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For those of you who are interested, here is a new emagazine I am now writing for www.mygreynomads.com The wittier stories are OBVIOUSLY mine, although we are are all 'team writer' at the minute. Do drop by.
www.MyGreyNomads.com

Thank God for facebook. And crazy. Thank God for that too.....

Chinese Whispers.
Now there's a misnomer if ever I heard one.
Anyone who has lived anywhere near the Chinese Culture- as I have for a majority of my life now- will know that the Chinese do not make a habit of whispering ANYTHING and ANYTIME.
And that's all well and good.
Given that my Cantonese extends only as far as that of the level of a 4 year old ( except, of course, that I know more swear words than the average Cantonese toddler....although maybe not) and that my Putonghua contains only the words " How are you?", "Thank you" and "What is this ? This is a pencil ", I usually miss out on the majority of what is being shouted about on the train and in the street anyway.
I have heard via my Chinese friends that a lot of what is discussed in public in Asia is a slightly more graphic version of everyday life anywhere.
High density living makes privacy less of a thing, and I was once reliably informed by one of my canto friends that the man sitting near us on the MTR had found an ointment that cured most, if not all, of the mysterious raised rash on his arsehole and his hemorrhoids were therefore greatly more comfortable.
She then suggested we move along the carriage, but my feeling was, given how much better things were for our travelling companion, we may as well stay.
Of course, in Western Cultures, Chinese Whispers refers to that game whereby you tell a story, or a phrase, or a word, into the ear of one person at the beginning of a line or a circle, and you wait to see what emerges out the other side, several people later.
It's like Mystery Multi Layer Digestion for words.
Sometimes someone will deliberately add something spicy or naughty to enhance the phrase, thus 'penguin' becomes 'penis' and the phrase 'My penguin is black and white and puffs up in the cold' takes on a whole new meaning.
This month I shall leave Hong Kong, and travel to a quieter, calmer place, where I intend to write out all the things that crowd my brain until it empties and I am left with silence.
These words I shall share with people, and with any luck, invoke enough ire to incense some legal action, that will then ensure free publicity, and thus create a best seller.
Or I shall fake some controversy, which will be entirely in keeping with the made up stories I intend to tell.
Of course people will see themselves.
And if they do, it's probably because I am writing about them.
Whatever.
Publishing is all about being heard.
So back to what you've heard.
In the Chinese Whisper game.
Today I heard about four men who, as well as sustaining a certain lack of credibility due to their collective upholding of the Colombian economy, had taken to repeating 'truths' to each other in a kind of demented Class A fueled echo chamber.
Sadly - or perhaps happily depending on how entirely you grasp the whole Oscar Wilde 'only one thing worse than being talked about' thing - their 'truths' are to do with me.
And they are not true.
And they are not kind.
So - being mature and thick skinned-  I have thought about this nastiness all afternoon.
At first, I was going to call one of them.
Then I was going to ignore it.
Then I was going to write one of them a note.
Then I was going to forget about it.
But instead I have decided to do what I will always do in these situations, I shall tell the truth.
No, I never slept with that one, yes, I slept with the other one and his partner, it wasn't very good. It was a long time ago, I have since very much cleaned up my act, thanks, the cream worked nicely.
The third one should know I did all I could to protect him, he backed the wrong horse.
He can't help it.
He's not that bright.
The other one is very bright, but he is also rather damaged.
I like the one in the top hat, and the one with the hands where there should be feet has the most talent.
The one shaped like a small case 'q' should never pick red berries at night.
If I had a US Dollar for every time I was asked if that other one was gay, I'd have a dollar.
Thereabouts.
You see how that works?
A rumour is just that.
Not worth a cent unless it's written on paper and thus turned into a best selling novel.
So I guess, if you want more from me, you'll just have to wait.
And if you want to have a go at me and make it worthwhile, best put it in writing.
Otherwise it's just......puff..... a Chinese Whisper.....

Road To Nowhere

What I am about to discuss may upset people I care about but the topic just wont leave my head, and as I always say, better out than in.

Life - even human life- is all about procreation, then death.

Did you know that male lions kill the cubs of other males in order to bring the lioness back into estrous and then mate with her in order for their genetics to survive.

Brutal huh?

But then, we are here to pass on our genes, and after then we are pretty much done.

Lions are just a little more up font about the whole thing.

Having said that I once read a book called 'Raising Boys' that discussed, in very honest terms, the phenomenon of violent and disconnected step fathers.

But I am not here to discuss bad step-parenthood or the less than charming habits of horny hairy Lions.

Instead let's discuss my current neurosis regarding my purpose for being here.

The problem is, I have had my babies and they are all grown up - relatively, we all have our moments- and suddenly, I feel I may be all played out.

I currently find myself somewhat goal less, and a bit aimless, and this makes me feel stressy and shut down.

Look, its not like I don't have things to do.

I have a bucket list.

I have yet to publish a book, and yet this is something I feel I must, and will, do.

