Decadence

Yesterday I went to Raffles, I had a tomato juice two paracetamol, five marachino cherries, twenty cashew nuts (roasted), four glasses of iced water, three monkey nuts and a mild migraine.

From there I went to the Shangri-la Hotel (also five star) I had three glasses of water, four sunblushed tomatoes, eight stalks of baby asparagus, one slice of trout, half a poppyseed bread stick, half a lobster tail, thai chicken salad, fresh pesto, braised duck and sea cucumber (1 tbsp), three pieces of dim sum, four rosemary roast potatoes, an oyster, panneer and peas (1tbsp), eggplant aloo (1tbsp), piece of flat bread, chicken tikka (2 pcs), piece of paratha, three pieces of petit flous, two flumps, one shortbread and one strawberry covered in chocolate fountain, orange mouse, chocolate mouse, mouthful of blueberry pancake, two pieces of melon, half a slice of pineapple, one glass of stellenbosch Cab Sauv. I took a video near the pool.

After that I went to the Gallery Hotel and had a glass of merlot.

Then I moved on to the Fullerton where I petted several carp and then washed my hands. I drank thier house brand Vin de pays and ate at least ten chilli crackers.

This is decadence, five start living in singa's best hotels, eating all you can buffet but posh (they clear your plate and the restaurant is sumptuous modern chic). Much fun was had, but no more for me I'm full, so full but empty.

Clubbing Singa Style

Thursday was going to be a quiet night, we had a weekend of engagements and had already been out twice that week, so needed some rest. But it was not to be, post yoga we had some dinner. Nice and quite chilled, I was then informed that we were on the guest list for Ministry of Sound. Now although bed beckoned this seemed like an opportunity that needed exploited. Cause let's face it a night not planned is always more enjoyable. And most of the City had spent some time queuing to get into this place since it opened a couple of months ago.

MOS as it's conveniently known has been topic of conversation since we arrived, without anything significant to talk about it figures (the frustration has to come out somehow!!). So we'd heard all about the 8000 capacity, 1.5 hour queues, VIP suites, multitude of rooms and themes. I was trying to work out how clubbing like this was possible without the drugs, from what I could see English versions of this sort of thing relied on the clientele being high.

Well anyway we went - we ended up having to go in a posh cab who took advantage of the fact there weren't any other cabs around and bargained with us, we agreed to pay him 5 quid to take us about 1/4 of a mile (I had suggested walking but nobody walks anywhere). So we drew up to the door, stepped from the merc and swanned up to the door - the wrong door it turned out so we limboed under the velvet barriers, stumbled around a bit and got to the right place. Fortunately the crowds had decided Thursday's aren't cool so nobody was their to witness our less then glam entrance.

Into the lobby which had a fucking cool light, thousands of bead shaped lights strung from the ceiling about 15ft above us. Like looking up into lit rain. So I booked the yoga mat and bag into the cloakroom - and showed my glowing forearm to the bouncer - here begins the how many cool things can we think of to do here. We all had been stamped and then when below the luminous light it glowed white on our skins.

In we go to pleasure haven, hedonists central, the ultimate sweet shop for generation x, frivolity and mindless fun in extreme measure. We came into swish back lit bar, looking out across a huge pit of dance floor complete with cages, podiums and speakers the size of tanks. This space was overlooked from above by a curving gallery, with spiral stairwells in three corners with slinky sofa's under them for a darkened place for illicit encounters. The third means of elevation was a escalator - for fuck's sake a bloody escalator in a club (it may well be I haven't been out clubbing anywhere decent for 10 years so if your local late night establishment had such a thing in 2000 please enjoy my naive enthusiasm).

I got a drink and then decided to explore, up the escalator gliding past this vast glass wall which was hung with multiple golden lamps through which you could see the faces of your fellow Sounder's. Feet springing off plush carpet and muffled by the velvet walls I followed the crowd round and begin to really look at who was here, and it turns out everyone was here. Past the darkened red glow of a private room where lonely couples huddled on suede cubes, champagne on ice on glass tables, looking out across pulsating scarlet disco floor, to the window surrounded by flaming fluorescent lights where us mere mortals of the scene could gawp at them and acknowledge their place higher up the food chain. Now heading across a wide gallery, curved with bright white molded stools and tables with translucent tops. Martinis, beers, wine in tall stemmed wine glasses and a MOS staff person quietly leaning across to change the half full fag tray. The whole place is crawling with staff who morph in and out of the darkness, silently clearing glasses, ash, debris that falls from the elegant limbful women who's elbows jut out all over. The pink shirted security also glide in and out of the crowds, quietly reminding us we cannot take anything on to the dance floor except our moves, reminding the Leary that they can't behave exactly as they'd like.

