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.

The Fastest Way To A Mans Heart....

is through his chest with an axe.
This week I learned the word ' misandrist'.
It means 'men hating'.
I had thought that that was misogyny but it turns out that misogyny really only applies to hating women.
The word misandrist is rarely used any more because apparently no one hates men.
I don't hate men also.
In fact, it would be fair to say that a large number of my closest friends are men.
Which is not the same thing as saying 'some of my friends are black' because in truth many of my friends are gay.
So back to me being single, which is what we are actually talking about.
In the past 5 weeks I have been hit on more times than in my living memory.
By men.
Straight ones.
This probably has something to do with the fact that for the past 5 weeks I have spent more time in pubs and at parties than in the last 5 years.
It's cyclical.
In truth, unless I am working, my favourite nighttime position is curled up on a sofa watching either cooking shows or Criminal investigations depending on what time of the month it is.
When I do venture out, it's often with a group of friends I feel comfortable enough to be myself with and quite often ends well before pumpkin hour with the late night purchase of an overpriced tub of Hagan Daz at the local 7/11 and half an hour of the disappointingly misnamed Naked Chef.
My dancing on table top days are well behind me.
I am not sad.
My knee joints are not what they used to be- in spite of the horse tranquiliser sized glaucosomine tablets I shove down my gullet every morning - along with Omega 3, a couple of multi vits, some Evening Primrose, milk thistle for my poor old liver and the contraceptive pill.
Because I am an optimist.
The trouble with men and me, is that the ones who have made an approach in the last month or so are all just so fucking revolting.
As opposed to being revolting fucks which, as I have not actually fucked any of them, I can not in good faith quantify.
But there is a reason for that too.
If you are interested in a woman,gentlemen, - and here's a tip- try not to grab her face and all but drown her in slobber whilst depositing 4 inches of tongue into the back of her throat without so much as a "Hi, my name in Nico and I like your dress".
This actually happened to me , not once but THREE TIMES in one night.
The first time I was so shocked I was prepared to believe I had imagined it.
The second time I thought " perhaps I was too hasty, a bird in the hand etc etc etc"
And by the third time I was ready to call the police.
A mere 3 nights later I was approached by a chap whose opening gambit was to buy me a drink and then bore me to death with pictures of his favourite ice hockey team.
Woah, hold me back, my womb is on fire.
Hero number 3 was a muso, which is usually enough, but his " Hey babe, I've set the ground rules the next move is yours" coolness made me wonder if I was secretly being filmed for a reality show where men trapped in the 80's were brought into the future for a style makeover that involved an amount of bitch slapping.
Man, you are so hip and all that I may actually want to smash a chair into your face before ordering, and paying for, the next round.
Punter 4 - yes I told you, it's been a bumper month- was an old acquaintance who spent half the evening reminding me of the mutual friends we have ( I can't stand any of these people so ba boooow) and the other half telling me how much money he earns.
Really? Is your penis actually THAT small. I had heard that from one of our mutual female friends but I thought she was lying.
Man 5 was also someone I had met before- in fact on an Internet date- and this unexpected reunion reminded me that I had given him a false phone number the first time around. I recall that he may have starred in his very own WAG blog about 18 months ago on account of him being a total douche that night also.
Let your no be no as they say in The Bible.
Mr 6, let's call him Granddad, was the final straw that made me reconsider my position on lesbianism.
There I am, minding my own business but being polite on a rooftop party somewhere in this vast city of old white men and their inflated egos when who should decide that I am the pick of the bunch but Rip Van Winkle himself.
Now, I know I am no oil painting.
I am 43, 20 pounds overweight and I dress like the 'Before' picture in a stylists advertising campaign but For Fucks Sake.
The offer of dinner at a mid range food chain and a pat on the hand is not going to make me fall on my back with my legs open at 180 degrees, I don't care how much you remember the war.
And I am not being ageist, the truth is that Pops was, without doubt, the MOST boring of a mind numbingly boring lot.
What is it about middle aged men that makes them think that the fact that they own a penis is enough for someone like me to share juices.
I. too, own a penis.
It's purple, about 5 inches long and takes double AA's.
I bought it 2 years ago at The Temple street markets.
We have adventures together.
I love it because it doesn't take more than 2 minutes to clean under a cold tap and never breaks wind in bed.
Ever.
Now I realise I may sound emasculating to some men, but honestly....I am open to approach as long as the approach does not involve you being amazed at how amazing you are and then expecting me to fall in line.
Great, you have a job.
Fantastic, you can afford to by me a drink.
Really, your penis can inflate?
Got anything else?
Ever thought to ask me about myself, for example?
Ever thought of inviting me to a museum?
Or a gallery opening?
Does the idea of fucking my mind interest you even nearly as much as the idea of motorboating my tits because I've seen what penises can do and it's pretty much a one trick pony where the ride lasts about 16 minutes- tops- and ends with some grunting, a wet patch and a score out of 10.
And quite frankly if your dismount is anything like your run up, I may just save us both some effort and buy your ex-wife a martini.
We both owe her at least that much.

