. There was a massive array of films to pick from, and we eventually settled on District 9. There were a lot of things working against this film. First of all, it was set in J-burg, so all the accents were South African. Authenticism was only ever going to count against it. Strike 1. Next up was the fact that it was an alien movie. In the sense of aliens living on earth. Strike 2. Then, the impossible happened. The film was amazing. I was the only one out.

The South African element was a success for two reasons. The first was that absolutely no one said "JA" in place of full stops, question marks or affirmatives. The second was that South African culture totally suited the storyline. There were many instances of that weirdly innocent quality with regard to issues of race and segregation that I associate with South Africans and people from Zimbabwe. The film was relatively low budget in that it had no big name stars, or clever editing. It did have a load of CGI though. In some cases I thought it had borrowed CGI from Pirates of the Caribbean, but, hey, waste not, want not. In any case, it is well worth watching.

It was about eleven thirty when District 9 ended, so we thought we'd squeeze in another film. It was Management. I wouldn't bother. In fact, I'll ruin it for you right here. The best line in the entire film was "Call me if you need a partner for a game of solitaire". The best thing about it was that Steve Zahn was in it, who I love purely because he was in Reality Bites, one of the best films of all time. Ever.

I Don't Want Realism, I Want Magic

Last night I took the Hubs on a much-anticipated hot date. We met up at one of my favourite bars, Detroit. My favourite bar criteria is pretty simple:
1. Extensive list of strong, tasty cocktails at a reasonable price;
2. Hot bartenders. For some reason Detroit specialises in the Japanese and Korean variety;
3. Great music, unobtrusive;
4. Non-annoying crowd.

We were going to the Donmar Warehouse, one of my favourite theatres. Even when there's a sell out show, as with last night, it feels very personal. I think this is because of the way the seats go right up to the stage, so that at times you can reach out and touch the cast from the front role (not advised). It's size means that directors can consider the off-stage ambiance. Last night, for example, there was the sound of crickets and a gentle mist was sprayed to add humidity. The play was set in New Orleans and there were references to heat and sweat, so it was a great effect. The Donmar Warehouse is also very cheap compared to other theatres, with top seats at £25.

We saw A Streetcar Named Desire, with Rachel Weisz as Blanche and Elliot Cowan in for Stanley. The play wasn't the most light hearted out there, but it was well executed, and even the painful-to-watch scenes flowed and added to the power of the story. Elliot Cowan did an excellent job as Stanley. Rachel Weisz was a good Blanche, and I'd never thought of her as a stage actress before. I've always thought of her as a curvacious and vivacious actress, quite luminous. I was a little dissapointed by how gaunt she appeared, though she was very pretty and she still carried the role with strength.

At the intermission I was a little embarassed to have had this conversation with the man next to me:
SF: I'm sure I know you from some... oh.
Bill Nighy: Don't worry, it happens all the time
SF: You do look a little like that squid though...

After the play we nipped round the corner for a romantic meal for two at Clos Maggoire. Now that I'm part of the mortgage-paying masses, I favour restaurant deals. Clos Maggoire do a two course + glass of prosecco for £25 menu. When I got there I was dissapointed by the choice of three mains, nothing really grabbed me. When the food arrived though, everything was excellent. The only hiccup was ordering the Qupe Marsanne 2007 (about £34), nipping to the loo, and coming back to see an open bottle of the Qupe Syrah 2003 (about £89). Argh! First time in my life we'd sent a bottle back. They were nice enough to give us two glasses of wine and a cheese plate comp, though I just really wanted to try the Syrah. We ended up drinking with the maitre'd till the early hours (until the Hubs got sick, but that's a different tale).

What a great date night!

Radio Silence Explained

Haven't had a chance to post much recently, there has been a great deal of upheaval in our world.

Hubs turned 30. Since he is equivalent to the Queen, his birthday was equivalent to a public holiday and celebrated over five days. On Wednesday we had a quiet dinner for two at Gaucho, on Friday it was the Half Blood Prince at the Electric, that had an unfortunate side-effect of creating an obsession with Freddi Stroma (me, not the Hubs. He was too busy loving Emma Watson). Saturday was the main event, which sadly involved a lot of running around in the day time. We sent off the exams we'd been marking and then had to go to the best ice cream place in London to buy his cake.




We got home twenty minutes after my girl Dr K was meant to arrive, and got out of the shower just in time. The party kicked off with A-Dub and her man, Dr K and hers, all of us celebrating birthdays and anniversaries. Suffice to say that we were full of tequila and champagne by the time the taxi arrived to take us for dinner at the Big Easy. Can I just say that I love, love, love this place? You have to like anywhere that girls in 5 inch heels and cocktail dresses can tear into chicken and ribs with their fingers, nothing but a bib to protect the sanctity of their dresses. The food is great and offers exceptional value. There's a live band and good margeritas, and no one leaves without full bellies and a smile on their face.