I have not traveled everywhere I want.

I would like to change locations one day.

It would be nice to have some savings.

I should probably have sex again sometime soon, preferably with someone other than my handy dandy 'Handy Dandy'.

I would one day like to work in a women's refuge giving voices back to the silent.

There is stuff out there, it's just that today...and lately every other day.....I have felt a little.....lost.

It happens.

I am one of those revolting 'glass half full' type of chicks for the most part, but I do have my moments when I sit there thinking " Someone has eaten MY porridge and I'm going back to bed".

So it has become clear to me that I need a fairly epic goal to prevent me walking off the top of the IFC or testing the voltage on my hairdryer under the shower.

And it has to be something other than 'lose weight'.

Last week I had an almost one on one session with the amazing Jason and the pain payoff, whilst fun in parts, was not enough to make me think that my life's aim should be to get thinner.

I will GET thinner, I do for a while every couple of years, but that seems less significant somehow than, say, giving birth to a person.

And therein lays the rub.

Giving birth is major, it's an amazing thing.

Being a parent of young people is awesome.

Last week someone made a Prince.

That is pretty cool actually, they are rare.

Some of my peers, in fact a large number of my peers, are still in the throws of school lunches and homework, and sleepovers and nits.

I shot my wad early (or at least HE did) - so to speak- so at the tender age of nearly 44, my 'babies' are about to turn 25, 23 and 20 respectively.

The closest I get to hands on child rearing are drunken text messages from my daughter at her 1am " MUM, I'm at Karaoke !!", late night skype sessions with a hairy man who holds objects in his hands he has made with a 3D printer and talks about a future I might never even see, and half naked You Tube Vlogs that, by implication, means either that the youngest one needs more clothes- or has just had a 'friend' over.

Sleep overs are a different thing when your children are adults.

" Oh, hi there you two, am I interrupting?"

We are a very open family, and I like that, but part of that means that I am fully aware of how little practical parenting is now required by my much loved, but fully fledged, ducklings.

Am I pointless now?

I look at all the things that people do other than have children - create art, sell time share apartments, make films, run companies, buy shoes- and I know that these things are 'things to do', but I worry that they are just time fillers whilst we wait for death.

Does that sound depressing?

It might well be.

Sorry about that.

I do not wish to dwell in this state, it must be said.

I think I need to find a way to 'give back' some of my very lucky life in order to move forward.
Giving is far more satisfying than receiving, of that I am certain.
So, I need to find a goal that involves being genuinely useful and relatively well paid, involves travel and writing and, where possible, sex with men who look like Hugh Jackman.

After all, I'm in a rut....I'm not ACTUALLY dead.

Besides, Billy Joel said only the good die young, so for me the road ahead is long.

May as well have some fun.

It's True, I Read It On Wiki.

Reputation is a funny thing.
Often a single event defines who we become in the public eye.
A woman who has lived a life wrapped in normalcy for more than 30 years can become 'the girl who got so drunk she vomited on the lap of the guy she was giving a head job to in the pub' in a heartbeat.
She is forever more 'the vomiting head job girl'.
These days with the permanent documentation of the Internet, an unfortunate event or ill advised slip in dignity is there forever to be revisited again and again and again.
The number of times I have warned my three about cameras and sexual acts makes me sound like a woman obsessed.
I KNOW it worked for Paris Hilton and Kim Kardasiarse, but I simply don't want it to work for my own kids.
Ever.
The thing about the Internet too, while I am on it, is that it can be used to create things that are not actually there.
Take Hymie Hasbeen, for example (see previous blog for details).
He has a Wiki page.
It even lists some of his achievements.
In 2013, a Wiki page seems to attach solidity to the unsolid.
If it's online, it must be true.
I now invite you to look away from this blog and explore the things you never thought were possible, online.
Actual pictures of fairies in the garden, women being actually cut in half and magicked together unharmed, stories of John Travolta's heterosexuality.
It's all there.
Being on the Internet does not make something real.
But a reputation created on the Internet seems to be.
Having a public relations firm write a press release filled with achievements and accolades should not be the bases of a mans standing within the community, and yet it has become that.
If Adolf Hitler were alive today, the spin doctors working to justify his behaviour would have us all believing that the destruction of the Jews and the annihilation of freedom was simply the logical next step in evolution.
The mans reputation would have been seared into positive permanence by the workings of the World Wide Web.
I am not criticising the Internet per say, after all how else would I have a platform to vent, merely I am pointing out that a reputation- so easy to create and destroy- should be based on more than a website.
But of course I am pissing into a very strong wind on this one.
Hymie Hasbeen, the man with an ego so brittle parts of it flake off as he walks down the street, will continue to be revered for as long as the management handling his social media profile receive the cheques.
And even when the cheques dry up- an ironic reflection of their client- the permanence of the Internet will ensure that his reputation remains as it was set.
Counter claims to a mans reputation at the street level tend to have little impact until the roar becomes so deafening that it can no longer be ignored.
Jimmy Savile being a case in point.
The interesting point in all this is that it would only require one incident, one tiny little 'caught on camera' moment to alter the structure of a reputation forever.
Wiki pages can be altered too, by anyone who has half a brain and knows how to use the a computer.
So we now find ourselves in a World where we write our own legend with the flick of a wrist, and can have it destroyed by the click of a button.
No wonder we all are developing such short attention spans.

