I Floozy. You Floozy?

Show Yourself, Floozy!

Bibiliophile.

I like it.
Doesn't it sound posh?
It makes those of us living with this affliction feel a bit less judged.
It is an enabling word.  Such a pretty elegant looking word.  All those tall willowy 'b's and 'l's.

We aren't Hoarders.
Dilettante? How very dare you.
No. We are Bibliophiles, doncha know.

We are BIBILOPHILES!!! damn you! Show some respect.



In honesty............... I would have just called myself, a Book Floozy.

I'd like to meet others. Other Book Floozies.

"This Floozy seeks other Floozies"

But it isn't easy, for we are a secretive bunch.  We prefer to keep our Flooziness on the down-low.

What there are plenty of are the Other Ones.  The Bibiliogamous. (don't bother, I made it up)

They remain faithful to their book. They just read a book.  One book, at a time.

Imagine!
Just one book by the bed.
Weirdos.

Finish it.  To the last page.
Then, move on.
Weird.

Yeah, I'd say Book Floozy is a fair description of my habit.

Y'see, I like to have several on the go. Have done for years.
I don't like to pin myself down to just one book.
There are so many out there.
Fun books. Funny books. Clever books.
Just depends on my mood.

Now THIS is more like it!!

Who wants to commit solely to a "Light-hearted romp" or something with "poignant insight" when the current mood calls for a Gothic Epic?











SOMETIMES, I love a book so much I cannot bear it to end,
So I don't.
I don't finish it.
That way I stop it from being over.  I can keep it alive.

This One's Father, from whom I got the Biblio-gene, suggested something actually took my breath away (in shock) - he said (brace yourselves) "Read the end first."

whhh..........aaaaaaaaat?!?! I had to hold on to something, the walls felt like they were closing in.

But, he is not alone, someone else I know does this.  He reads the end first to find out whether it is going to be worth him spending the time to read the whole thing.

Lunacy.

And, in case you were wondering, I am currently dabbling/juggling with:

I floozy.

You floozy?

Witches, Slow Cookers and The Wardrobe

I stepped through the back of the Wardrobe today.

And what did I find behind the coats?

A World with no snow, no Mr Tumnus. In fact, hardly any Fauns at all.
Instead, I found Cooking, and that cooking is the Slow kind.

Something else was uncovered ..........

All sorts of people I know, people I thought I knew well, are SlowCooker-philes.
They never told me.  They never 'shared'.

However, I have flushed them out now.  They Outed themselves.

Here's how.

Post a photo of your new SlowCooker on Facebook and, out of the woodwork they come:
"Oh, I have had one for years.",
"I love mine",
"The marvels I can rustle up with my Slow Cooker, would blow your mind, girl."*

*I may have made that one up.


I have known some of you lot for YEARS & never, NEVER did you share your Secret.

You should have trusted me.


But, seriously, as One of Them said "Slow Cookers are the new black."

They are cool.

.............. They ARE!

Previously the domain of the Thrifty (multiple cat-owning) Old Lady, the SlowCooker has now been claimed by:
1) the Busy,
2) the Active,
3) the Organised,
4) the 'Know What? I got better things to do than slave over a hot stove but, I still care about the quality of my family's food, so I will go with This and run 50k, maybe hold down a responsible job or do some Art whilst It does It's thing on my behalf' kind of person.

Or could it be that I have, through the cruel passage of Time, become a TOL?!

Time, you are a bitch.  I'm going to go for #4.
Because I only have 1 cat.

I have only been a SlowCooker owner for *checks watch* 4 hours now, but the 1st batch of Apple & Pear Compote has already done 3 of its 8 hours.

As well as flushing out Fellow Fans of Minimum Effort Cooking, I have discovered one more thing.

Contrary to all the superior advice I give The Boy, seems it is I that has Patience issues.

40 mins into the 8 hours I was already shouting "Come on COOK, already!"

*tick tock*
*tick tock*

*drumming fingers*

Truly .....

.... 'A Watched SlowCooker, NEVER flippin' cooks.'

Rock n' Roll has, officially, left the building.

Minecraft - all Creepers & Spider Jockeys.

* AMENDMENT

Since originally posting this, I have been corrected, several times, of the popularity of the Game among the World's Daughters.
I only have a Boy, who has Boy friends. Girl Children do not enter our world and so, I am deeeeelighted to now stand corrected.

For those of you with Girl Children* , No Children or Grown-Up Children, this will mean nothing.

You people, celebrate this.

For those of us who have gone with the Boy variation of the species, we have had no choice in recent times. but to accept the Minecraft intrusion, nay, INVASION in our lives.