After dinner we headed over to Kensington Roof Gardens, where we'd booked a marquee in the Spanish Gardens. Turns out there were two parties that night, ours and Hayden Pannatiere's, so I guess we keep good company. It took till one pm the next day to get into the position of uprightness and reasonable togetherness such that the Hubs and I were able to get into the car and to Tunbridge Wells, for an overnight break at The Royal Spa Hotel. It was a lovely stay, the area is beautiful and the Hotel offers great value for money. For £250 we stayed in a suite and enjoyed 90 minute treatments each. There was also dinner and breakfast in the rate.

For day 5 we checked out and headed to Tenterden to visit Chapel Down, one of my favourite English wine makers. Sadly, by the time we got there, the concept of anything that wasn't solely composed of two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen was downright repulsive. I've never used a spitoon before. In fact, I normally contemplate drinking from them. This time though, both of us couldn't comprehend the concept of swallowing (ha!) and were shamefaced and pouring away some genuinely great wines.

As I write this I am watching the end of Batman Begins, and the start of the Hubs' new decade. There's something incredible in the idea that we will be doing all of this one together.

FYI the Freddi Stroma thing is wrong. So wrong. White man overbite, general embarassment, etc. But, man, he's pretty.

This could be the most perfect place in the world

The Hubs and I went to Burgh Island, which could well have mean the most amazing place in the world. We were dead excited about the trip and the trip up there (a 4 hour drive from London) seemed to take forever. We finally got there around five, when the tide was out, which meant we didn't need the sea tractor to get across. The landover across the beach was plenty cool though. Not so cool was arriving to realise we'd forgotten my swimsuit and all our toiletries.

By some minor miracle, we'd managed to bring champagne in lieu of deodrant and tooth brushes, and this assisted us in getting dressed for dinner. There's a black tie dinner every night at Burgh Island, though you can opt out and eat in the private rooms, your own suite, or the pub. It's pretty well-documented that we're big fans of dressing up, so there was only ever one option for us.


The hotel is totally Art Deco, inside and out, and the dinners are run in the spirit of the twenties. Everyone is received into the bar for cocktails and canapes in black tie. The cocktails are distinctly delicious and very generous in their alcohol to mixer ratio. The canapes are in keeping with the times as well (for better or worse!). The black tie is distinctly questionable. There were very glamorous (older) ladies, but there were also some middle aged ones who didn't seem to have made the same effort.

The cocktail list is extensive and everything lingers around £7 a cocktail. In the two nights we were there we sampled a Lost Afternoon (Bison Vodka and Earl Gray), a Cha Cha Cha (Diaquiri varient), Miss Magaret (Margherita variant, cinnamon salt rim was good), Bramble, Manhattan, Whisky Sour and several Bison Vodka martinis with a twist. We were on first name basis with the bartender when we left. The wines were reasonable too - a Chianti came in at about £32 and a decent Gavi at £28. We had our own champagne for when we were getting dressed, I'm still rocking the Chapel Down.

Food at Burgh Island is pretty good. Not something I'd swoon over but given that they're essentially mass catering (everyone takes dinner around 7 and the hotel probably turns 50 at a time), they do very well. The slow-roast beef was done rare on request, quite an achievement given that it if often done well when so requested. Everything went down a treat, eased by the alcohol. I do wonder if I hadn't been 4 1/2 drinks deep by the time I sat down... would it all have tasted better? The textures were all perfect. This may be the first time in my life I've regret drinking more than 48 hours after the fact.

Another first for me is this bold claim: the food and the drink didn't matter. The beauty of Burgh Island was in how incredible special it was. Aside from being exceptionally private (only 50 guests on an entire island), it was unbelievably romantic. We stayed in the Artist's Studio, over the pub but strangely peaceful. There was a roaring fire, a leather sofa, a fridge for champagne, a sleigh bed and a bathtub smack bang in the middle of the room. We would open our eyes in the morning to the most stunning sea view, complete with a happy blue boat bobbing in the water. Coffee was delivered to us first thing in the morning, and we could laze around before breakfast, which was served as late as half ten.

