HK is Bad for the Soul

I am a little embarrassed about my behaviour here, but thought I'd share this story regardless.

I was buying the Hubs some croissants while waiting for him to get back from work so we could go and see the Avengers (worth seeing just for the use of the phrase "mewling quim" alone). I get to the till and there's one person ahead of me. He (P) gets his change, looks at it, and tells the server (S) he's been short changed. They go back and forth for about a minute.

S: I'm so sorry, I'll call my manager (M) to come and fix it (disappears for about a full minute)

M: Hi, sorry, I'll just correct it. Can I see the receipts?

P takes about half a minute to produce the receipt

M: Oh, ok, so it cost $54 and you paid $55. How much change did you give him?

S: 50 cents

Me: OK, how about I pay him ten dollars and you pretend it never happened?

M: Oh, I just need ten minutes to fix this.

Me: I need to go pee. Can I give you the cash for mine?

M: We can't input your order so please wait ten minutes.

Me: I need to pee. How about I give him ten dollars, give you a hundred dollars for my seventy-six dollar purchase and we forget about the change

M: We need to input your order

Me: I don't care about that. It's four croissants, you can input it after. I'll write it down so you don't forget

M: We need to input your order



In the end I got them to ring up my order on the take away till, went to the bathroom, came back and paid at a different till.

I felt like such a smug gweilo (I realise that I'm not white) making such a fuss when some guy just wanted 50 cents. It was only after I had managed to pee and rational thought returned that I realised how despicable and obnoxious I had been. At the same time, I realise how ridiculous the disparity here is. Arguing for 5p or 10 cents? The inflexibility is also classic HK. All in all, quite a good HK parable.

Gitmo

Well. I must speak the truth. Motherhood has taken me by surprise. RJ is an absolute joy, and I feel like the luckiest person in the world to have him (thus far). This is obviously totally against expectation, but more than that, it is also totally counter-intuitive. Why? Well, because I am becoming increasingly convinced that he is the reincarnation of a prison guard from Gitmo.

For example, using references I sourced from the infallible Wikipedia here.

1. Sleep Deprivation

RJ is EXPERT at ensuring this. By outgrowing his crib at four months instead of the six we’d expected, he ensured that we would have to turn his crib into a cot and therefore have no room to fit his sleeping quarters other than into our own bedroom. I’m actually fairly lucky in that he wakes at about eleven to make sure mum and dad are home before falling back to sleep. He then wakes up around four and comes into bed with us, which is lovely. This, of course, is when he’s not teething. He’s seven months tomorrow and has managed to sprout a tooth for every month, albeit in consecutive weeks that commenced when he was about four and a half months old. I genuinely sometimes feel that I am hallucinating from the exhaustion.

2. Beatings

Given that babies put things in their mouths to learn, and then progress to slapping surfaces, RJ should be a baby genius. Sadly a lot of the things that have ended up in his mouth have been my extremities (see above re teeth), those chompers of his are a force to be reckoned with. I gave him a wooden toy to play with last night, and it actually came away with splinters. I sometimes worry that he’ll gnaw his way out of his crib but then I figure all that fibre must be good for him.

The other beatings I suffer are the slaps to/clawing of my face every morning.

3. Prolonged Constraint in Uncomfortable Positions

Sometimes, when he’s a little ratty, RJ just wants to be held. And held. And held. He weighs about 10kg at the moment, and is as long as a 15 month old, according to the wisdom of H&M kids (the best kids clothes in HK, I think). The combination of these two traits mean that I have to hold him across my belly, wedged under my spaniels ears. This often leads to cramping and stabbing pain in the elbows.

4. Forced Injections

I have to admit that I haven’t had too many of these – he’s actually been the victim of these. Having to hold him down and lull him into a false sense of security while a nurse and pediatrician prepare for the simultaneous injection is fairly traumatic for me. Especially since he went puce the first time it was done (as he holds his breath to ready himself for the massive bawling). Emotionally agonising.

5. Cultural Humiliation

I am constantly berated by random strangers these days. Apparently there are many reasons that I am publicly a terrible parent, one of the most commonly articulated being that I choose not to hood, sock, layer and glove him when the temperature is above fifteen degrees. I am not trying to freeze him to death, as many people accuse me of doing. It’s not actually tough love (though I concede this on other points). I just figure that if I layer him into heat rash, it’s not a good thing. I generally let him tell me what is good and bad for him, and he’s already vocal or quick to respond if he is unhappy about anything. He gets that from his dad.