What Did You Just Call Me?

Do you ever secretly give people nicknames ?
I do all the time.
I never used to.
It all started when I was sharing an apartment with a lovely girl named May after I split up with my ex-husband.
May was a lot younger than me, a musician in an Orchestra and an American.
She also had/has a thing for the colour purple.
But one of the funnest things about May - apart from her extraordinary cocktail creations - was the way she would give nicknames to any guy she hooked up with.
I know that Sex in the City has a ' Mr Big', but May had a 'Rabbit Fuck Boy'.
I'm thinking if you are a guy, being known as Mr Big would not be a problem.
I can tell you now, being 'Rabbit Fuck Boy' is not how you wish to be known amongst the ladies.
Giving people nicknames is a great way to mentally turn the irritating and ridiculous into cartoon caricatures of themselves.
In my world I have a 'Mr Shit-Floats', who epitomises that concept in every way.
By silently using that name, I can somehow reconcile his position within society within myself.
It is a mental safety valve.
Without it I fear I would rage and rage at the injustice of his elevation over the years, but by reminding myself that he owes his power to a sad, but truthful, metaphor I can cope.
Of course, nicknames can be loving and kind.
These are the ones we like to share.
My daughter has long been 'Boofulsunshiney' and is still 'bunny' and 'kitten' when she needs to be.
My eldest son has been 'The Big Lad' since he was 3.
His sister calls him 'Kipster', which is a derivative of his name ( she gets 'Parrot' for the same reason).
The youngest is known as 'Little Pants', due to his place in the pecking order.
When he came along -when his brother was 3- there were obviously TWO boys to deal with.
One was bigger ' The Big lad', one was smaller, 'Little pants'.
That the younger one now stands a good 2-3 inches in height over his elder sibling is of no consequence.
At 6'3, he is still my little pants.
'The Big Lad' is now a buff, gym attending, bearded man about town.
He is as eloquent and erudite as any man you ever met.
Neither 'Big' nor 'Laddish' in any way.
It matters not. He is my 'Big Lad', and always will be.
But these names bulge with love.
Pity the man whom I have tagged 'Wally Onetone' for his lack of depth or pitch, amongst other things.
Or 'Mr Hasbeen', a man who is afraid of the shadow of the shadow of his former self.
But men are not the only ones endowed with labels that beat with a heart of disbelief and derision.
I met a woman years ago who had be blessed with an inner bitch that was so divisive within the community that she could literally part a room down the centre before entering it.
It was from her lips that I first heard the term 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer'.
I thought she had made it up.
It was the kind of thing she would have made up.
She was, as my mother would say, a piece of work.
Her nickname came in the form of the blessing of ill health and her own double barreled surname.
This woman developed a rather unfortunate medical condition, IBS to be exact.
A hideous and horrible, painful and embarrassing affliction I would not wish on my worst enemy....
That's not true.
I would.
But what it did do was give rise to her nickname.
Smelly Belly Smith.
OK, I'm not proud of it ( I am) but by God it made me happy at the time.
It still does.
Secret nicknames can be so cathartic.
It's a private 'push-back' at those for whom a push forward would be wasted energy.
But of course, caution must be applied when speaking to these people in person.
I sometimes find myself mentally checking to ensure that the private nickname does not inadvertently erupt in place of the persons actual name when speaking with them.
How embarrassing would that be?
For them....as well as me.
Take 'Bitchface Amanda', and 'The Krakenwhore' for example.
Both of them living lives blissfully unaware of their less than flattering monikers, and therefore still able to provide endless hours of entertainment.
I think Smelly Belly Smith would be proud of me.