Moving round past doors opening into different coloured rooms, the door opens and you glance into something particular and your aural nerve has to decipher the mix made from music genre meeting genre which is there and then shut off as the door softly rests back snug. There's a bird's eye view of the dance floor, where you can glare down at the dancers in their gladitorial pit as they gradually swell the crowd of swinging, pumping, gyrating bodies which eventually lose their identity and become a mass where you can be lost. Singular souls sit staring out, unsure, alone and waiting for intoxication where they can be vocal and engaged. In groups business men laugh out, beer and bubbly strewn on the table, leggy long haired ladies drape themselves across lean stools. Regular men and women, in work wear or casual - long skirts, slacks, shirts and sweaters nothing special - no cool moves, no flashy drinks - chat and dance, as if at a family wedding. Young kids giggle in groups that multiply then shrink ever few moments as parts are dragged off to dance, fix hair, conspire in romantic trystes. Expat indie boys in low jeans, ugly faces pull tall busty just past 15 year olds towards them, the girls dance against them like they're poles. Punky kids stand solid in small groups. A middle aged grey middling couple are escorted with a be-torched pink shirt to a quiet table, amongst the wobbly white revellers, and unsure side to side dancers.

So here's the difference, this glorious luxuriant, crazy club was full of ever type of person, no restriction or concern about the look of the clubber. No need to be paid up member of the beautiful people, or be wearing a particular look, brand, ridiculous symbol of some sort. Everyone is let in, and they're all partying side by side. No derision, fighting, feisty looks. Every crowd and group had a rep, grunge, pop, retro, indie, punk, hip hop, RnB and all the others beyond definition.

I was impressed, especially with the disco room, complete with 20+ mirror balls, proper Saturday Nigh Fever dance floor, mirrors, egg chairs, psychedelic lights and spinning walls. Second fave was the white bar - lit with pinks and blues, with round sofas, individually enclosed with muslin curtains and full of fat cushions.

We danced, imagined we were on the set of a Snoop Doggy Dog video, grinding, writing, pumping. Then we were tried so went next door for a drink, under the stars in a bar with a fish tank and huge ethnic type statues from some ancient civilization (made to look like it anyway) guarding the entrance.

So that was Thursday, Friday was pool party and bbq - swimming in the dark expecting cramp or a monster to come up from below. Saturday we walked over to Malaysia, had some curry, saw some poverty and drunk beer in posh hotel - next door to shacks with corrugated roofs. Our meal for three of us cost us 16.50 ringetts, this is about 2.75 pounds. Our drinks cost us 65 ringetts, or 11 quid. We paid a guy 50 ringetts to take us from the hotel back to the land of wealth and plenty, he was bringing up 7 kids.

Monday - a day in the life of a expat wife

I am now offically a common wife, been to quote and sworn it. Bizarre ceremnony where ahd to raise right hadn and read thign saying if what Is aid about living with Ross was a lie I'd get my ass whipped etc. didn't have to put the other hand on any sort of religius text though...

After my lectuer at the Asian Civiliztion Museum on Motifs in 17th Century late Qing (pronounched Ching) Dynasty Porcelean I ventured forth from the grand portico into the hot sun. The elders of my clan gathered in groups disecting the professor's performance and discussing arrangments for the tennis club ball on Saturday. I considered pledging my time to this venerbale group of mature ladies and joing their group, the Friends of the Museum. However mine is a different path, and although my interest in developing and supporting the worthy arts of these poor nations is honest and true, I have laterly been struck by the cause of the dear children who suffer with various maladies of the mind and soul.

I bid my adieus to Lady Florence and her niece Miss Perriwinkle and made my way towards the Fullerton. Ah it was in that grand building only a week gone by me and my (common) husband sat drinking fresh lemonade and admiring the elegance of the foyay that is newly built. Alas I now spend my days alone, I do not wish to complain for it is such a honour to be here on this Asian adventure and to be at the side of my beloved.

I continued and decided a stroll on this unaccountably fresh day would be good for my nerves. I headed through the business district, admiring the dress of the merchant (bankers) and traders (of commodities). Their women are such handsome and slight ladies of such grace, I watched timidly under my hat aware that custom dictated my behviour should be one of reserve.

I took time to do some reading in the new library called the Lin Turn Et, I think it is only proper that a lady with an edcuated mind maintain her intellect throuh occasional reading and by developing an interest in the history and culture of her place of residence. As I traveller I read with lively interest about the practise and quant traditions of this Lion nation. The local issues, such as the misbehaviour and low morals of the domestic staff and the execution of villanious felons remind me of my own country's troubles. I was however pleased to hear all is not lost to disorder; although charged with a crime, the lady who in the course of direting her maid in her laundary duties inadvertently caused her to fall to her death was given some leaniency by the judge. She was however, cruelly required to pay a fine and had to serve three months incaserated in the goal. It enables me to sleep peacefully of a night to know that crime and punishment are, as yet, taken seriously in this small nation. Fortunatly for us this new so called 'liberal' thinking that occasionally one hear's of amongst the writers in the literary circles of London has not infested the minds of the ruler's here.

