Slinging Back to Singapore

The sticker on the front bus shade read -Sucker knob made in Taiwan. It made this antique Englishman smile with its double entendre. We were, once again, riding the wasp coloured super bus down to Singapore. My hard working wife entertained yet another business call as I searched for the seat latch, and I am certain that our hostess really did not mean quick relief when she mentioned the toilets.

Meanwhile I listened to Quicksilver Messenger Service on my earphones, to drown out the constant babble from the two elderly Indian aunties in the front seats. I was trying to sleep, but being disturbed by memories of Jude and I listening to the very same album, in Mann's Music, 1967, grooving to the beats in our impressionable hippy youth.

That day, that old Malaysian North/South Highway rolled through acres of rubber or palm oil plantations, bouncing gradually down towards that consumer materialistic island which brings Malaysia to a full stop. With a head full of electric guitar feedback, equatorial insects committing suicide on the windscreen, I projected foward, thinking of the second launch of our charity book and the preparations we need to oversee when we arrived. My love slept, curled in her stretched back seat. She was the reason I was there. The reason for our travel and the originator of the book's conception. She woke, smiled. We kissed. Ain't life grand on that yellow and black Aeroline.

The Robertson Quay Hotel may not have been the worse hotel that I have ever stayed in, but it was a close call. The double room that we had booked, contained the smallest double bed I have seen for a very long time. The shower/toilet was just that, combined. It was possible to do both at once. A few inches away, beside my head, in the part of the room devoted to that miniscule bed, on one side was the all metal safe, on the other an equally head splitting shelf. A head banger's delight if ever there was one.

One of the hotel's features, was that the room came with breakfast. It seemed like a good idea. That was, until we saw the boiled chicken frankfurters, the cold scrambled egg and the overly sweet baked beans lurking in the dimly lit, so-called, dining room. Coffee was, of course, stewed. We exited to find something vaguely edible outside. The proliferation of fusion, or is that confusion, restuarants in the local mall did not help. Singapore does not awaken until 10.30am. Ho hum. 

To Have and Have Not

Despite relgions and philosophies which remind us that, ultimately, it is people and our interaction with them that counts, there are some for whom the baseline is always money. It is a sad fact, that some individuals walk around constantly computing the cost. Weighing up who contributes what and how much. It is the cause and prolongation of arguments, fostering ill will and insecurities.

 Growing up impoverished, on the rural Suffolk/Essex border of England, I quickly realised the value of money, but never let the rush to wealth concern me. My mother was a housekeeper to the landed gentry and my father a farm worker. I frequented the homes of inherited wealth as a small boy, and experienced other people's money. Though to talk about money, or to have any interest in money, for them, was crass.

 I have never experienced personal wealth. If I have enough to pay the bills, and some left over, then I am fine. I have had large sums of money stolen from me. I had my house and car stolen by an ex-wife, and put those down to experience. Money, for me, is a necessary evil, one that I could well do without. I am therefore constantly surprised by the value that other people place on money. Surprised that it becomes a focus, for some, in their lives.

When there is so much to learn, do and see in this incredible world, it is sad that some souls let money colour their view. I doubt that I shall ever change except, perhaps, to become poorer in the financial stakes. How people judge me because of this is up to them, for I pity them. 

Can't Buy Me Love

Exs are often held in awe by present partners.They have their own mythos. They have been there before, know the lay of the land and as Dylan once sang 

“I forgot more than you'll ever know about her.

You think you know the smile on her lips

The thrill and the touch of her fingertips

But I forgot more than you'll ever know about her.

You think you'll find heaven of bliss

In each caress, in each tender kiss

But I forgot more than you'll ever know about her.

You stole her love from me one day

You didn't care, oh, it hurt me

But you can never steal away memories of what used to be.

You think she's yours, to have and to hold

Someday you'll learn, when her love grows cold

But I forgot more than you'll ever know about her.”

It’s daunting, knowing that someone was in your place, understanding your partner, the intimacy, foibles, the emotional and physical cartography.

We’ve all been there, the concern that she/he will go back to them, return to the comfort of the familiar. We measure ourselves against them. How do we measure up. Are we good enough. When the ex is rich, a millionaire, other insecurities come into play. How can I give her/him what he/she gave her/him. Am I a lesser person because I cannot giver her/him what they are used to, desire, want. It was something that plagued me, until yesterday. Yesterday I realised that this particular ex, was a dick.