A Flexible Mind Is A Happy One

The other day I forgot how old I was.
I mean, I literally had to subtract the year I was born (1969) from the current year (2013) and then figure in the month to arrive at my age.
I was not being coy. I never lie about my age.
The fact that I am still here at all I consider to be quite the achievement.
There have been several times in my life when I might have chosen the alternative.
On occasion, I still sit and ask myself what the point is anyway, but that has less to do with depression and anxiety these days and more to do with pragmatism.
I am still not sure WHY I am here, but in truth my fear of missing out on all the fun keeps me around.
Perhaps I have no purpose other than to breed - check- so if that's the case the rest can be seen as either a bonus, or natures idea of a mind fuck.
Perhaps one day I shall achieve some level of greatness that will open all the doors and windows and send floods of justification my way, although from what I have read even people like Freddy Mercury died full of self doubt, and that guy was amazing.
I wonder at people who never ask 'Why' about things.
I consider them stupid.
I am not suggesting we should all sit and contemplate everything ad infinitum like those frustrating fucking trees in 'The Lord of the Rings', but there surely must be a time and place to question beyond the absolute obvious.
"My wife left me"
"Why?"
"Because she's a bitch"
"That seems reasonable, let's leave it there shall we?"
It's true, some things happen just because they happen.
Those are what we call accidents, but a lot of things happen because people wish it to be so, and sometimes even a whisper can turn into a roar when carried by the right wind.
So my age is currently being forgotten by my brain.
Is this because I am in denial?
Does the idea of turning 44 this year, and no longer being 42- the age of all answers- but 43- the age of no particular cleverness- upset me so much that I have chosen to blank it from my synapses?
Or is it that having become a women In Her Forties, I no longer feel the need to count the runs ?
Perhaps age is no longer relevant to me.
Perhaps I am old enough to know better and young enough not to care.
Perhaps I have early onset dementia, in which case my mind is already in the process of relieving me from the burden of  mental responsibility.
A horror in the early stages, a blessing in the latter I believe.
I see people younger than me, people in their 20's and 30's, rushing towards artificial goals set by societal norms as if their entire existences depended upon them.
Work goals, child bearing goals, home ownership goals, body beautiful goals, have as much fun as you can goals, travel everywhere goals, sleep with everyone goals, achieve the perfect orgasm goals, find 'The Right One' goals, 'love yourself enough to meet your own goals' goals.
All before middle age kicks in and a whole new set of goals are added to the list.
Most of these involve removing wrinkles and re-visiting the earlier goals that you have failed to achieve in the set time allotted.
And who is manifesting this list?
Journalists-with editing deadlines.
Editors -with spaces to fill around the ads.
Experts- the ones Christopher Hitchens suggests we view always as mammals.
And the rest I hand over to ourselves.
You see, we have the power to ration our own psychosis, if we choose, but often we react to the auto suggestion of others without ever asking why.
Why must things be done when we say they must be done?
Nature will surly dictate our fertility, but not our ability to nurture.
A beautiful body may be one that has softened with age.
A book written at 60 will contain far more insight than one written at 25.
Are these excuses, or are these are truths?
As we age, we gain certain strengths by surrendering others.
But as we know, with great strength comes....
Which is a bit of a crock, given that the responsibility now lays with people who are likely to forget that it's Sunday, or that their glasses are sitting on top of their heads.
Perhaps my fading mental power is a result of having achieved the goal of near self destruction in my mid 30's?
In which case, job well done !!
Another one to cross off the list.
Now if I can just get into the next decade wearing pants in the correct manner, I shall be happy.

When You Are Riding The Roller-Coaster, Remember to Wear Dark Pants.

There is a Theme park in Malaysia where people can observe the changing seasons from behind thick glass. This is not as crazy as it seems.
In Malaysia there are only two seasons.
Wet.
And not so wet.
If you spend your entire life in Malaysia, you may never feel a breeze let alone smell spring or see snow.
The other day I was on a bus travelling from the Kowloon peninsula, known locally as 'the dark side', back to my beloved island, when I looked out to discover a small park hidden amongst the Forrest of buildings and highways.
Of all things,the park had a short winding path with yellow falling leaves scattered on the ground.
It was like bathing my eyes in cool water.
My brain was transfixed and I couldn't turn away from its beauty.
I looked around the bus to see if anyone else had noticed, but how could they?
Not when there are candies to crush and pigs to kill.
The song 'Big yellow taxi' kept playing in my head.
Whether it's a paved paradise or a gangsters paradise it matters not.
I have never really been an active greenie.
I love the outdoors. I love the ocean. I love mountains too, but I never really go to battle for them.
I have a friend, Ben, for whom I suffered a futile crush in high school, who has gone on to dedicate his life to saving the  planet in an active and useful way.
He and I once went fishing off a pier in Sydney Harbour.
I used to do that a lot in my teens.
Home wasn't easy.
Hoping to hook more than the usual fare of leather jackets - the fish not the garment- I invited Ben out for a days sitting and waiting.
I remember someone playing the new Phil Collins CD on repeat in a house nearby that travelled across the water making the day complete.
The song "Sussudio" still takes me back there.
It's funny what nostalgia can do.
Now in my fourties, I try to look back to examine the paths that have lead me to the place I currently inhabit.
We are all born at the beginning of a journey, are we not ?
And every movement, forward, backwards or sideways means we forge through previously unmarked clay until we arrive at the place we were always destined to attend.
No two people every experience the exact same path in the exact same way.
The hackneyed 'walk a mile in my shoes' phrase is only hackneyed because of how true it is.
And the older I get, the more the pain of every miss step, every fork in the road, every dark alley, every circular motion seems to fade into insignificance. 
I am here, because this is where I am.
Don't get me wrong, I am not a fatalist. 
I believe that the choices we make shape our lives, but sometimes we don't always have choices, and sometimes the choices of others are so powerful and all consuming that we are knocked sideways by their impact. 
But as I have oft quoted to those laboured with listening to me, it's not how we fall, but how we get up that counts.
A Stage Director told me that once. I was 8 or 9.
It's never left me.
Lately I have been working with a man-child who is part bully/part unwashed intelligentsia.
Like all child prodigies he appears to have been over mothered and under parented.
Demanding and pouting seems to have worked for him in the past, he still uses it to get what he thinks he wants.
It is a learned behaviour.
It doesn't get far with me, I tend to ignore bluster and get on with what needs to be done.
I went to the academically significant Sydney Girls High School.
If you are going to get all " I'm a genius" on me, you'd better bring your A game.
Plus, I have learned the secret of life, and that is that we are all dying.
Each and every one of us, so bluster away until your blusterer's sore.
The light we see from the stars happened hundreds of years ago, in space our understanding of time is immaterial, and in effect, you are already dead. 
Some find this a disturbing thought.
Not me. 
I see my life as a theme park anyway, with all the clowns, roller coasters, wild lions, dancing monkeys, performing seals, arcade games, hot air balloons, popcorn and fairy floss a girl can handle.
What ever happens, I'm ready.
Got my fast pass, my camera, and a pair of comfy shoes.
Race you to the next attraction ;)