Tired from my avid studies I head for some refreshment, my mother will be ashen with concern but I admit that I indluged in the most frigthful adventure. I headed not for the quiet, civilized cerenity of my usual hanuts but risked my costume and my modesty in going to the 'hawkers market' instead. The heat must be efeting me rather, for these places are not of the sort that one is used to. I was quite shocked initally upon the sight of a hidious cripple writhing before me weilding a begging bowl. I dropped the degenerate a few coins and hurried on. Eventually I found a seat, amid the stench and filth. The meal was quite pleasnet all though oily and hot to the tounge. I shall not retrun to this place, for poor Ross will be so wracked with worry for me.

My day ended with a retrun to civility and Christiandom, a delightful lecture by an aged Sister of the good church on the role of the female in maintaing the home. I took notes avidly and devoured the wise counsel from the matronly ladies who did take part. I left the gathering filled with the spirit of the lord and content to retrun to my new home where I hope to provide all that my wonderous and hounarable (common) husband requires of me his humble (common) wife.

Letting go of your British reserve

We were lucky enough to be invited to a genuine local event, my salsa class's reunion Chinese New year do. Lots of insistent texts and emails came our way ensuring we were going, knew who would be there, what we were eating, when we would dance etc. This could have looked a bit pushy - especially the text castrating those who didn't respond as instructed to it's predecessor. I don't reckon that was the tone in was intended to evoke. Organiser was very keen for success, making sure it was a fun event.
Being a new person I tried hard to be efficient in my responses. My approach to everything to do with integration here is to smile and be amenable and hyper polite. On the occasions where I've relaxed a bit and sworn like a trooper my interlockours facial feedback could not be interpreted as encouragement (and this audience was made up of antipodeans and Europeans).
I was on a short anger fuse for some unfathomable reason, so rather gruesome episode of sulking comes first. We were going to be late - when trying to explain to Ross hy this was such a concern I said "I don't want people to think we're being rude". Really don't know how good a reason / what reality in this is or was. There's no way concern about someone thinking I'm rude could generate such fury. As ever internal dialogue:
"there's no point being angry at Ross and making this all difficult - just do some loving instead". Meanwhile on the outside - cold, tight faced and short sharp answers. Bithcin about taxis but fortunately not throwing about "this is all your fault", well at least nbot verbally. Anyway.
I don't like talking about myself behavin like that - and there's the problem. I'm caught in hateful mode - chucking shit at yourself only leads to the world around you being covered in it.
Anyway - after torturious taxi journey (grrr, fucking, bloody, damn stupid, grr, baaa, damn taxi bloody driver going the wrong way, taking longest bloody route, grr, fuck fuck. With the accompanying - why am I so hateful towards him, he may be going the best way, it's doesn't matter anyway, he's not horrible or faulted in any way, why so angry?) ...We wander around - can't find the place at all, turns out bloke's suggestion which I dismissed is correct C +C don't mean community centre but Coach and Carriage, a division of a car manufacturer. We're going to a corporate unction room. Having walked through a garage in golden strappy heels, into a service stair well, various offices and lobbies we finally make it to the Rec and KTV room. As we come in there is a buffet laid out in silver heating trays and platters. It amy look like toyota or anytown Rolls Royce but the food kinda gives it away. No mini samosa, pizza, pork pastry and cheese things. No sarnies or quiche, pastry or crisps. We got fresh crab in spicy chili and peanut sauce, fish balls, grilled sea bass, noodles, spicy soup, steamed veg, curry and later its joined by fresh sashimi and sushi. Then mango, dragon fruit, melon, not sure what it is tropical fruit and pineapple.

We discover no one is here, we're not late!!! It would seem the insistence on being prompt was only heeded by new boys us and the organisers. The finance manager, although an informal salsa class type thing they all have titles (the volunteers who organise everything), shows us through as I gushingly explain we through we were late. We're shown through to a room with a few more prompt people in it, already on the kareoke machine. This is 22nd century stuff, a huge sound system including a little flying saucer type thing that flies up and down to the floor and back picking up CD's and placing them for playing. This is all projected on to a screen and there are three radio mic's, six folders of tunes to pick and a remote control to programme your selection into.

