The Turtle that I am......

Tomorrow will mark the seven year anniversary of my arrival in Hong Kong - this time around. I also lived here between the years of 1988-1992.
That's a total of 11 years- if math is not your thing.
In 1988, I was a new mum with a 6 week old baby.I was 19 years old. My partner at that time- the father of my three children and the man I went on to marry and then divorce, had lived in Hong Kong before.
He was a fan, and had talked about it often.
The end of the eighties- you may recall- was a time of recession, at least in Australia and my now ex, then 32, was working as an architect.
Architecture does not do well in recession.
At that time I had only ever lived briefly in Singapore, Australia and New Zealand ( which is my birthplace).
But with Hong Kong, it was love at first sight.
To this day, I still love it here.
Its vibrancy, its variety, its quirkiness and its sense of Yes continue to keep me entertained.
Don't get me wrong, I have my MAJORLY low tolerance days too.
And for a while there at the end of 2009 they were out weighing the good days, but I rediscovered bush walking and my equilibrium has somewhat been restored.
Breathing space is an important factor in every one's life, and breathing space has to be actively sought out in this city of 8 million inhabitants, and 25 million mainland tourists a day ( not an accurate number but those of you who live here know what I mean).
The local Chinese- predominately Cantonese speaking Han descendants - have a term for our mainland cousins.
That term translates as 'Dirt Dumplings' an unkind, but incredibly accurate, description of the many millions of newly wealthy, slightly missing the mark, day trippers who flood into the shopping malls dressed to the nines in mismatched designer clobber carrying plastic bags stuffed with freshly minted cash and an attitude that says " I am here for a good time, not a long time, don't mind me if I spit on the floor, I will pay with my titanium credit card and can I have a discount?".
But they are not the only Mainlanders we get to meet, oh no.
A favourite with the Gweilo's- the foreign devils ie: people who look like me- are the tour groups replete with a flag waving guide and matching hats- who traipse through the club and bar areas of Lang Kwai Fong, So Ho and Wan Chi taking photos of themselves standing next to white people drinking.
I am not kidding.
Every evening, and all evening Friday and Saturday nights, tens- possibly hundreds- of thousands of rather crumpled and bewildered families who have travelled to Hong Kong for their 'once in a lifetime' holiday will be found standing staring with mouths agape at the westerners sinking back a cold one or two after a tough day at the office.
I have no idea how that is sold to them in the brochure, but I imagine it goes something like
" at 7pm we will pick you up from your hotel and travel to an area packed with white/black and brown people , many of whom will have large breasts and be dressed in short skirts with high heels. Marvel at how they do not speak in Putonghua, how they are tall, and how they stand passively at a slight distance from one another as if requiring some kind of 'personal space'. Don't forget to bring your camera, as these foreign devils love having their photo's taken with rich people from the motherland. You will not have to tip"
We gweilo love them so because of the sheer audacity of approach-which usually involves walking up, standing RIGHT next to you and posing as if you were a concrete garden ornament that the folks back home would LOVE to see. A quick flash of the 'V' for victory sign, and it's all over. Painless really, except for when it's not.
Ah, you have to laugh.....really....you HAVE to......so here I still am,only now I am 40 and the baby is now 21 plus there are two others, a 19 year old who was born here, and a 16 year old who was born in KL.
Life has moved on, and one day I will too.
Not just yet though.
Yesterday I had a long discussion with 2 of the angels I helped create about why I choose to live here, and there is no real easy answer other than to say that at the moment it feels like home.
I would, one day, like to spend a few years in Venice, and perhaps even London, but for now I live in a busy, outward looking, pulsating, eccentric city.
To the people living here who have made this journey interesting and life affirming, and the city who has helped me discover who I am, I salute you.
XXXX