The other thing that appears to shock people is when I let him eat off my plate. As far as I’m concerned, if it hasn’t been soaked in sugar, brined, or pickled in alcohol, he’s welcome to attempt it. For example, when I was at my favoured burger joint the other day, he ate the burger bun, mushrooms, cheese and a sliver of burger. No fries since that had been salted. He loved it. Random drunk and unwelcome lady came over and told me off for letting him eat. Apparently it was my responsibility to ensure that he didn’t put things in his mouth that could pose a choking risk. Apparently Baby Led Weaning (which, admittedly, I know nothing about), isn’t as well thought of as I’d thought.

The last shocker (apparently), is that he goes to Gymboree, PEKIP (aka naked baby) and Tutor Time for Mandarin immersion. People speak to me as though this is something akin to abuse, paying absolutely no heed to the fact that He. Loves. It. Gymboree is an all singing play time with obstacles courses and all kinds of toys I couldn’t hope to afford on my current paycheck (banking, not what it used to be). What baby doesn’t love being naked and peeing on people? The mandarin classes do confuse him somewhat, but he loves being able to sit at the baby-sized furniture like a little man, eating food and flirting with the ladies.

6. Sexual Humiliation

I have been peed on, pooed on, puked on. Actually, puked in, since he somehow managed to hit the target that was my mouth. These are games I never previously agreed to.

7. Exposure to Loud Noise or Music

The wheels on the bus, they go round and round, round and round, round and round.

I wonder if this newfound adoration for him is some form of Stockholm Syndrome or PSD?

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.

Commentary

Sometimes people who obviously don't know me at all express surprise that I'm a Guardian reader. From today on, I shall direct them to the comments in this article, rather than try to explain.

Hate

C: "Is this XXX?"
Me: "Yes"
C: "Of # YYY Road?"
Me: "Yes"
C: "I live on YYY Road and am part of the residents committee and we've decided you're an unwelcome element"
Me: "ok"
C: "you're not welcome on YYY Road"
Me: "Ok"
C: *hangs up*

I call police. Then compliance, who cheerfully run the tapes and ask for a trace.

Feel Good Sundays

**Spoiler Alert**

I was thinking today about some of my favourite feelgood moments from films, and here are just a handful:
- the gas station scene from Reality Bites;
- the Heath Ledger serenade in 10 Things I Hate About You
- the Crash & Burn scene in Hackers
- the pageant scene in Little Miss Sunshine
- the end of Before Sunset
- Sex and the City, Miranda and Steve getting back together
- Love Actually's confession *
- NO ONE puts baby in a corner
- Howl's Moving Castle. All of it.
- Pretty Woman going shopping with Rich Man
- Before Sunrise's chemistry vs cultural and linguistic barriers

From tonight, I am LOVING the Love the 80s ad on Film4.

* as a side note I found out this weekend that someone I knew had declared his love to a girl by holding up signs along the route of her bus journey day after day. On days he couldn't make it, presumably those when stalker school were in session, he left signs on the windscreens of cars parked along the way.

Bedroom VJ

For those of you who I speak to regularly, it'll come as no surprise that I'm obsessed with Glee*. By obsessed I mean that I happily spent an entire today in my dressing gown watching my favourite sequences**. The script is excellent and it's just so well put together. The thing I don't understand is why Sam Tsui and Kurt Schneider aren't a part of it. Do I hear you say, who? Well, I first discovered the Sam/Kurt power when I saw the Michael Jackson medley. It is amazing. Since then, they've also done a Lady Gaga medley, which doesn't feature all the video editing and the like, but is a great cut nonetheless.

Once I'd OD'd on Glee, I thought I'd check out their channel to see whether they'd posted any other versions and found they'd been recording a mini-series called College Musical. It's great (if obviously DIY) and really funny. I particularly liked the "Man-child Syndrome" in
Episode 4. It's sung by Allison, who was also did the cover of Tik Tok. She has a great voice. I really hope they all get involved in Glee.

* That picture makes Jenna Ushkowitz look like she's about to puke. Not my pic for a PR shot
** Couldn't get a link for the Acafella's I Wanna Sex You Up cover. Seminal. Also couldn't get the Finn/Rachel auditorium scene, damn Fox.

Bad Taste

Last night we had the annual bad taste party where everyone brings a Christmas gift they don't want to keep for regifting, while we dine on the finest of the worst foods out there. Case in point:

cocktail sausages from a can, with pineapple


prawn cocktail


vodka jellies


French fancies, Lambrusco, pot noodles

We were entertained by those purveyors of bad taste, Will Ferrell, the Wayan brothers and Sean William Scott

... and dressed for the occasion.




The gifts were plentiful this year


though some of them still haven't found a home - any takers?

It's the Final Countdown (of the Noughties)...