Crazy...I Was Crazy Once....Worms Ate My Brain...It Drove Me Crazy...

Some days I feel like I am in a giant well-furnished room, waiting for death.

Before my daughter leaps on a plane, I wish to say on record that the ever present Black Dog is not sitting on my lap. He has been circling the room same as usual for the last 10 or so years, and I NEVER break eye contact. He stays a respectful distance away, and I know EXACTLY where he is at all times.

Constant Vigilance, as Mad Eye Moody says.

In reality, all is well.

Well, quite well.

It’s just that some very real truths are upon me.

I had my children young by today’s standards. In the estates of certain counties in certain countries I might well be a grandmother by now, but in MY group of peers, I was a VERY early bloomer. Shall we say.

My babies are all well and truly fledged into adulthood.

They still love me- most days- and I love them always, but in reality my job as life provider is done.

In spite of the fact that my womb reminds me, with astonishingly accurate time keeping, that the shop is still open for business and available for action, the truth is that I have mentally handed her her pink slip. She has retired, although she may not know it yet.

My ‘career’ such as it is, has provided me with enough amusement to entertain myself for a few years now, but even that has lost some of its sparkle.

I feel blessed to have been in a position to express my creativity, and I hope- I believe- that I have provided enough entertainment, even in the form of malicious gossip, to amuse others for the moments that they may otherwise have spent hammering nails into their eyeballs.

Only one thing worse than being talked about….and that is having your name misspelt in the press.

So what happens now?

In the last few months mortality has leapt into my consciousness time and time again. There was a time, rather too recently, when my ‘sound bite du jour’ was announcing that I had known of 6 adult deaths within 6 weeks. Sadly this is true. Some of these people I knew well enough sit quietly and weep for, some I knew only to mourn, as one does, more for the pain of others . One was an absolute prick when living, and my only curiosity was the number of people who, having mostly ignored him for the past several years due to his unfortunate manner of having been a prick, then canonised him in death.

Apparently we are never to speak ill of the dead. I wonder why?

They are dead.

What can they do about it?

Yesterday I discovered what a nematode is.

This was because I was cleaning out my fish tank, the one with the goldfish I thought would die a year ago after having been won at a Chinese New year fair that then went on to cannibalise all the other creatures in the tank and thus quadruple in size, and to my HORROR, and that word MUST be shouted in your head when you read it,I saw little white wiggle worms.

I almost dropped the tank.

I actually wretched, rushed to the sink, covered my arms to the elbows in half a cup of Dettol and started scrubbing with a nail brush. I then changed the sheets, and all the towels, and with my hands stinging typed the words ‘little white worms and fish tanks’ into Google to discover that these fucking things live in our water all the time.

I still get bile in the back of my throat as I am writing this.

Nematodes are round worms. There are 28,000 species of them; of which 16,000 are parasitic…that’s right, parasites.

Excuse me whilst I go and wash my hands.

The ones that are sometimes seen in fish tanks are completely harmless to fish and people. They eat algae and the reason they become visible is because they have so much algae that they get big. Over feeding leads to algae in tanks.

Therefore, due to that fact that my poor lonesome snail and tank buddy killing ten dollar goldfish gets fed too often and doesn’t eat anything other than other fish and sometimes peas ( I read about goldfish liking peas online)  The nematodes have been having a field day and are now visible to the naked eye. There were about 6 of them.

I say were because I swiftly put the goldfish in a cup (which I later threw out just in case) and scoured that fucking fish tank to within an inch of its life with boiling water and a new wire scourer which is also now in the bin.