He couldn’t let go. He hounded her, trying to weasel his way back into her affections, and when that did not work, began to issue threats. Millionaire or no millionaire there are limits. Some simply cannot understand that money cannot buy love, as the Beatles sang. But they try. He was like a poor rich kid whose favourite toy had been taken away. He stomped and raged in anger. It had not happened before, how could his money not buy him what he wanted. It was beyond his reasoning capacity. More threats, this time against me. Our marriage was a fake and I a conman. Cutting words surely, but his blade was dulled by his anger. He was a spent force and I knew it.

The upshot of this particular ex’s remonstrations was that he demystified himself. He tore away the curtain behind which ex’s hide, and revealed a not very nice individual behind. He blew away all those doubts and left me feeling sorry for him. He was unable to move on. Even with his riches, he was just some sad lonely guy trying to cling onto someone already gone. 

When his anger subsides, if it ever does, perhaps he might reflect and understand why that particular relationship failed. People need time, care, comfort. People need their partner to be there physically for them, to hold them when times are rough, not at the end of a phone/laptop/tablet. You have to make time for people, not push them aside while you transact your business, not sit on the edge of the midnight bed calling Canada, Dubai etcetera while your partner looks on. Throwing money at emotion starved partners simply does not work in the long term.

It is sad that some people cannot understand that riches can also make them poor, in human terms. Better to spend your life accruing a better understanding of others, their needs, wants and yes desires too, than to pile your gold. Good deeds last longer than money. Money simply cannot buy love.....

Say you don't need no diamond rings

And I'll be satisfied

Tell me that you want the kind of things

That money just can't buy

I don't care too much for money

Money can't buy me love

Don't be concerned about their exs, it is you who they are with, and there is often a very good reason for that.

Sinking, not Waving

There were days. Balmy, slightly overcast, days when we parked near 99 Speedmarket and partook of char kweuy teow from the small flatbed lorry belonging to Leow Pen Sen and his wife.

Those charred rice noodles came with moist cockles, prawns and the Chinese sausage called lap cheong. The lorry parked quasi legally, without council consent but with the full approval of the visiting school children and office workers who knew where to get the best for their money.

Husband and wife worked so hard, frying rice, frying rice noodles, making sweet herb desserts with Longan. They barely had time to rest before the constant demands of customers were met. They were the finest examples of the protestant work ethic, even though they were Taoist.

The country where I rest is like that.  Some work their non-existent socks off to make an honest living, while others believe that the world should be handed to them on a plate. So the world turns. Vile words are spoken in anger. Those words resound and resonate, growing louder and more vile with the remembering. Strong branches fall beneath the onslaught of the wind and there are pieces not being picked up.

After the storm, silence. It is an uncomfortable silence, full of malevolence beneath the surface, partially caged tigers of anger. It is but the eye of the storm. It is where everything appears calm, but isn't.

Not all husbands and wives can last like the hard working, rice noodle, couple. There are pressures which rise and fall in a tempestuous sea of emotions. Her persistant past lovers constantly call, upsetting the equilibrium.  New angers arise as his frailties become all to apparent. It is the too-ness and the fro-ness, the ebb and flow of life which squeezes metaphorical blood from petrified humanity.

The desire to escape worries in a barrage of work leads to yet more worries, as those once dear are left behind, lost in the rush. Those forlorn, formerly beloved, hold out needy hands, but are swept away by the overwhelming tide. There are no life-rafts, no life-bouys, no life guard to rescue the drowing - sinking, not waving amidst the onslaught.

of Burgers of Beef and Curried Chicken Pizza

The beef burger was as a home made burger should be, a little lose around the edges but tasty enough in its bun. It wasn't large. No Whopper here, no generous Swiss Centre, I can barely finish this but I'll have a damned good try and diet tomorrow.  The disappointment came with the run of the mill, straight from frozen into the oil chips, which tasted dry no matter the sauce. But overall it was a pleasant enough experience if a snack was all you were after. Though to be honest there are plenty if other places here in Puchong which do much better.

My wife's curry chicken pizza was as bizarre tasting as it sounded, and all on the thinnest pizza base I have come across. I briefy wondered if it were, in fact, a chappati. I had been give roti cannai before as a pizza base so I would not have been surprised. The pretzel later was fine. The coffee overly sharp and the bill faintly ridiculous.