Being British and confronted with public singing thoughts turn to alcohol, there's a bar with what looks like enough wine for me, Bloke and perhaps a couple of others. It's manned by three Chinese dudes, middle aged, skinny mustache, fat with chain and middling person who I can't recall clearly. These guys, it turns out, work here as does our HR Manager Michael, the man of the texts and emails. They sit and chat but no wine consumption is in evidence. We're offered a drink, wo ho, hot or cold drinks are in the food room. Hmm best not to ask can we have some booze so we get Styrofoam cups of lime juice to sip on, remembering parties with jelly and quosh.

Now we need to talk to people, we're very promptly introduced to lots of people and then realise I can't remember anyone's name so try and do that thing were you go I'm Natasha, this is Ross so then they can go I'm ... As ever names not familiar to me are even more difficult. Conversation is short and difficult, but good humored and smiley. Everyone is very friendly and kareoke encouragement is soon upon us. For some reason this seems like a good option, get into swing of thing etc. So pick my tunes. Consider Rod Stewert's classic I don't want to talk about it, there's no Bonnie Tyler so my standard choice is not an option. Finally settle with Roberta Flack, Killing me softly - seemed to pick the extended version without noticing as it goes on and on.

Kareoke is a bizarre thing, some sing so well others are tricky to listen too but everyone is so up for enjoyment there's no embarrassment or piss taking. And so begins our noticing the difference. These people have come here to enjoy not to attack or reduce another, they want everyone to be included and everyone to enjoy. It's so very different, everyone is making an effort and hay perhaps are contemplating suicide behind those smiles but for tonight it'll be singing, laughing and joy.

I did not fell any embarrassment, no concern for coolness, no need to quip about the some of the sights. That uncomfortable feeling of nervousness we often cover with jokey insults at our own or another's cost was not here. I was unsure, me and Ross were glad to have another there. At times it's tricky to talk to people, so friendly initially but then s small talk shrinks and sentences become to complex for either to decipher you tend to give up. But so much smiling, it doesn't matter. We met a particular lady who spoke English that I could I was more attuned too, she told us lots about Singapore, the difference between them and China, what the Chinese new year is all about, her job and times in Great Yarmouth where she studied.

We took part in Lo Hei which is a food tossing ceremony which brings us various forms of good luck and prosperity. Tasted damn good to.

We had a great time, it was so relaxed and in stark contrast to the other invite for the night which would have landed us in trendy night spot drinking cocktails talking media talk - bit of darlinging and plenty of hot air.

Love

(different font for different entry)
OK been reading this book and had evening of wet eyed, open, beautiful revelation....Which is always a nice thing to surprise you. Tis a book that confirms lots of my values and also has loads of good ideas, phrases etc. in it that you want to somehow incorporate into what you say to everyone...Bloke may be baring the brunt of this cause he's here un-like the rest of ya. (mild anger seems to have popped right up there - marvelous).

I made a load of notes and gonna publish some of them right here....

....poo...


That was a fake note.


Real note - (this is it, the key to contentedness is here and I'm going to share it with you) when that emotion hits (come back here later like a coda*) you let it go right through, penetrating your body, mind and soul - it hits your eyeballs, back of skull, back and then let it leave you. Watch that fear, love, anger, joy and head straight into the middle of it eyes wide open. Feel it, you know it, be there with it.

Then you can spot it - if it's fear you can say hey fear it's you again nice to see you. But keep going cause there's only one way out.

Then you can detach, remove and be beyond. You can be.

Now the problem is you get stuck here * - and instead you enage with, tussle, converse, thought jumble, obsess, react, retract, hide, shop, distract, self hate - what ever - you stay there going round and round and round. And it's scary cause you don't want to go near it all, you don't want to go in.

and the only other thing is...

Love each other or perish

(some famous bugger said this and then this author dude said that someone he knew said it and I said it to Sheridan but couldn't remember it properly - but regardless its true).


Thanks Simon H this is all your doings.

Four days in Asia

Day one
As ever a late start, not able to open eyes before UK has advanced somewhere near dawn. But make it up and into the world. Tonight is my fist expat experience as well as being day of yoga class with the Harrie Krishna's - vague concern this will be a conversion course rather then physical exercise but perhaps a bit paranoid about others attempting to convert my religion these days.

The bloke is off today having worked from 10am the previous day through till 9 am today, so he's a bit spaced out. Consequently I'm mooching around the house whilst he does some sleeping. Do some CV writing, explaining to all my many talents and aptitudes.

Did the HR/immigration talk thing and discovered can't get employment pass on my own back, must get employed first. I'm really upset for some unaccountable reason - it would seem our optimism about getting work out here is not fully justified. Like many in the UK I have to be the reason why a local can't take the job, so ten a penny anyone can do this shop work isn't an option. Unless I can find somewhere that has to sell it's products to slightly eccentric (read mad) white people who want to deal with one of their own kind.