Goldfish, that is his name, is now back happily swimming around in a sparkling tank without a worry in the word, and not a nematode in visible sight.

But I now know that they are always there.

This is what my life has become.

I have recently moaned to others who try and care, that I need to do something to give back to the community. People in horrible countries live with worms all the time, and no one seems to give a shit, and if they do, they do from a distance.

My life, although filled with friends and family who love me, and art and good things, feels somewhat rutted.

Phil Collins reminds me that this is another day in paradise.

I’m worried that I might not survive another 40 years of the clean white walls and foie gras.

Nice as it is, if this is all there is, I may be doomed.

Nice is not quite enough for me. I have had money, and had no money. It’s the same, only one has more side dishes and a better bottle of dessert wine at the end.

I am yet to win a Booker prize, or own my own jet plane, it’s true, there are things I wish to experience. I want to see the aurora borealis.

But if I don’t, and I die, will it have mattered?

Honestly, not really. Not to anyone but me, and I won’t care anymore.

My body will be devoured by the worms whose existence may on the surface seem less meaningful than my own, except that according to Wiki, if all the nematodes died out, so would everything else.

So I sit.

In my waiting room.

A magazine in hand.

Reading about a woman whose breasts are made from plastic and whose vagina secretes enough perfume to entertain a man who plays soccer all day to make money and who has a larger income than 99% of the world’s population and I ask myself.

Does her dress make her look like a prostitute?

And who the fuck cares?

When she dies, the worms will eat her too.

But not her tits.

And that about sums it up really.

I See London, I see France...

For the second time in two days my knickers have fallen down whilst I was walking down the street.

Please do not imagine that this is a mating call of any kind, nor is it a sign that I am dramatically losing weight, in spite of an observable increase in my level of exercise. No. This has more to do with elastic, chiefly cheap elastic, and the perils of living in a shopping Mecca.

I hate shopping. Well, no, that’s not true. I like grocery shopping. And if I need to buy things for the home or myself, I will. But I hate browsing.  Especially for clothes. Endless looking and touching things, trying them on and  thinking about it and walking away feels to me like the female equivalent of watching the opening 4 minutes of plot development in a porn film and switching off just as the ‘actress’ gets on her knees. What is the point? We are here to see the act, not admire the artful placement of props. If the secretary/boss thing is what does it for you, by all means include a desk, but why the fuck dress the set with a hired ficus? The only shrubbery relevant is not sitting in a white pot.

But I digress. Around where I live there are a number of clothing outlets. Hong Kong is awash with every kind of consumer item ever known or conceptualised, and with the world’s largest factory a mere train ride away, this city positively groans under the weight of ‘stuff’. Sometimes this stuff gets stuck here, for a variety of reasons, and rather than wing its way to your local mall, in ends up in open topped cardboard boxes in shops run by bored, and surprisingly badly dressed, middle aged women.

It is here where we see the free market at work. Day after day, luxury goods, and cheap crap as well, is sold at pennies to the pound to a population who average a total of 100 square foot living space per person.

Total.

But why not buy with bargains like these?

As the 1000 per cent mark-up-roundabout swings over, under and through the free World economy let’s look at the much renowned trickle-down effect.

To give you an example of how underwear consumerism works, a genuine label Victoria’s Secret teddy set which costs between $700- $1000 HKD retail in the store in the states is sold here in an outlet for $70 - $100 HKD. The outlet has paid $7-$10 HKD per piece, which in turn has cost 70 cents to a dollar to manufacture. The labourer working in the sweatshops of China or Bangladesh is making less than 7 cents per garment. If she is lucky she will make $2 USD a day- which at today’s rate is $16 HKD, thus, were she to buy that same garment from , say, the catalogue it would only take her a year to a year and a half to buy herself something nice.

However my truth is that I don’t think about the purchases of my under-things because I hate shopping, so when I am out and I walk past an outlet, I grab half a dozen pair, usually in black and sling them into the spare room where they stay until  my helper comes to tidy up. It’s my way of not ever having to deliberately shop. I do not treasure these garments, because I am surrounded by them.  Like most women who live in Hong Kong, the idea of having a set number of underwear is laughable. Run out of clothes? Are you MAD? I may as well start buying British beef.

So why are my knickers falling down in the street? Well because elastic, whether it is sewn into the hem of highly sought after lacy French knickers, or across the waistband of a pair of Bonds, hates be repeatedly boiled and tumble dried but that is how we do it at my place (actually my beloved laundryman Raymond does this and he folds my clothes and makes them smell like summer).

Twice- TWICE - this week, the bastard things have given up the ghost. So I went into my ‘small’s drawer and decided to start a cull, and it was then that I started to count.

I own 32 pairs of underwear.  

This is a ridiculous amount. I only have one bum.  Split into two parts, but still one organ essentially.

I own 14 bras. Once again, although they come as a pair, I have one set of tits.

I am THAT consumer, I am THAT indulged, and quite honestly I am ashamed of myself.