We're not big hotel people. We generally prefer doing holidays where we set out with an aim of having an experience that we treasure years down the road. Hotels generally don't do that for us and so we tend to focus on the destination and use that as much as we can. In this case though, the destination was the hotel. The hotel was pretty much the Island and the walking routes, mermaid (sea water) pool and old-world pub were all within its grounds. It also had picture perfect landscaped gardens you could play croquet on, and 20s tunes were piped through the site. Ambient isn't the word.

Given how little the hubs and I tend to care about things (and hence our need to do everything in extremes? Someone get us counselling...), it's strange how much Burgh Island touched us both. Despite the crunch-unfriendly expenditure, the extreme hangover, the overnight pounding to the waistline and the fact we were the only couple there without children over the age of ten left at home, it was a perfect weekend. There isn't very much that would have been more right about it.

To end this, here's a picture of the Hubs in the Mermaid pool

Coping Chiswick Style

No house. Have cake. Have booze. This was after cheese and wine at Sam's.

For Our Health

My friends and I often discuss things in the news. Here’s an example of us discussing something newsworthy from the BBC. It’s taken from a chat on an instant messaging service, so if you’re not a dab hand at that, it could be complex to follow. I love the way we do the math(s).

SF: Professor Roger Corder, author of The Red Wine Diet, would disagree.
"Our research identified a group of chemicals called procyanadins which are polyphenols, and the key component in terms of protecting from heart disease."

Polyphenols, such as the antioxidant resveratrol, are found in the skins of red wine grapes.

"In high doses it does seem to enhance the lifespan of mice. But," he adds crucially, "you need huge doses."

In humans, it equates to thousands of litres of wine.

SF: for our health!
Bel: thousands of litres!
SF: yay!
Bel: i think we can do that
SF: I think we probably have, lol
Bel: what time period do you need to do that in?
SF: doesn't say but I'll assume a lifetime
Bel: oh that’s way easy
SF: so theoretically, a bottle a day over 6 years would qualify
SF: I reckon I'm there
SF: adjusting for binge nights, etc
SF: wonder if puking means it doesn't count
Bel: probably not, but that doesn’t happen too often, just puts you back a few bottles

When I was younger and everyone above the age of twenty was [in my mind] nearing retirement age, I remember thinking that life began at twenty-one. The parties would party harder, and there would be an income to support the expense of fun and games. Now, I’m that tiny bit older and wiser, and I realise that the partying starts at fourteen and end at nineteen.

When I was partying like it was 1999 [it was], there was weird fanaticism about it. My friends and I would be out with each other all day, go home for dinner and the pretence of normalcy/stability, and then hit the town at midnight. It was almost like an addiction, that buzz of being out there. The dancing, drinking, indulging. Our egos grew as big as our hangovers, and our morality as low as our rest. The lifestyle caught us up in its web and we were all spiralling out of control. But loving it.

Now, in 2002, I spend one week partying like it’s 1999, and I’m knocked out for six for the next. Worse than that, I’ve become an adult [of sorts]. I’m on the dance floor worrying if the weirdo in the corner is going to follow me home. I’m scoring drinks, but worrying if they’re spiked [bad but educational experience]. I’m wondering if the people around me can see my ass [never used to care]. I’m just worrying. I worry about the money I spend and how I’m going to get home. Is this what adult life is about? Is this what I have to look forward to?

Sitting at work, bored.

Sometimes I think that there isn't a single person in the world who isn't
inherently insecure. Spent last night at Breeze's house again and discussed
this. The topic came up because we have a slightly larger female friend who
hasn't had things particularly easy in life. I felt generally sorry for her
in that she's a sad figure now, letting men use her and batter her pride.
Breeze on the other hand felt annoyed with her for her idiocity, believing
(as I do) that people can only mistreat you as far as you let them. The
thing that struck me was that, despite strong rumours to the contrary, even
Breeze and I are deeply insecure. In my case, I get lonely, and when I'm
alone I'm self-destructive. My solution is, of course, to keep myself as
busy as I can and with as many people as possible. In her case, she's
fiercely independent, but struggles to balance her independence with the
same need to never be alone. We both skate on thin ice as regards our
self-perception. Always the danger in knowing your flaws.

The problem with Alex [the slightly larger friend] is that she wants to be
happy with who she is, but struggles with it. She has good friends, a good
life, but her self-image is terrible. We all went out the other night for a
drink at Bertorelli's on Charlotte Street with Guy. Breeze and I were all
over him since we hadn't brought any cash out, and he'd just been paid.
Nothing special, we do it all the time [it's that irresistible
Asian/Scandinavian combo]. But Alex was just staring at us goggle-eyed.
She'd obviously never been around two skint girls and a Guy who'd just been
paid. Furthermore, I don't think she realised how easy it would be for two
skint girls to have a good night out with a Guy who'd just been paid. She
went home and told us we were her heroines. The truth is though, it's
nothing. Guy doesn't buy us drinks because he wants us, but because we make
him feel good. We make him think he's the man, and he's happy to fork out
for the privilege. We are happy to drink champagne and cocktails.