Anyway off to yoga, Harrie Krishna, in the temple every door I look into has something mysterious and interesting in it. A slither of canary yellow sari bent over piles of flowers and half made garlands, rhythmic chanting, complex brightly adorned alters, life size effagies of Mr Krishna himself in his robes and hairless headed lotus position. I'm led by Chinese man in rolled up jeans, striped shirt - he's Lawrence. Up stairs in darkest corner is the class room, matted floor, two plunkity fans and an open window with the roar and hum of Indi Singapora life and heat. My teacher is a slim Indian woman, in western exercise dress. Her face bends and twists and smiles joyfully. Strong handshake and intros. The class was excellent, felt really good and better for being done in rough surroundings made wonderfully exciting by frequent power custs which plunged us into noisy darkness during tree pose, whilst trying to negotiate exit, in toilet whilst changing and on the stair resulting in skating close to painful fall into temple courtyard. Not sure dying in a temple would be a good thing for the incumbents - bound to be unlucky.

After the serenity of yoga, heat, incense, chanting, darkness and spice filled air - halter top goes on and we head for hedonist central. For the first time in weeks I'm surrounded by white people, an everyday occurrence for many years but now a vaguely weird one. The aussie sauvignon blanck flows and so does the chat. I meet a whole gaggle of girls; some here as partners others is their own right, interesting turn of phrase betrays a inequitable view of couples who make choices to come out here, hmmmm. I'm told about the sub culture that is the expat community, given advice about putting myself out on the scene (a necessity to anyone who wants to succeed socially here). Told about the most life changing element of Singaporean life, the need to maintain bush growth to the point where there aint nothing to maintain, a barren dessert instead (no cactus or camels hopefully). So be warned the Brazilian brigade are out in force in these here parts and are growing in number, I declared myself leader of a counter movement immediately and watched the knowing nodd move quietly round the group from one to another - you wait, she'll be converted yet!!

The evening continued in a similar vein; for those who are female the anatomy of a girly night out may need no further explanation, unless your life has not been blessed/disrupted (depending on view point) by this phenomenon. And those who are male well you don't get to hear about it cause it's for girls!!

Surfice to say muchos laughter, dancing (including on bar), drinking (shots, once classy wine thing had been dropped) and a bit of cheekiness too (no personal involvement but flashing and flirting where occurring in my vicinity). I watched the Singaporean white male on display - and what a display it was. Unkind souls might say disgrace featured, but he looked happy so what can you do. Overall there is a sense that without doing anything you've been moved up the social hierachy, and some people seem to respond with a big old celebration. One of my throng called it the Singapore bubble, and told stories of those who get addicted and can't return back to their more competitive homeland. It's a party scene if you want it - balls, bars, lunch, brunch, shopping, dark glasses and bloody marry hangovers, beautician, a personal trainer, a maid, weekends in the beach resort, shopping in Bangkok and Hong Kong. Even your own village to live in, many people choose to live local to other people in the same boat, in expat haven Holland Village.

Tried to get advice off expat website comments boards about stopping clothes go moldy - all it said was put the air con on and shut the windows.

Day two
Semi sensible drinking, that's wine plus loads of water, result in not quite hangover. So out of bed, do food, swear not to drink again etc.

That night meet one of yesterday's crowd at the most obscure bar with he best view of the river and quay. Various travel and timing fuck ups me we don't meet till 12am. So required effort to maintain sparkling wit, interesting conversation, smile etc. - enjoy listening to 90's indie courtesy of home grown DJ who's fiddling with a Mac next to the bar. Rather amusingly he breaks a speaker at one point, ho ho!!

Home, bed - bloke still up amazingly given sleep deprivation - so enjoy late night mooch.

Day three
Weekend of nothing does a U turn as invite for lunch arrives via SMS. Off to v cheap and scrummy Indian where get to eat with hands, much to blokes delight. Joined by local Indian friend of bloke who spends day telling us about her and her city, most interesting stuff I've heard since got here as finally able to ask questions that have been in my head. She's very adept with my culture so don't feel need to hold back as have done with others.

Having done the rough and ready type end of things we plump for decadence come 5 o'clock. Off to the most incredible architectural delight on the island, built only a few years ago it's a gotham esq tower, art deco / fascist (according to bloke) type design - described very satisfactorily, again by bloke, as exactly how you imagine the grand ball room of a ocean liner circa 1922 to be. Just amazing, and to bring home the spirit of complete unabashed stinking hedonistic OTTness there's a forty foot glass fronted fridge, emblazoned with brass decoration and full of wine. This monster is negotiated by a woman, dressed as an angle, on a harness and wire. Absolutely ridiculous but just about the best gimmick you've seen.