This new pub and restaurant arcade - Setia Walk is rapidly becoming renowned for overpriced food and drink but, sadly,  not for quality. It is a brief haven for the overpaid 20 and 30 somethings with more money than sense. For the rest of us, it is a mere convenience which is becoming financially inconvenient. Better, and more authentic, food and drink are available close by. True it is often without aircon, but are we really so vain.

The promised 20% off TOTAL FOOD BILL never materialised amidst claims that it was a marketing department error. True I was offered a free coffee in compensation, but that would have been a most expensive coffee had I accepted.  I preferred to keep my credibility and write instead.

My wife grumbled on for half a day, believing that we were effectively cheated. We were. So beware. Even should you visit this particular cafe in Setia Walk, do not believe all you read or are told by the staff in regards to discounts using your credit card otherwise, like us, you might fall foul of that cafe's marketing department and spend more than you had intended. 

One Boat that I wish had Sailed

Let's face it, 'steamboat' is basically an anorexic soup that you have to bloodywell cook for yourself. It was one boat that I wish had long since sailed, but it hadn't.

Now chowder I can understand. It's thick and comes ready cooked like any sensible soup. I never had this problem with gazpacho in Spain, even though it was a cold, spiced, tomato soup. But there we were, in a steamboat restaurant,  faced with a multitude of pale fish balls, particles of squid and an assortment of things whizzing around on plates pretending to be sushi,  but were not.

Food on conveyor belts has always seemed a little odd to me. It reminds me of factories and, by extension,  factory farming. I do not need fattening, and my sell by date has, more than likely, long since past.

Hot pots, other than Lancashire,  could most likely be left to Mongols, if indeed it was they who invented them, and their Chinese cousins - the steamboats could also follow them to the far reaches of Mongolia for all I care. If I wanted to cook I would have stayed at home, strangled an egg and scolded some potato with oil. But she who keeps on insisting that she should be obeyed had dragged me, against my will and all that I hold holy, to a steamboat emporium, for dinner.

I languished,  pouting, dreaming of more substantial meals in my recent past. Cinnamon pretzels and roasted duck, though not together you understand, swam before me. Crab claws, dressed and undressed and even partially dressed crab in stockings and suspenders beckoned to me in a miasma.  Succulent cuts of beef metamorphosed into tender steamed chicken until I opened my eyes and witnessed - soup, bloody thin soup and a stack of small plates. The contents of those plates had been tipped into that bubbling morass pretending to be soup, by my patiently smiling wife who sat defiantly next to me. My wife was mentally saying "you may, or may not, like it, but now that you are here you are bloodywell going to eat it" . Hence smiling like Lysistrata.

Pausing in Puchong

Straw stabs through plastic membrane,  milky tea bleeds down container, stains Cambodian white cotton.

I sit futilly dabbing with wet wipe while the excitement of black 'pearls' disappears amidst the constant car drone outside.

It is a pearl milk tea day in Puchong. Shops change their faces quicker than fading hollywood starlets. Coffee houses rise like Reggie Perrin only to fade like him too. Tea rules.  Coffee shops gone. The delicate sound of bandsaws lingers like a midnight mosquito gnawing at my Tuesday morning.

I suck the black 'pearls' like so many peas into my childhood peashooter, before the days of digital games, computers or mobile phones. Essex memories bully their fluffy dice way into my tiring expat consciousness. I mentally shoot all those past friends whose fingers never reach keyboards to send warming emails, and remember all the mails that slip into junk mail to be silent forever in the digital void.

My expatness sometimes cloys, a reminder of my tentative position in my chosen country. There is a constant reminder of my increasing Englishness, the internationalist fading with each year I remain swathed in equatorial heat. Teaching only emphasizes this.

It's a typical sultry day, all half sun and soaring humidity. Puchong asserts its double-parked ambience into my not exactly silent mileau.

Traffic cop draws pad to treaten SUV driver who dashes to rescue their car, drive off to further illicit parking venues not passing go and not collecting £200. Her Cambodian book closed, her H/Blend Coffee -H Hot is left forlornly on the scrubbed wooden table. She has a slight return to curbside parking, while I finish my writing and leave Chatime, taking her half finished coffee to her.