Eyes Wide Eyes

I watched the Golden Globes today.
I have my reasons.
They are not very good reasons, so I will not disclose them here.
They were hosted by Ricky Gervais, the fat guy who wrote The Office.
The original.
The good one.
The Golden Globes are generally considered a good indicator as to who will win at The Academy Awards.
And if that IS the case, then I shall be giving this years Oscars a miss.
It's not the decisions of the judges per se, most of the offerings this year were really rather good. I loved Julie and Julia, Avatar,Up and all the other 15,000 releases in 2009 staring Meryl Streep (don't believe me? Check the credits).
And it wasn't the frocks.
Although the half and half, cover one shoulder and one boob dresses made just about everyone look as if they were recovering from a mastectomy, the fact that pale and skeletal is still considered fashion forward is somewhat of a comfort.
I will never wear a dress like that, and they would never dress like me.
The great thing about being me is I can stay comfortable, dressed as I am and fashion backward with impunity.
So go ahead Drew Barrymore and wear a hedgehog as a shoulder strap, all is forgiven.
No, no.
The thing that stopped me in my tracks this morning were the absolutely monumentally mind numbingly stupid acceptance speeches.
Look, I am not into God, but some people are, and that's OK......thank God if you have to, or the Tooth Fairy, or Santa or whomever it is you believe is guiding your path.
Just say SOMETHING.
Imagine.
You are at an awards ceremony where you have been nominated to win, and you don't think about what you want to say, or rehearse it in the mirror, or time it with your watch, or run it by a friend/beautician/lover/pet?
THEN when the inevitable happens and your name is called out, you walk to the stage, air kiss the appropriate non-nominee and stop in front of the microphone.
There you are, cameras in your face, millions of people watching and the first words out of your mouth are " I didn't write anything" and then you stand in silence for a full 10 seconds while you gather your thoughts.
As well as calling bullshit- and I am prepared to call bullshit- I wonder what sort of moronic twat honestly believes that that sort of a) false modesty or b) total lack of preparation looks good for them?
Today's Golden Globes suffered from numerous Deer-in-Headlights moments.
People with big, fat, hairy pay cheques that have 6 zero's next to the other numbers, who can not string a sentence together.
Actors- whose job it is to BE someone and DO something,the very same people who are trained to speak- suddenly struck mute.
Jesus wept.
FAKE IT PEOPLE !!!!
You are trained to play dress-ups and pretend.
Spend a morning before the limo comes to pick you up from your palace and try to imagine what it would be like to win an award.
Then imagine what it is you would like to say, and time it to see if it lasts more than a minute.
Once you have achieved parts one and two, call a hooker on a 1-800 number and ask her if she finds what you have to say interesting.
If any of these steps appear lacking, scrap what you have and take a new post-it note and start again.
I hate hearing the argument that actors are no good at being themselves, because frankly, I don't care if they are good at being themselves or not.
I KNOW they know how to be other people, that is the essence of acting, so I guess if they don't know how to be themselves, they should stick to being someone who CAN string a sentence together and pretend to be that person for the 60 seconds it takes to thank your agent/kids/caterer/4Th grade drama teacher.
You see, knowledge is power.
Knowing who you want to thank in advance gives you the power to not look like a total douche in front of a global live audience.
Logic would dictate that the people who won today run the risk of winning next time, and armed as I am with THAT knowledge and having little faith that there will be a shift in mindset of the potential Oscar winners, I shall skip the ceremony and go straight to the gossip websites where a variety of bent and bitter gays will dissect the gown choices of anorexic ingenues.
The photographic stills will speak the volumes that the actors can not manage.
Plus that way I can add my own sound track.
Something involving Elmer Fudd...."shhhhh stay vewy, vewy quiet....."

Tag, you're it.

I doubt there are many people who understand the psychology behind attention seeking better than I do.
Hell, it's how I make my living.
And whether it is the subtle nuance of tone and timing in a well considered boardroom presentation, or an out and out grab for the limelight on a stage of egos, when it comes to getting an audience to shut the fuck up and listen while you get your message across, I'm your girl.
See, now that's a plug.
And that's OK, 'cause that's how the system works.
Some one has something to sell, some one has reason to buy, and we use words to facilitate this.
But now, here's the thing.
Getting the message across only happens if you have their attention in the first place.
In the boardroom, or on stage, that's fairly simple.You merely need to be standing in a separate physical space to alert people to your importance- so naturally their eye will follow you for at least 3 seconds, which is how long I think you have to capture and secure your audience.
Piece of piss.
But how about if you are one of a billion voices in a non- physical space such as this one?
The interworld.
A place where with the deft flick of the fingers, you can travel to more destinations and gather more information in an hour than all of recorded history had gathered in 5,000 years.
One of my sons ( Little Pants) has started vlogging- which is like what I am doing here, but with a camera.
Several things I have to say about that.
1) Are the young too lazy to even type ?
2) Do not attempt this if, like me, you tend to feel the need purge your attention valve after a night on the tiles wearing only yesterdays make-up and a t-shirt that smelled clean....enough....and
3) Does anyone else think adding the letter 'V' to things makes words sound vaguely rude?
He is a talented young man this one- another plug- and all of my hundreds of children are (just a boast this one) but I have come to garner a new respect for him when I discovered that in order to achieve more hits on his vlog he tags his work with words designed to attach themselves to the most sought after search words, thus ensuring his success in interworld infamy.
His words are 'Perth' 'Gay' 'Male' and some others I forget.
His older brother (The Big Lad) tells me that anyone searching for Heath Ledger on the Internet will also, at some point, be alerted Little pants' vlog entries.
BRILLIANT !!!
Heath Ledger was, as we remember, a male from Perth who stared in Brokeback Mountain- a story about gay men, so the links are there.......ish......
In much the same way as searching for recipes involving whipped cream can lead you to endless hours of solitary fun watching free porn and wondering why the hell the kitchen is full of smoke, and what happened to the strawberries you were holding.......
We've all been there, and net nannies are next to useless with an information super highway determined to link jelly to genitals and water sports to....well....you know what you'll find.....
So enough of this subtlety when it comes to getting the message out there on the web.
It's time to fight fire with fire, time to put my money where my hot wet, hole is.
No more miss naughty but nice girl.
It's a cat eat cat world out there, and this pussy is ready to fight, tight and hard and long into the wee hours.
No amount of spanking will deter me, I will come multiple times to the battle dressed in nothing but leather and lace carrying enormous jugs of Paris Hilton's Vagina....
See you on the on the wild side babies, and bring that stick of butter and a large rooster with you.