To top this off we headed for the Fullerton, the old post office come modern 6 stars and another for luck hotel. Having watched a few carp snog our friend's fingers, we headed for the post bar. A modern wonder of style and elegance, with sausages on sticks!!! Can't get over this, nothing to fault on service, decor, opulence, style, (champagne cocktail was good too!) , but the friends platter (to share) had sausage on sticks like a fricking English buffet (perhaps clientele had something to do with this choice - bloody English and their bloody taste for shit food).

Chilli crackers were good so ate shit loads of them, felt aware of self hating stuff going on, wondered about it.

Day four
Got up cried, did cleansing yoga breathing, laughed, made lentil dall and went for walk in the jungle. Shower, survived frustration of salsa dancing and skyped true friend at home. Mooched with favourite man and had a good day....more to come.

Grumping abroad

It’s a grump day – as ate three pieces of unwanted toast this became apparent. Whilst crying at HBO film it was obvious. It’s me – grump me – and I just love to be grump me when I need to be.

Singapora, all in one shot!

So a day in grump land. Begins with odd food – bread, butter and black pepper, three walnuts and four cheery tomatoes, five cups of green jasmine tea – this stuff is damn fine, 3quid a box which in UK
terms is about 15 quid given the relative price of food out here. But just look at it – tightly coiled nuts of tea leaf – darkest green through to mint white all coiled up. Then add the water (fish eye boiling – I think – this describes size of bubbles as it boils) and watch them unfurl, releasing the aroma.

Green tea dissolves fat too – this is the only possible explanation for lack of obesity in the population that consumes so much oil and fried food and meat. Finally found some brown rice today to my gut’s relief.

Any way – grump moves to bedroom for quick OCD session, organise, organise, organise. Organise the accumulated paper, receipts, guides, maps, not sure where they’re supposed to be yet cosmetics and stationary. On this occasion organising involves moving everything around a bit – into a new handbag (Jesus my life is so complicated).

Today’s goal – take back shoe that fell apart (shoes that cost six quid for the pair!!) and resulted in bare foot angry saunter round mall. I struggle making decisions ordinarily – it would seem adding in added inconvenience of having no shoe makes it no more easy, still took ages to decide on pair to buy.

OK time to faff about physical appearance now – hair, make up, outfit – all done to the tune of hey but none of this matters to me…ok so this means I’m operating on other driver at the minute…this is about hurt…I need to do some self hating for some reason…
Self-conscience unhealthy behaviour is so much fun.

Make a vague attempt at yoga - glad to see can sit and feel this stuff. But decide TV is better option. A grump day doesn’t involve much yoga – it involves TV and in this case sweet bread 9see later).

Looking mighty fine head out – marching down the road (jungle all sides, no pathway only deep storm drains) in Versace glasses and pencil skirt. Get defiant face on as cars approach – incredulous drivers gawp.

So onto the bus and to Chinatown we head. Vague plan to check yoga options and make plan for later.

Grump mood is now affecting writing and can only conclude that nothing of any interest happened for a fair amount of time. It still hasn’t stopped fucking raining since Sunday either.

My clothes are mouldy – nothing in this country ever dries. Three hours and my hair is still damp. It’s not exactly long hair either. God moaning is debilitating.

On the positive side – discovered that ham and cheese bun from Bread Talk (where you pick your baked snack with tongs and load on to cute tray) was a total waste of masticulation time. This was easily discernable from the ambiance description, appearance and concept of the thing! But like a true empiricist I needed to experiment (if you know that these guys had nothing to do with proving it side of philosophy please tell me – can’t remember back to heady days of a levels too well. I know it was a British type approach, something to do with thinking).

Grump day continued – lingering in hairdresser, store, supermarket, cinema and restaurant. Which reminds me whether having a grump day or not, at all costs avoid Broken Flowers (film) – that was a hyperbolic film crit esq comment – I’d rather you went and saw it if you fancy).

If you do go and see it please come back and tell me what you think – and don’t read this next bit yet.

OK so here’s some bitchin….

Rip off Napoleon Dynamite soundtrack and cinematography approach. Steel Lost in translation lighting, silences and lead actor (make him do his non descript BM thing). Don’t bother with a decent, interesting not done before script or story - just assume arty, empty shots of tyres, BM on sofa and highways will suffice.

It’s like they’re trying to suggest there’s a load in this in this you just can’t see it. Now in Lost in Translation there was loads in it. I was fucking in it – it evoked something. That’s the whole bloody point – it linked up to a bit of me and subtly generated a reaction. That’s what art is you dumb fuckers.

The end of a grump day…

Postscript… I recovered; I’m writing this up two days later, which has been a rather sobering experience. Well life…

Poster illustrating values and skills encouraged in local education system.