How unbelievable is it that it's already coming up to the year that ends the first decade of the Millenium? It feels like only yesterday that I was dancing to 1999 at the end of 1999, not so long before my brother threw up on me while my mother and sister laughed. My family are cruel and unusual. Thinking back about life through the double oh's, a few things stood out:
- what seemed like a disproportionate number of celebrity deaths. That's got to be more dangerous than fishing!
- so much for Merry Christmas, War is Over. I can't remember a year in the last nine where there wasn't a war
- food got scientific, and then it got dull
- more people made like Eve than Adam and took a bite of the Apple
- terrorism became a way of life
- war was accepted as a necessary evil to achieve peace
- political leadership didn't depend on smarts, social skills or experience
- the economy
- bling ...
- ... and the backlash

There's so much more.

On another note, I have a busy, busy January ahead, how exciting!

Sliding Doors

There's obviously been a lot of writing about the financial crisis as it's unfolded, and I've managed to resist the urge to post anything too close to it to date. Well, no longer.

It's been a fairly busy year for me, what with the house buying and associated poverty, the new job and the crazy hair loss. It made me think about how different this year could have been.

Could I could have taken redundancy? Then I'd have had a payout, some time off, re-entered a pretty good job market (for what I did) and possibly still have my hair. I'd probably be a little more poverty stricken, but I'd still have a house. I'd have spent some time in it. Instead, I opted for long hours and some seriously bad days, and now, with three months till my bonus (which was not meant to be joy inducing this year), I have this .

There are so many things wrong with that new tax. The threshold is ridiculous. I think it's highly unlikely that only 20,000 people in the UK who work in "banks and building societies, including groups that operate in the UK under a European Union branch system" have a bonus of more than £25,000. It seems feasible that 5,000 earn more than a million but there are a lot of VPs and above in banking, if you include the middle and back offices, who would probably meet the threshold in a semi-decent year. So what if it's the bank that pays? It's the people on the ground who worked. With five months prior to the end of the tax year this is looking at a cost that no bank would have provided for, which means one of a few things:
- a reduction of the bonus pool in 2009;
- a reduction in the pnl for 2010 via an exceptional item, which I suspect may not be permissible under IFRS but can't remember;
- a reduction in dividends, unlikely for the non-UK banks;
- a reduction in retained earnings.

If the government wanted to penalise excess, they should have taxed the genuinely high bonuses. Ultimately a person with a £25,000 bonus was only going to take home about £15,000. If you are the breadwinner in your family with a stay at home spouse (given the cost of childcare they would have to earn about £8,000 gross annually to breakeven, assuming there is only childcare to consider and not "sunk" costs like clothing, feeding, caring and entertaining. The average salary nationwide for full time workers was £31,323 in 2008 with part timers on £26,020. The top ten percent earn £44,881 and the top five percent £58,917. Given that the bonus data would be built into those numbers, I think it could be tougher than it initially looks).

Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the need for a progressive tax system, and I realise how lucky I am to be able to live the life I do and have a job I enjoy. I just never understand how there is never any consideration of regional variances and household income in the tax system. I guess it's a good thing all the jobs are moving out of the UK, since it seems increasingly like working here is less rewarding and even less supported. When I wake up at 0530 to kick off my day, I do think to myself that every day I work, I pay enough tax to cover three people on unemployment. I don't find that much of an incentive. Particularly since working much less might entitle me to a range of benefits and assitance (childcare, housing, tax breaks anyone?) if I was a National. The injustice is galling, especially when I think about how few of the people I work with are Nationals and therefore entitled to the benefits their taxes help pay for.

BAH. I think I'm officially old and right wing, I know I sound it.


***

Update: These are probably one of the best reflections of sentiment I've seen.

The Girls Are Back In Town

Last night I did something I haven't done since about 2002 and went to a gig to see someone whose music I'd never heard, on the strength of word of mouth alone. The band were called The Girls, which obviously suggests that they were boys. I don't know much about them, and so thought I'd bow down to the powers of the internet here. Forget that! One thing is for sure, if ever I were to start a band, it'd have a more google-able name than "The Girls". Especially if I wanted to be anti establishment.

The gig was at Rough Trade, a great record store with a few branches across London. I remember it from more laissez faire days, where I did a lot of lounging around in music stores eating free cake and listening to absolutely anything. Some great songs and acts entered my personal playlists that way. No More Dating DJs, India Arie, Handsome Boy Modelling School, Ken Ishii and MC Solaar immediately spring to mind. These days I rely more on the music press, geeks and recommendations. Thanks to those trusty sources I discovered Santigold, M.I.A, Femi Kuti and Bright Eyes, amongst others. One of the things I am most looking forward to with the new home is proper access to iPlayer, so that I can worship at the altar of radio once again.