Because I know that this is a folly. We as a planet need to get a grip on what we consume. Not just the eating part, but the owning part and the buying part. We make things we do not need and buy things we do not really want just to own them.  Owning shit has become the realisation of our supposed value, and yet the true value of these things is vastly overplayed.  

I do not need 4 weeks’ worth of panties.  I need a 7 day supply of well looked after undergarments that I appreciate and take care of.  This year I am attempting to reduce my impact on the planet in tiny and meaningful ways, and my first act of heroism is to drastically cut back on anything that isn’t immediately consumable. Food, yes - another necklace to join my collection of necklaces, no.

No more buying stuff because it is there.

From now on, the only reason you will find me in the street sans underwear will be because I am in a flowy skirt, it’s hot and sometimes I like to live a little dangerously or if there is an American Fleet in town in which case it won’t be my fault. As my Grandmother used to say during the war, the trouble with cheap elastic is, one Yank and your knickers fall down.

Hi, I'm looking for a Penis, and you look like a Dick.

I am about to open up about my sex life.
So if the mental image of me gettin' jiggy wid' it is likely to cause permanent retinal scaring, it's best you change the channel now.
Right, now that my kids are no longer reading this, lets talk.
I love sex. I truly do. Always have, and hopefully always will.
There have been times in my life when the 'on' button has been temporarily 'offed' as the ESLers say, but these were miserable times.
After the breakup of my marriage I took a voluntary vow of celibacy, which was lucky because it coincided with a drop in libido that could at best be described as an Arctic winter and at worst a nuclear decimation of all things physical.
My spiritual self was in desperate need of repair, my physical body was also a wreck having spent an amount of time in purgatory being punished for having the audacity to house my wounded soul.
My heart was barely beating, and there was nothing short of a small car battery and a set of nipple clamps that was going to make my clitoris thump in time to music.....which it did, but we will get to that part later......
Being celibate by choice is incredibly life enhancing, but only for short periods of time and not really if you are a man of the cloth.
What?
You don't read the papers?
Give me a break.
In fact, if I may just talk about something other than myself for a moment, can we all just admit now that asking people to give up all sexual desires and dedicating ones self to an organisation based on guilt and secrecy is NOT what any God- (if in fact there is a God which I personally believe there is not but back to the burning bush issue )- would have had in mind when he designed genitalia.
It's for reproduction, that sex organ in your hand gentlemen, and if God didn't want you to have sex, he'd have left it out of the blueprint.
He's like that.
He's a GOD.
Anyhoo, back to my sex life.
Back then, I was celibate because I was broken and I needed the energy to repair, which I did.
And then, I found a fuck buddy.
Well, actually, I didn't FIND him, I knew him- hence the term buddy, we'd just never had sex before.
Now, this town is small, so there will be no names, but I just want to acknowledge publicly that THAT sex was the best sex I had ever had in my life up to that point, and I know my way around the fleshy bits.
Perhaps it was the fact that it was just pure, unadulterated, no other agenda, hard core fucking.
Perhaps it was the fact that with no fear of judgement attached I could ask for, and receive any old kinky shit I wanted.
Hell, he was getting free sex, what did he care if I needed to be blindfolded and trussed up like a turkey just to get the engine ticking over?
His needs were somewhat secondary, no offense.
I was trying to raise the Titanic, his job was to provide the ropes, not lead the orchestra.
Anyway, it worked. I climbed down from my mountain hideaway and back up into that saddle and onto that horse.
And for that I shall love him always.
That was a while ago, and my buddy and I - having sorted out my shit- are back to being friends without the benefits.
Since that time, things in the bedroom department have veered from the pedestrian to the outlandish depending on a number of factors some of which have been spoken about here before.
Singledom for a White Woman in Hong Kong is a tremendously complicated emotional maze designed by blind architects and built by packs of rabid out of work circus performers lacking opposing thumbs.
If you wade your way to the centre of the minefield you will be met by marauding hoards of tone deaf musicians murdering love ballads whilst standing on mounds of broken hearts and piles of shattered dreams.
Then, if you can make your way over the tinder dry flammable bridges littering your path and out the other side with a sense of humour still attached to your lips, you may just meet someone almost worthy of sharing a taxi and an AIDS Test Appointment with.
If not, it's back into the maze you go for another round of shits and giggles.
However a bonk- as the British say- is not quite as complicated.
Getting laid, if one wishes to get laid, can happen rather more easily and without the need for a ball of string, a compass and an emergency matchbox filled with Mercury.
Now I know as I write this, that there are many ladies- some of whom I know will read my drivel- who will disagree.
Often I hear my sisters in arms complain of the lack of a hard man coming into their neighborhood or coming anywhere near ANY hood for that matter, but I think that this 'Donger Drought' needs some further investigation.
Because girls, it is out there.