Bloody place.
A bizarre geometric world with a distinct 80's look with its hyper-pixellation, vertigo-inducing views and incomprehensible logic. Unless you are a boy. And sub-12 (years old).

'Tis a blessing and a curse. This thing, this place.
This Adult-free Land (yup, no grown-ups, apart from the 'odd' ones that produce Instructional videos on YouTube) - where children are in 100% control (except of the Zombies & some chap called Enderman. I am unclear on his motives).
In Minecraft world, banal requests to tidy rooms & set out PE kits are not entertained. Faces remain unwashed, teeth un-brushed,

Instead, they can build their own room/cave, made of ice & featuring slides, underground trains and towers to the heavens whilst also sporting bedside-enclosures for one's cows & chickens. Squid are in the mix too, somewhere.

Spider Jockey
(skeleton on a spider)
You thought I was
joking.

You see?

Unfathomable.

Trippy, psychedelic & all completely legal.


All your conversations, Dear 'Confused, But Want To Be A Good Engaged Parent to my 7 year old Boy Child' will now involve indecipherable plans and bafflling terminology.

BTW, "ummm-hmmmm" only cuts it for so long.  

(they KNOW we don't get it.)

Want to completely blow your mind? Try eavesdropping on the Inter-Boy Child discussions on Matters Minecrafty.

Creative vs Survival, Zombies, Spider Jockeys and how to find/make a Diamond Axe.

No friggin' idea.  Not a clue.

///////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

But, here is what I DO know:

Did you think I was joking
about the square head?

There is someone called Steve.

He has a square head.

Actually everything in Minecraft World/Land/Universe is square).







Perhaps there is a thick-necked, no-teethed Bouncer outside Minecraft-ville with a clipboard

"*grunt* if you ain't square, you ain't comin' in."

No. That's silly.

One can Dig.

And Build.

And Fly.

There are creepy looking things called Endermen (your adult eye will see a square black octopus).

Quote from Minecraft Gamepedia re Enderman

Endermen can be provoked via an attack or by simply looking at them (placing the crosshairs on their upper bodies from up to 64 blocks away).

When provoked, Endermen stand still, stare at the player with trembling, gaping mouths, and emit a long, loud, unsettling noise, before teleporting towards the player to attack.

Whaaaaaaaaa .............. ???!!!!! Sweet Baby Jesus.


And Creepers, suicide-bombers that are scared of cats and ocelots, according to my sources.

Incidentally, if all you can see is a pixel-packed green phallus, it's ok, honey.
We can all see it.
It just means you are over 10 years old.







Fellow Parents, this all appears random.

Trying to follow what is happening will only give you a headache and motion sickness.

And then, from all this random pottyness suddenly, there is a thing.
It might be a house full of pumpkins and artwork, a tower or a lava (yes, lava) slide that also carries trains containing chickens and jam..

My advice:

Leave them to it.  

They know what they are doing. You never will.

So desperate were we to understand this world inaccessible to Us, we vowed we would get to the bottom of it.
After all, we are both intelligent, well-educated, engaged with our child, creative people.  We can do this.

Nope.

We couldn't.


On the other hand, I am pretty happy with what I AM learning about it.
As far as I can see, it is a very creative, positive game option.(apart from the Crack-like hold it has over the World's Sons)

If they are going to be playing these games, (not every day, not for long periods of time and NEVER instead of real live physical activity), then I feel this is a reasonably constructive option.

There is Problem-Solving, Logistical Planning and I do love listening to The Boy & his buddies talking and strategising on defensive & farming issues.  I can also see how it helps develop reading skills.

We resist blood, guts, shooty-guns games (but also don't kid ourselves that The Boy isn't getting all of that when he visits his friends and that is ok too).

Interesting article on The-good-and-bad-effects-of-video-games

Oh, and in case you were wondering, Skylanders are SO last year.

Stupid Strangers, avocados and Other Worries

I thought an Epiphany was a good thing.
I recently had an Epiphany, and it wasn't.

I have come to realise that I live with Fear.
I am fearful. Alot of the time.

Maybe everyone is. Maybe we all just choose NOT to have conversations that start with 'hey, what you feeling afraid of today?'

Except I do. Feel afraid.

Or, maybe, it is Fear's less needy but similarly neurotic cousin, Worry?

Worry seems better. More socially acceptable. Less victim-y.

Yeah, let's go with Worry.

I WORRY about the People I Love getting hurt, or sick. Proper Sick, I mean.
Flaky skin or diarrhoea, I am brave in the face of.

I WORRY about Me getting Proper Sick, but only because I WORRY about the People I Love coping with it.

I WORRY about getting stuff wrong as a Parent.

I WORRY I (or Someone I Love) will do something wrong, accidentally, or piss the wrong person off & find myself in jail - I concede that this must be a unique concern for those of us living where we live.