Spiritual Growth in Singapore

It began as an adventure - something odd from the start but no one ever had a tale to tell about something that started safe and easy.

We could be doing clean mall yoga - members benefits, individual showers, every possible form and variation including laughing yoga. But no we want to hunt out "genuine" - to find it dirty and real in it's place of decent.

And so to little India, The Yoga Shop. Angels and charms a plenty signify something - there's some sort of belief system attached to this set of stretching exercises.

So yoga classes - how do we get one. There's a course starting next week. It's in the diary, anticipation of doing the yoga rustic style and for free (another indicator to those wanting to see warning signs).

Leaflet given explains what it's all about - question three rhetorically answers "it is not a religious sect" (warning in big fluorescent letters should you choose to look at it). "Ha Ha HA - that means it is a sect" - the cynical westerner retorts (she's sharp you see).

Day of class is here - familiarize self with location and arrange to meet safety (in form of boyf) with food at near by eatery directly after generous offer of 1.25 hours of time to the cause.

Whilst doing the recky spot another yoga advert - now in full scale yoga junkie obsession so head in. (Green for envy)

Another funny little atrium complete with multi racial, staffed desk and odd smellings greeting me. Beyond there's a room stuffed full of art of Indian looking origin decadently hung in every possible position like a Parisian exhibition.

Yoga classes - can I have the info. Yoga needs another utterance as my UK/Australian/american accent fails to annunciate in ways others can understand. Another form to fill out - regardless of data protection I provide my info. I'm number 5 on the list after Nathan, my fellow westerner perhaps.

As I leave oddness ensures - outside, framed by the pillars of the shop house five foot walkway, stands a recently stretched Indian man. He's incongruously tall, lean - his shoulders fall away to his hips. "You doing the yoga then". We walk and talk. This is the second random conversation today so I'm obviously leaking adventurous spirit and desperation for conversation juices. The inevitable where from, what doing, how long all follow. He's eloquent - has the air of a dandy or elegant spiritualist about him, could be dangerous to judge either way.

Continue chat, comfortable and easy. But aware that door ways offer ample opportunities to be shoved into and forced to join yogic harem. Instead of this romantic possibility, head off walkway across the street. (Red for Chinese new year)

"Bye - nice meeting you" He's gone although newly learnt fear of stalking results in his form being seen and then unseen many times in many places.

So now stop for drink - being sucker for "genuine" opt for all male Muslim cafe on corner. Sit and wait for service as no discenrable counter only huddle of men with centuries of age in loin cloths and caps.

Previous form suggests that waiter (seems bizarre term to use for wizened, bearded, pot bellied chap who limps with heavy glum tread towards me) will approach. This may be to the tune of "what the hell do we do to get rid of her", but results in drink so all's well. Ginger tea - and slight panic. Dead phone and it's getting dark. OK so going to new odd place with no means of communication and no time so likely to be late or early.

Gulp tea, gingerly (look at that pun!!!!!). Then realize also have no money. Gather things and then head away from cafe and into sensory overload that is the streets of this town. Noise, people, fruit, flowers, bangra, scent, shouts, gold, dried chilies, chat, bikes, silks and dirty stairwells.

Get to clean, nowhere which is MRT station. MRT station has no ATM so scoot ASAP. (When I grow old I'll wear purple)

Figure don't need money as lesson free - although imagination conceives of requirement to ply session leader with cash so as to avoid shame or kidnap.

Back at the yoga shop, a little jaded, I explain presence and discover that lesson isn't here. Well why would it be, that wouldn't really help with the story. So gather from shop assistant that it's down the road, across the car park, into a HDB block (although not built by communist regimes they sound like they should be) above the shop called Xrays. So down the street, with a little trepidation, at end of road there's a dust bowl and no car park - damn. The light has gone and there are plenty of men lurking around, chatting to their mates and hanging out or plotting tash abductions depending on how much nineteenth century realism you want to believe.

Realize have already seen car park on initial recky of area, had spotted it as the bit I don't want to have to walk around when traveling form class to food. Bugger. Anyway head across to block, scan shops left and right. Walk round shops left and right - nothing called xray to be seen. Spy the staircase, it's the type of stair you'd find on an estate in UK without the needles and graffiti. However even without the associated crime and violence of my native state, concerns for personal safety are inevitably ignited.

About to give up and bugger off when head towards building that's not a shop but some sort of building of other usage - it's an X-ray department. Hmm. Also spot stairs and sign to Yoga Centre. Well this is it. \turn to plan escape route, which constst of walking down the stairs and round the corner - it's risky but without climbing gear there's aren't any other options.

Clean feet are a bit of a necessary accessory in this nation; home owners, buddhas, allah and other people in command require you to leave your shoes outside. I haven't got and probably never will have clean feet - they get dirty very quickly. Anyway proceed in to the centre.