It's Gym Life, But Not As We Know It.

After donating 5000 dollars to Fitness First over the last 9 months, I am finally back at the gym.
No biggy, well, one biggy, me- around my neck,chest, back and tummy which is where I prefer to store my fat.
It's day two.
Funny thing is in the course of my adult life I must have lost and gained nearly 200 pounds.
Not all in one go obviously.
THAT you would have noticed.
I was a very skinny girl for a very long time, but like a lot of woman, at some point I began to yo yo.
I could blame the babies, but there are much stronger forces at work here than them- and let's be honest, the youngest baby is now 18.
I look mad when I say "my children have ruined my figure".
Victoria Beckham has had FOUR children and you'd lose her in a toothpick factory.
Genetics play a part.
A long lost cousin once greeted me with the exclamation- " Oh and you are an 8 just like the rest of us!!"
She was referring to shape rather than size.
Big boobs, a waist, hips.
Stand a bunch of the Foley women together- the ones that share a certain Portuguese roundness- and we could all be clones.
Childhood sexual abuse plays a role too.
There's nothing like being forced to suck your stepfathers prick at the age of 6 to set you up for a lifetime of fear of your own body and a general trauma regarding male intimacy.
Too strong?
Get over it.
I'm tired of how polite we are to paedophiles.
Jimmy Savile anyone?
There is no question at all to the link between my hoovering through a fridge and a man showing interest in me.
"You think I'm sexy do you?" I'll inwardly challenge "well take THIS!!!" and then I will inhale a box of donuts covered in ice cream with a side order of chocolate fudge just to prove my point.
" How do you like me NOW!!??"
At least these days I can recognise the triggers.
When a man gives me 'that look', I try -try- to stick to over eating vegetables.
I have been known to eat 12 ears of corn in a single sitting.
You probably think I'm kidding.
I'm not kidding.
Trouble is, I love butter too.
And that's the third problem.
Why do they have to make food so damn tasty?
Salty things, and then sweet things. Savoury things and things that are crunchy.
I love them all.
I sometimes think about my cat, and how he eats things that all look the same.
Sure, tuna and whitebait is not the same thing as mackerel and gravy, but to my nose, they seem equally boring coming out of the tin.
If food was boring, I would eat it less.
Anyway, I'm back at the gym.
When I first joined a while back I went a LOT and lost 40 pounds.
The last 9 months I have worked hard at gaining it back.
A couple of years before then I used to learn boxing and a tiny bit of MMA with the lovely Daniel.
I loved punching things.
You don't have to be a genius to work out whom I dedicated my fiercest right hooks to.
And this leads me to my point.
As I sat today in the sauna after a particularly strenuous workout I recognised, not for the first time, that the reason I NEED to exercise has little to do with weight.
It's about me.
It's about doing something FOR ME.
I was raised by a hardcore narcissist.
One that didn't really cope or make good choices.
Too strong ?
Oh well.
Let someone else sugar coat the bitter pills, I've given that task up for Lent...forever.
So I learned early to have close relationships with people who were great at taking but weren't all that great at giving back.
It wasn't until I was in my late 30's that that came to a halt.
Fairly dramatically, it must be said, but needs must.
It had taken me the better part of 4 decades to learn the words 'I want', and once I had learned them, there was no turning back.
And I suspect, and I really mean this, that when I exercise, I actually physically remove the toxins of anger and frustration and sadness that are stored inside my fat cells.
Is that bizarre?
I know enough about body chemistry to understand cortisol and stress and the link to obesity.
I know about endorphins.
But when I actually feel the pain I carry inside release from my body as I exercise, well....I am not entirely sure how to explain it.
And yet, time and time again I have put off making myself well.
I am 50 pounds fatter than I should be, and at least 20 of that is just pent up fucked-off-ness. 
And it's time to let that go.
For good.
I am a lucky person.
My life is now filled with caring, compassionate people who take the time to tell me I am worthy.
I have learned to love myself.
It has been an uphill and high calorific battle, but it is one that I hope to win.
Step by sweaty step.