In praise of age

There are, they say, only two certainties in life. Death, and taxes.
Well, I am not a fan of taxes.
Death annoys me less.
And whilst it's true I am not quite ready to face it either for myself or my loved ones, I know that when the time comes it will seem a hell of a lot less odious than forking over money to a large bureaucratic system filled with career rubber stampers.
That's how much the idea of taxation irritates me.
But age, and aging, well now there is a swimming pool sized can of worms waiting to be explored.
You see, I am of THAT age- dare I speak it's name ?
Yes I'm going to.
2009 I turned 40.
Name and shame.
I'm Middle Aged.
Not 'young adult' or ' at the beginning of an amazing adventure'.
I am- with any luck- about half way through my great journey, and I have the scars to prove it.
The reason this topic strikes me as slightly treacherous territory is because of the couple of hundred friends I have around the world who are the same age as me, some of whom appear to be either denying the existence of the passing years, or clawing onto the empties hoping to recapture something they think they once had.
These people, people I care about, people I choose to spend energy on, may read this entry today and feel slightly aggrieved by my proud declaration of ' half-way-through-ness', and be offended to be considered in the same category.
They may throw their hands up in the air- because they really DO care- and worry that if they associate themselves with someone so blatantly aging then they too may be considered part of the middle aged set.
I have some news.
You are.
But for them, for you, my dear reader, I have some words of comfort.
You are not dead.
You are here and, surviving, aging, wiser (hopefully) , smarter (perhaps) and more experienced than before.
You have made it thus far.
You are a better version of yourself than you were in your 20's because you know more stuff, have seen more things, can draw on more, have more to say for yourself, can provide more to the community.
You have been more places, tried more, failed more, lost more, won more and gained more.
You have learned to cope with more, are no longer as easily fooled as you were, are able to distinguish wheat from chaff faster, and know exactly what to do with it.
And yet you are still alive and walking around.
Still excited by things.
Intrigued and delighted by things.
Still able to feel pain, and love, and anger, and contentment.
You care and have compassion with a fuller, more developed sense of self.
Your heart still beats, your loins still stir, and in the privacy of your own bedroom, you still find certain parts of yourself sexy ( even if you now have to turn off the lights to do it).
Being middle aged is OK.
I refuse- point blank- to deny my passing years and the war wounds I have endured that make me the woman I am today.
And why the fuck should I ?
Because it is embarrassing to be getting older?
Because the present only belongs to the young?
Because some snot nosed 27 year old with a tenuous grasp of human anatomy declares that the only dress to be seen in this summer is made from strategically placed see through sequins which should be worn only with metal and leather footwear not seen since the Spanish Inquisition?
Pish to her - or worse - Him.
Pish to the fashion Nazi's and the middle aged desperado's who refuse to see the wood for the trees.
Pish to their fear of getting the run rate up on their score card.
I take a handful of vitamins everyday, and I now have more de-wrinkling face creams than a counter at a large department store.
I am not immune to wishing to be seen as attractive- although my lack of discipline in the diet department simply MUST be addressed this year, for my health if nothing else- but if I died tomorrow, I can put my hand on my heart and say that I lasted into my middle ages, and that had I not died I would have relished in everyday that took me into the wrinkly, sagging, sensuous and proud future.
A future where I may, in fact, choose to wear that see through sequined dress.
Or a burlap sack, or granny knickers, or a g-sting, or all 4 at once.
After all, one of the great advantages of no longer being considered 'young and hip' is being able to define yourself as 'old and weird'.
That is a category with MUCH more promise.
Roll on years......I feel a bout of autumnal aged eccentricity coming on.....and I want to get a good seat at the front for all my friends.