The point is, it's not about how you look, how you talk, walk or dress.
It's about the way people feel when they're around you. I just wish I could
tell Alex this opinion of mine without upsetting her

* * * * * Am I an evill person? * * * * *
Yesterday was one of my bad days where I awoke with such a deep sense of pessimism that it was all I could do to get out of bed. I had stayed in the night before and was exceptionally well-rested, but the only effect of this had been to give me the opportunity to catch up with my nightmares. I don't remember the details of this one, but I woke up with blood on my face, having bitten down on my lip in my sleep. Bad start. I made it worse by leaping out of bed on spotting the blood, only to knock grapefruit juice all over the bed. It even had bits in. The bits are still in bed with me. They give me comfort.

I somehow went to work, where I struggled with a need to come across sane all morning. It was just too much for me though, and I left feeling totally unable to do another thing. Thankfully, Breeze had received a bit of a windfall that morning, and she decided to buy me lunch, after which we had a hair cut. [The best hair cut of my life, if anyone cares - If you're looking for a hairdresser, email me on i_can_always_fly@hotmail.com, and I'll arrange for the half price discount. I say now that the best thing about the hairdresser was the neverending flow of complimentary wine. Lots of complimentary wine. Lots.] Anyhow, by the time we left the hairdressers, we'd laid plans in place for a night out on the tiles with two random boys, Guy and Josh. Random because one of them could theoretically be referred to as my employer.

[There is a certain amount of background required here. Two days earlier, Breeze and I had gone out with Guy to Quaglino's [where I was very unladylike in throwing up into the bin outside]. Since he had been paying, we had been encouraging (as you do) and possibly gotten a little too friendly with each other. Well, Breeze and I had, anyway. The poor boy didn't know what hit him.]

Now, on this night, it did seem a little like he was expecting a repeat performance [although he had forgotten his camera]. The first problem was that he was our friend by this stage, so we weren't prepared to sponge off him. It wouldn't have been right [see, I do have morals]. The other problem was that, well, I had no money. My credit card had already been turned down at the hairdressers [the shame! Although I still wonder what they would've done if I hadn't been able to pay - wash hair all night?], and I was a little panicked. The plan, naturally, was to be as approachable as possible to those patrons of the establishments we honoured.

Rather unfortunately, Guy goes insane when we end up having drinks bought for us. Well, to be fair, only when we went to say the obligatory thank yous and to feign attraction within those well defined limits [in this social situation]. The point is though, we only did it because we didn't feel right putting him under the pressure of having to pay for us. Is that evill? Is it bad to go to a bar and have drinks bought for us? I've always thought that it was perfectly acceptable, and in fact encouraged, in these situations. Maybe *horror*, I was wrong?

Hello hello hello! I'm in an exceptionally chipper mood today, having had an incredible night out last night and really good food today. Those friendships I've been cultivating have been blooming recently, and it's filling me with a warm glow [and giving me bad skin]. Last night, Ineffable and I enjoyed a particularly challenging meal of brown rice, chorizo and bacon. Having consumed huge quantities of health, my [new] pal Harley rang up and invited me out to dinner. In a particularly chivalrous [sic] moment, I decided to go. We ended up at Wagamama, where I sneaked most of the edamame off his bowl and into my belly, while drinking ginger and carrot juice. It's pretty rare for me to run off on the spur of the moment. Mummy and Daddy used to demand plans from me and, well, I've always been a good girl at heart. Anyhow, our thoughts turned to a friend who was ill, Breeze [by the way, in case no one gets it, these aren't really their names, it's just that I don't want to offend anyone and I particularly don't want them to realise it's me!]. We rang her up and she decided she was up for a night on the tiles [so much for anti biotics]. More excitement in my drear life! We picked her up and started driving the streets of London looking for a place to go when we randomly come across another classmate exiting a taxi. We decide to kidnap her, and she suggests Zeta Bar. On route, another friend rings and meets us there, and there we remain for the rest of the night and the start of the morning.

It's not very exciting, I know, but great for me since I haven't done anything like that since I left Singapore. Yes, yes, I know it's odd, but I was a lot more adventurous [Jesus, I jsut can't spell today] then. The idea that maybe I can have a lot of fun while leading a [reasonably] responsible lifestyle is mindnumbing. To those of you who know me, yes, I did make it to work with two hours sleep.