But Grandma, What a Slippery Tongue You Have !!

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me yourears.
Language can be a tricky thing.
Especially when one is speaking in a tongue not originating from your mother.
Many a hostile development has sprung forth from that same tongue when slipped.
A slippery tongue is both a blessing and a curse.
In the last 5 years or so I have managed to pick up about an extra 500 Cantonese words.
Given that I have lived in a Cantonese speaking country for nearly 14 years in total, that's pretty appalling.
On average, I have learned 0.097 words a day.
I have to say though, that 5 years ago I could barely mutter much beyond " Good morning, please take me to the ferry pier" so these new words are a vast improvement.
Mostly I speak food and directions, but I have also managed along the way to learn some truly obscure nouns that enhance my life in ways as yet undiscovered.
For example, I know the word for 'petal'- which is 'fa-fa'.
It makes some sense as I have long known that the words ' fa yuen' mean 'garden'.
I learned the word 'fa fa' when an insane person I was working with on a production suddenly required hundreds of red rose petals 3 hours before opening. Rather than dick around trying to mime "please help me I am working with a crazy person so I need you to de-head 300 roses and can I have a discount?" I explained my problem to a Chinese friend who said " just ask for fa fa" which worked to tremendous effect.
Who knew?
I also have the word 'hau ma'- long a on the ma- which means Hippo- or 'water horse'- which is what Hippopotamus means in English too, via Ancient Greek.
Hippo is probably a word I will not need to often.
I almost never order them at restaurants.
But should I ever be on a river cruise on the Zambezi, and should the boat be filled with tourists from Hong Kong or Guangzhou, and a Hippo should appear I shall be able to shout " WAH, hi do ho di hau ma " ( Loosely " Wow, a big Hippo is here") and shall no doubt save the day as the Chinese tourists would have been looking in the opposite direction, and I shall become famous as a cunningliguist and they shall make a film about me that stars Selma Hayek playing the lead role.
Perhaps this is a useful word after all.
There are words I know that make me feel silly when I say them - the word for domesticated cat in Cantonese is 'meow'....well, that's what I am told......and the words for colouring in are 'wa wa' which is just silly for reasons I can not even explain.
Thanks to the shop G.O.D every foreigner knows at least one decent expletive.
They print t-shirts and bags with the motto ' Delay No More' which when strung together quickly in Cantonese means "Go fuck your Grandmother".
Which is nice.
I have used that once or twice at taxi drivers who piss me off.
But only after I am out of the cab.
I am not too sure about HOW rude this phrase is.
Which leads us to the nuance of language.
In the play I am currently directing there is a script instruction ( dialogue) using the words " God damned".
For me, these words hold no meaning.
I am Godless, so being 'God damned' would seem to me to be as useful as being Care Bear stared.
Although you should never break eye contact with a Care Bear.
I speak from experience.
However the lovely lady who needs to say these words has a perfectly legitimate issue with the phrase.
She DOES have a God in her life.
Being God damned is not something she dismisses as easily as I do.
So we have changed those - I would say harmless but she would say sacrilegious- words for an expletive which makes the idea of taking your toothless aging grandma for a spin in the sheets something you should pencil in every Sunday morning.
I have blushed.
Others have gasped.
One has questioned my sanity.
But we are sticking with it.
SHOCKUTAINMENT is one of my favourite newly made up words in the English language.
Along with 'fucktard', a word I use with gay abandon.
I just meet so many.
I have always been a fan of the word 'reconnoiter'- apropos nothing.
Just thought I'd share.
In the end, words are just words right?
Sticks and stones etc etc etc.
Unless they are written with a pen, which is mightier than the sword.
But everyone types these days.
So no harm done.
As Bill Shakespeare once said , it's all Greek to me.