Anyhow, the only person I'd been able to strongarm into risking a Tuesday night (who in a nod to Perez I intend to call RiRi) and I arrived at Brick Lane to score the free tickets around six. Already the pubs were pretty busy, filled with the young, nubile and trendy. I pretty much felt instantly aged, but even worse, really corporate. This was perhaps accented by the fact that Ri and I had come straight from work, while about 60% of the people around us looked as though they'd just come from a club the night before. In fact, didn't 93 Feet East use to be a daytime club? Wonder if it still is.

Forgetting about whether we were actually seriously uncool, since I know there's no irony in my blackberry, there was a great vibe around Brick Lane at dusk. The gig itself was mediocre. The Girls played an alright set but didn't have anything exceptional. There were enough inoffensive and listenable tunes for me to pay £7 for their album at the end (though I am more excited about The Very Best - Warm Heart of Africa). I put the performance down to inexperience though, and suspect that by this time this year they'll be getting excellent reviews at the "Introducing..." stages in Festivals all over the UK. They claimed to not have a setlist (as if) for the gig, since it was more like "chilling with friends". I don't normally sell things to my friends for profit and survival, though I suppose that may just be a bizzare twist on morality. Their three initial tracks all sounded like B-sides, and actually reminded me of how I felt when I first listened to Let It Come Down. Let it Come Down sounds very much like an album of B-sides the first time you listen to it (especially if you think that three years before that there was Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness), although it was a massive grower and to this day I listen to it when I want to be sad (who needs Snow Patrol?!). There was just not much there that I could see propelling them into the heady heights of success. Although the marketable backstory of being raised in the Children of God will no doubt help. I'm going to be watching this space...

I is not in my i

I went to buy a card today, and threw in a book of 12 stamps.

£10


****

In the same card shop, I also saw a book of cardboard bookmarks, the kind where it's a book of ten and you rip them out for use (presumably catering for those who read 10 books at a time). It was an Ed Hardy range.

Forget about appearing in Pepsi or Gap ads. That is brand destroying selling out.

Gumball 3000

On our way back from meeting our new nephew, the Hubs and I got stuck behind some cars that seemed to be heading back from the Gumball rally. The cars were obviously meant to be cool, in so far as anything with a license plate like this can be


... especially when driven by a 40 year old.

Glass Houses of the Stone Throwers

The objections to China's stimulus package sound awfully familiar.

In fact, the parts of the package sound familiar too.

Who says China is opposed to Western ideals? They just need the buttons.

Revitalised

The ladies with the hotness are starting a new trend and I thought I'd jump up on that bandwagon by kicking this 2002 blog back into life... suffice to say...

I have nothing to say.

Most of the characters I can see from the 2002 posts are still a part of my life. Breeze and I don't see each other enough. Neither do Ineffable and I, who now live continents apart. Guy is the exception and shall now be termed "Missing Guy", who I haven't seen or heard from since 2003 when we broke up by the banks of the Thames. Breeze told me once he married Chang, which is actually laughable in the context of the names I christened them in the blog and the lifestyle we led. I'm no longer a student of any schools, but am literally now playing lead role in a drama with the working title of "At Desk From Seven: Generation X goes Y".

These days there are still a lot of girlfriends - boys are a little off-limits now that I am an official Honest Woman. Still, who has time for hot panting boys when there's so much fun to have with the girls? Until a month ago I didn't think it was normal for girls to dance around in their underwear to 80s rock tunes before midnight. How much did I miss in my youth?! Who needs Chang and Guy(s)... there were friends to be had!

Still, 2009 seems to be all about reforming and reliving. So far this year I've watched 90210, screamed my undying love to Joey McIntrye, attempted the Hoedown Throwdown (surely the modern day equivalent of Dirty Dancing now that chastity is cool), been to my High School Reunion (in a non-musical context) ... who knows what the rest of the year will bring? One thing's for sure though, you'll be the first to know.

Diesel Homage

I must say that there's something about Vin Diesel. I don't think he's particularly good looking or talented, in fact, I definitely disagree with both. However, there's just something about The Fast and The Furious [ie. the cars] and xXx [ie. the Xtreme stuntwork] that really gets me going. The passing resemblance to lost love and endearing speech impediment [steroids got your tongue, mate?] aside, the rumours of him swinging both ways add that air of mystery essential in a proper star. [you hear me, Jordan?]. Funny thing is, everytime I see Vin Diesel in anything, something occurs to bring on a fond memory. Rare for a action star to inspire emotion, I know, but he does!

anyway, this is a senseless blog by someone with nothing to say ...