I WORRY I am not achieving what I could/should with my horse or my writing.

I WORRY that I am delusional about both of the Above.

I WORRY that my house smells too doggy.

The number of unlistened-to podcasts on my iPod is building up. This worries me.

I WORRY that my time being able to help The Boy with his homework is running out. That I may have hit my intellectual peak in his Year 1.

I WORRY that he is too gentle and caring - and, perversely, that he might lose those lovely traits of his.

Avocados worry me. I love avocados but I find the responsibility immense. You must commit when you purchase an avocado. You must commit to feeling you WILL want to eat it in 48 hours.
Not in 56 hours, not in the next 24 hours.
It will be ready in 48 hours, that is when It will be ready, no sooner, and that, is when you must eat it. Regardless.
For, after that it will have suddenly gone too far & your window of opportunity, will be gone. Forever.

I WORRY too about difficult conversations with the Boy about adoption - about getting it wrong & screwing up the chance to help him find the least painful path through his feelings, questions & worsecase scenario, making it even harder.

I FRET about Stupid Strangers saying stupid things to him, in front of him. Be warned, I might punch you, Stupid Stranger.

There's more. I WORRY about when it's the right time to turn on the AC. We all seem in denial that Summer comes every year &, giving in and going Full A/C feels like admitting defeat, that Winter is done & we are prepared to accept the 40+ degree Lifestyle for another year.

And finally, (not really, but I have to draw the line somewhere) do I drink enough water?
God.
I just don't know.

Evil Octopus

Evil. Not Drunk.
I love Drunk Octopus.
But DO I wanna fight Evil Octopus.

(Or ... Don't Fly with a Cold.)

Inside my head is an evil Octopus.

Evil Octopus is inside my head.
It has all its feet on the inside of my skull, and, it is pushing.

PUSHING.

and

PUSH. ING.


There are 2 feet against my temples.
They are Pushing.

Another 2 are behind my ears, the bony bit.
Pressing. Hard.

2 more are either side of my nose, just under my eyes.
Forcing.

One foot threatens to come through the top of my head.
And the other, through the back.

I know it is an Evil Octopus because I am also leaking vast VAST quantities of mucus through the sole remaining open channel from the inside of my skull to the Outside World.  My nose.

Evil Octopus slime.
Has to be.

No other explanation.

Doctor says Acute Sinusitis.
What does he know.

Foot Massages - 98% ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Foot Massages:
95%    ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh ......
 3%     OOOO! Hey, that is a bit sore. Must be doing something good though.
 2 %    Holy cr#p, that hurts!!!!!!!!!!! Stop! STOP! The pain!! Oh, the pain!!
           Mustn't move. Mustn't move.

In a recent census (By me. Of my Friends and Relations), it seems we are divided into Foot SqueezyPhiles and Foot SqueezyPhobes.

Me, I love 'em.

But (and there is a 'but'), for the Unitiated, there is something you need to know.

Those ladies (& men, actually) with their penetrating fingers and relentless knuckles of reinforced steel are capable of seeking out the teeniest tiniest point of Ouchy, wherever it might try and hide itself.

The bit at the base of your big toe nail? Gotcha.
The tendony bit under the arch of your foot. FOUND you.
Those bits, under your toes, where the balls of your feet start to become your toes. There's nowhere to hide, Ouchy.

Come out with your hands up, Ouchy bit.
You might as well give up, because she is going to keep at you till you melt away into smooth non-ouchy grooviness.

Just so long as I can stop flinching, and refrain from crying.

It was busy in there today. 6 out of the 7 seats were occupied with people at various stages in their massage.

A real mix of people today.
Gweilos and Chinese.
Young(ish) people in flipflops (it is a Public Holiday, Easter Sunday, in fact).
Men.
Women.

Late middle-aged Chinese Business Man hung his suit jacket up and measuredly removed his work socks and shoes before settling in for the Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.(unfortunately it seems he blotted his copy book by, at some point before I arrived, conducting a number of very loud 'business' phone conversation. 
The Food Squeezing Team did not approve. 
And, on his departure, They talked about it.  A lot)

We were all there. Together, next to each other.

I can only imagine that 10 years in the Middle East has played havoc with my Factory Settings as, I was shocked to notice that I had even noticed the fact that Men & Women were seated (& being Squeezed) side-by-side.
AND that the Squeezers doing the Squeezing were Men & Women.

No reason why they shouldn't be.
I just noticed that I had noticed. 11 years ago, I wouldn't have.

So tranquil, in the Palace of Foot Squeezing.  There are no shortage of such places, all over HongKong. Crammed into the tiniest of spaces, so practical and yet, a haven.