You just have to know a) where to look and b) what it is you are ACTUALLY looking for.
Men do not multi task.
We know this.
Evolution has dictated that the male of the species, being generally bigger and slightly simpler, be used to carry out important tasks like hunt and kill.
You will note that these two things are not actually two things, but one thing with two different names.
Therefore, men can do one thing at a time. And they do that one thing with skill and high levels of concentration.
This was once useful because if they fucked up, they would die.
Woman do multi task.
Evolution has dictated that the female of the species handle every other bloody thing on the 'to do' list whilst men are busy concentrating on a task such as taking out the garbage or drinking beer.
And yet woman think- and for this they have only themselves to blame- that if they can get a man to have sex with her, he may be thinking of a way to form a partnership and maybe buy a house together.
Sweetheart. When a man is having sex with you, he is thinking about the sex he is having with you RIGHT THEN AND THERE.
When he has orgasmed, he falls asleep. He is no longer thinking AT ALL.
When he wakes up, he is thinking about either food, his full bladder or his next task.
He is NOT thinking about the 'love you just made', that's your job, along with finding out where the condom went so the maid doesn't find it and wiping the strawberry flavoured fun jelly off the mirror.
I know this is true because- remarkably for a woman so clearly marked by oestrogen overload- when it comes to sex, I am wired like a guy.
Which might also go some way to explaining how it is that no matter what my waist size, my beauty regime or the height of my heels, when it comes to 'Booty' I get what I want, when I want it.
It's mental.
And by this I don't mean "Oh my God Wendy, you are totally mental" I mean the sex you want to have is available to you if you adopt the right frame of mind.
But there is a MASSIVE clue as to what is real in the last statement.
THE SEX YOU WANT TO HAVE.
Many women I know tell themselves, and others, that at their age, the only sex they want is with a 26 year old Swedish back packer named Gustav who is working his way 'round the globe with little more than an beaten up old guitar and a 9 and a half inch prick.
Bullshit.
These are the same ladies- and girls, I love you, I do- who will weep into their skinny lattes when Gustav discovers that for less than the price of a happy meal he can hump a 19 year old named Wincy and stay in her families beach house for free.
Such is the way of things.
He was NEVER thinking about tomorrow, he was thinking about THEN and THERE and when you are not THEN and THERE his mind, and his lovely prick, will wander.
It's not because he's an arsehole, it's because YOU told the universe that all you wanted was mindless sex, when what you REALLY wanted was someone to hold, and there is NOTHING wrong with that, it just wasn't the truth.
Last night I heard the words Cougar Town being used within earshot of my good self.
I am not a cougar.
I do not hunt in so narrow a field.
Some days I do not hunt at all.
I am a busy girl.
I have a MAJOR 'To Do' list with me at all times.
I do have 'needs', but I do also have an alarming number of toys that buzz and whirl and I am excellent at wand work.
If time is short, and the urge arises, I will set my vibrator to 'Stun' and still make my lunch meeting, hair and make-up in place.
If time is less pressing, and there is no 'significant swordsman' filling my inbox , I will survey the landscape and send up the smoke signals.
If I decide I may want more than the fulfilling of my immediate needs, then I shall sit still and wait.
The Ox is slow, but the Earth is patient, little grasshopper.
It's about knowing what you TRULY, TRULY want, and then having the courage to ask for it, and the balls to grab it when you see it.
Sound like hunting?
I guess it is.
That's how guys do it, and if you want to get some-just like the guys always seem to, even the fat, bald, old ugly ones - then you will have to embrace that attitude or forevermore be at one with the power of the AA battery.
Tell yourself the type of sex you want, whisper it to the Sun, and then walk out the door and get it.
Simple as that.
Do not lie to yourself, or to the Wind, because your lie will sit there like a fart in a still room.
Do not shy away from being satisfied.
Why should you?
Have you done something that means you are no longer worthy of succumbing to pleasures of the flesh?
Are you dead?
I think not.
And if you should find yourself yearning only for true and deep love, DO NOT SETTLE for anything less.
You deserve that too, and no one will judge you- least of all me.
Once at a party, I sat next to a woman who was clad head to toe in Red Latex.
I never learned her name.
I was not supposed to.
She was in total submission which was, I was assured, her unbridled desire.
Her 'keeper' informed me that this behaviour was the very thing that had kept their 24 year strong marriage together, such are the exotic tastes out there in the marketplace.
I sat quietly beside her and ignored her as best I could.
Ever the talker, the list of questions I did NOT ask her nearly drove me to distraction.
Having endured the silence for as long as I could manage, and with the arrival of a man pierced through the cock ( a Prince Albert) with a chain linked to his dog collar being led around the room by his huge and hairy boyfriend to distract me, I stood to leave.
Without wishing to break The Rules, I turned away from Little Red Rubber Hood- the name I had given her- and started to leave.
She suddenly gave a shudder and a moan, looked up at me and whispered " Thank you".
We had just had sex and all the while, I had had no idea I was even playing.
Jesus wept.
If only it was that simple for everyone, think of how much money we'd save on booze.
Happy hunting Girls.