The room is like a class room at college minus the colourful project work from two years ago and tatty tables. Fluorescent lighting above and carpet tiles below. But there's another light in the room - in front of a set of chairs and odd L shaped meditation accessories there's a huge print of orange and lemon rays. The rays meet at a central point on the canvas where a real pinpoint of light sits. Quite obviously this is going to used to lead us in to a catatonic trance.

Next to the rays is a portrait of an old Indian guy in bright colours he grins at us. Now I have a natural aversion to spiritual leaders, didn't know it but it's there. God, amongst others, has always perplexed me. I don't seem to be into being told what to do, this is the most simple explanation (and analysis of the basis of major world religions). So I'm not warming to this set up. But I'm greeted with friendliness - unabounded smiles come towards me in the shape of caftan covered Chinese lady with clip board. Hey it's another form, but this time some new questions.

OK I'm looking for some spiritual input, what do these guys want to know about me - are you single? That's not really an acceptable question. Fill rest out though and begin to realize that have been subconsciously plotting escape route, head towards desk of administrator lady which is obscured by a pillar. All that can be seen as I approach is the edge of a fan and side of her leg. Well what an opportunity to discover something unseemly, something which inconclusively proves that the door will be locked behind me and mass suicide is only a few weeks away. Another chap jumps up to foil me, he pleads "let me take the form - it's OK". No way matey I'm about to uncover this sham - I reach the edge of the column. Smiles beam again and a desk sits happily.

Returning to my seat I gaze up at the pictures on the wall, psychedelic images of minds connected to celestial objects by a beam of light (theme develops). I consider the form again, are you single, what are you reasons for seeking to join us? Looking up at the picture of the guru, leader cum icon and the haunting dot of light - I thought ... I'm not gonna stay, instinct says go now. Be polite but just go.

There are two reactions that drive me away from things, one of them is fear. I know this bugger well so tend to ignore it. But the other is worth listening to, even if it turns out to be a false master it provides a genuine sense of correctness and integrity when followed. So I followed it, explaining that I felt ill but would join the next course if they keep me posted. I probably will too, just in case!

(Blue for calm) This is my garden...back and front...in the rain...on my hill.

My First Blog Entry

So this is blog, a new form of writing - audienceless or not? There's plenty of potential to totally forget the reader and blog as if it was a personal and private diary. This could be dangerous.

So instead I think I'll imagine a blogette/blogate and write to them (this bit is experimental).

So blog entry #1 (this punctuation betrays the influence Singlish is having on me, pls excuse me). I'm in the cheapest internet cafe in the country, I've been hunting it out for a week. It's near a very nice coffee shop where you can get ginger tea - great caramel coloured gloop; teeth tingling sweet, it makes your whole digestion system stand to attention. This is also very cheap, so you can spend an afternoon surfing and tea drinking for 3 pounds (god damn it, keep looking for the pounds sign but it's no where to be found, the dollar has won out on this keyboard).

This particular venue looks out across crazy state land which has tropical forna all over it as well as signs saying "enter at own risk", not sure whether the risk is of being shot or bitten by beasties. Chances of being caught seem slim, all the controlling of the population seems to be done by threat. There is litter here, there is jay walking and I've seen an unflushed loo. I've not seen any policemen since we left the airport.

Here's some photomagraphs - to show what I didn't think was here, quite beautiful and intricate old buildings. A lot of this City is "you could be anywhere mall", plastic grimness - cold and chilling. You have to weigh up the need to be cooled down body temperature wise against surviving another part of your soul shrivelling up. But away from this, right next door to it in some places, is another experience which I find far more peaceful. Five feet alley ways under shabby shop houses, food, cloth, warm things, cold things, jasmine, fruit, smells that make you gag then ones that make you swoon. Active sales people try and get you to buy stuff off them, wizened people sit behind little stalls making something stinky to eat and you have to constantly watch where you put your feet so you don't fall off into a create of duran fruit, pile of dried shrimp, table of people eating noodles or a deep and dangerous storm drain. This all has to be negotiated in flip flops.

Frog porridge and dried lizard
One of the key things to do in a new country is find all the things that are eaten that you think are totally weird and unpalletable. This could take you a long time round here as there's quite a lot. Breathing through the mouth became necessary whilst negotiating the Chinese wholesale market, I wonder if it's possible to get a nose for it or whether my Anglo-saxon tuned smelling preferences are as permanent as my pastiness.

So far I've been particular cautious in my eating, have bought random street food but it's all been quite easily distinguishable. Plan to work up to the frog porridge, it's like a rice thing with frog meat in it. Don't like frogs so this could be my revenge.