A decadent luxury with an air of practicality, which helps One feel a bit less frivolous indulging in this bliss.

Outside, double-deckers & mini-buses whoosh and grind their way passed the front window. the sheerest of bamboo blinds separate the Outside World from us in here.

The Inter-Foot-Squeezers banter is cheerful & slightly ribald (handy thing, this not looking like they expect you to understand the lingo).

Birds tweet, hypnotically (CD volume at exactly the right level).




The Rose Bud Tea (or water) feels cleansing and refreshing.





The large bamboo tub, full of warm, scented frothy water kicks us off and is my green light to surrender to the next blissful 50 minutes of ...... Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh (only a little bit of: Ouch!)

The hot scented towels wrapped round my feet, enough to induce a coma. 
Any. 
Second. 

Now ........  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

........zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz............................................. *YEEEEOWWWWWW! ..............

Being Home

Where to begin.

Last Summer I wrote of how refreshing it was to be back in the UK ( see Hug A What Now?) & oh my, it was.  

But, to get my feet back on to, or into, the place, where I truly belong, well, there ain't nothing like it.

Whilst I am at home in the UK, HK IS Home. Not home (with a small 'h') right now, but Home.  

It is a cruel twist that in order to know where you belong, you have to leave it.

Also, after more than 20 years of living as one kind of Expat or another, I realise that you also don't have to live in a place to be part of it, or it you.   Like Family.  

This place speaks to me.
The sounds of the pneumatic drills, the unique roar of taxis, the double-deckers & mini-buses, the smells of food on the air, markets, the inside of IFC (never has a Mall smelt so good! If anyone can tell me what that is, I want my house to smell like that!).  

Me, I find the sounds of HongKong life comforting. Soothing.  

I can hear Hong Kong. HK speaks to me. Maybe because I am listening.
It isn't always pleasant, but I don't have to love everything about it, to love It. I understand it. The understandable bits. The bits I don't understand, I doubt any one else does either.  

 

And, it understands me.  I am a genuine Made In HongKong.

You either love Hong Kong, or you hate it.
Marmite Town.

AND, in a typically 1 Country 2 Systems, East Meets West, Yin Yang (yes, all the cliches) way, that thing that people love about it, others hate.  

Those that love it, call It Energy, Drive, Can (& DO), those that hate it use words like 'frenetic, rat race, materialistic, superficial'.  

Yes. It cannot be denied there is that, alot of that.

But also, I see the Colour, Life, Attitude (sometimes THAT could be dialled down) & richness (cultural, not $$).  

Some lament a lack of culture in this town. I am not sure to what they refer. Swanky art galleries? Chamber orchestras? Theatre? Seems no shortage to me.  

The culture I see all around is real living, joss stick burning, social media savvy, pop culture evolving, stuff.
The Old Ones observing the old ways, The Young Ones looking like they aren't but are, if you really look.  

Many superstitions and folk traditions are so entrenched, I fail to see HOW anyone can really think this town is devoid of culture.

The rules, the structure, the efficiency, whether it be bureaucratic interactions, public transport, eating out or the bill-paying etiquette. All frustrating and comforting, in equal measure.  

Everywhere has its contrasts but here, I seem particularly aware.  You can boggle at a HK$395, 000 watch in Central and, within a 20 min MTR journey, settle down to a DaiPaiDong dinner (street side restaurant) amongst a night market of knock-off 'back' massagers and handbags.

Coming Home for these visits are a lifeline. An anchor for the soul.

It knocks the scab that forms over our united homesickness but it is worth it.

I am blessed to have found someone who holds MarmiteTown as dear to his heart as I. He understands and loves the slightly off-the-wall childishness combined with the cynicism and confidence that eons of history both gifts and curses the collective psyche.  

We return to a room that has been mine since I was 7, and now, my nearly-7 year old sleeps next door.  We pilgrimage to roads where Trousers and I have individual & shared personal histories dating back to Miami Vice & Madonna hairstyles days. And beyond.  

But, we are not as unique as we once thought, for Hong Kong appears to have spawned a unique tribe. One that only fairly recently I have been aware.

The Tribe is made up of people who never really leave. They, physically, might but they never really let go completely.
They are the ones for whom HK has burrowed deep under their skin, set up home and refuses to ever leave.
A squatter. That demands to be heard.
A squatter, with rights. That will not be ignored

I stand to be corrected but I wonder if other countries have FaceBook groups titled 'I lived in xxxxxxxxxxxxx in the 70's' or 'xxxxxxxxxxxxx Was / Is/ Will Always Be My Home' etc.  

There are many of us. And the Tribe grows.

For now though, Me & He live somewhere else. Life is good there. We are glad of all the blessings it brings. For now.

One day though, we will run home.
And we will finally Belong again.