Ok firstly dear Diary, I apologize for not keeping in touch.
It's surprising how easily normality can get in the way of creativity, and working for a living takes the place of living. I am striving to correct that imbalance I promise. There is so much to tell I hardly know where to begin, so I am not going to bother to chronologically account for everything anymore - I'm just going to put whatever is in front of me down on paper, or rather down on white square on LCD screen, and - I promise - I will fill in the gaps where there is an amusing anecdote to be shared of the oddities that have gone by.
Right now as I type, I am at some ungodly height flying across the world yet again China bound and looking forward to food that will leave me bound in China. (Right now as I read what I typed I am at home - I should have posted this a few weeks ago) I had forgotten how much of a pain in the arse this journey is - even when you are upgraded to executive class it is still a backbreaking trip, with temperamental chairs and an entertainment system that crashes every two hours - (Still rather that than the plane). I do have visions sometimes though pondering that as us simple folk back here shake the dead displays and curse to any listening Deities there could well be a flight-deck crew frantically kicking at monitors and punching buttons waiting for some readings to come back to life as the plane does the equivalent of coasting down a steep hill for a few seconds (and they call it turbulence - hah!)
So here is something from the heart (or rather slightly lower) to share with you dear reader…. I have been getting bad aches in the region of my appendix - 'Aha' you say, 'You have trouble with your appendix' - but you see that was hacked out of me, in an emergency operation, on the point of bursting like a water balloon with a much less favourable liquid content when I was 15. I therefore doubt that to be the cause, unless of course, I had grown a new useless organ to replace the old one. Also and rather more disturbingly I have been getting a lot of aches in one of the wheels of my Tonka-Toy and that has been unpleasant to ponder.
I am not sure if it is a pride thing, or a guy thing, or how to define it really - but every chap is close to his little pal (lets be honest - we name him, speak to him, and play with him too), so the idea of things being wrong in that region is not easy for many of us to contemplate. Whether that could be running with a flat, or your swimmers are not making the team, or the water pressure isn't strong, or you can't get the flag up the pole - whatever - you can't help but worry and fret about the little chap and the possible causes of complaints down there.
So like any sensible person I ignored it for a few months in the hope it would all sort itself out and not worry me anymore. Unfortunately, burying your head (so to speak) in the sand really only works for ostriches, so I had to face up to the fact that something needed to be done. Duly I scurried off to my doctors.
Is it just me - or is the relationship between doctor and patient more like supplier and customer these days? There is no personal level interaction there - you are just a number - and because they are financially rewarded for each ailment treated you are only allowed to discuss one problem per appointment. So if you have a few things on the wonk and need an overhaul then you would need to make multiple appointments to discuss them, and you would not be able to refer back to other items from previous meetings - how ludicrous the medical institution is becoming. We have a better level of support and care from our vets than we ever get from our doctors - so I am going to go there for future medical worries instead as I have more faith in them. (They give you kibble treats too)
Anyhoo.....he asked me how my appendix was - and I replied that it would probably be a little smelly by now as it had been sitting in a jar in formaldehyde solution for 22 years. So he poked and he prodded in a manner which must be the medical equivalent of a mechanic kicking ones tyres. Then he asked me to drop my trousers so that he could check 'under the hood' - was he treating me, or going to try and change my oil? So here is a thought - why is it referred to as cough and drop when in fact one must drop before anything can be studied as you cough? Touching nothing he asked me to cough - duly I coughed. What this achieved I have no idea - was he expecting a reaction like one of those desktop Newton's cradles where they swing left to right as the momentum gradually dissipates? If I could do those kind of tricks I'd be working Vegas.
Once more, with feeling. That is - me coughing once more, and this time, him feeling. Now like most I am delicate in places and rather ticklish by nature, so this was not my favourite moment of my day. (you can ask the good Mrs Wrighty who has had many an adventure cut short by squeals and involuntary body spasms from me trying not to laugh at an inopportune moment) However, his hands were warm - his touch was light - if we'd been dating I'd have been considering buying him flowers - so my embarrassment was as minimal as it could possibly be when you are standing in a room with somebody studying your meat and potatoes with both hands.
'We need to send you to hospital to take some tests' he said. So that is organized for a few days later. I hoped the tests would be easy - he never told me what to study.
Until next time……………………………………..
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
I'm still alive - honest.
It is amazing how much you can lose track of life when work gets in the way.
How have you been?
I'm ok - just about half a year adrift it seems.
You know when I was young I was torn for a career choice. I wasn't certain if I wanted to paint the faces of people in beautiful pictures to immortalize them for all time, or if I wanted to design and build fantastic scenic gardens for everyone to enjoy. In the end I abandoned both choices.........
I could never decide between Portraits or Landscapes
Incidentally I was thinking of writing something very thought provoking on plagiarism. Unfortunately I couldn't find any decent information worth copying.
I promise to stick some new stuff up here very soon.
Happy new wossname
Chubby Little Limey
It is amazing how much you can lose track of life when work gets in the way.
How have you been?
I'm ok - just about half a year adrift it seems.
You know when I was young I was torn for a career choice. I wasn't certain if I wanted to paint the faces of people in beautiful pictures to immortalize them for all time, or if I wanted to design and build fantastic scenic gardens for everyone to enjoy. In the end I abandoned both choices.........
I could never decide between Portraits or Landscapes
Incidentally I was thinking of writing something very thought provoking on plagiarism. Unfortunately I couldn't find any decent information worth copying.
I promise to stick some new stuff up here very soon.
Happy new wossname
Chubby Little Limey
Friday, August 04, 2006
Life in a hotel is for the most part fun.
The staff are wonderfully helpful - very happy and smiley, and always willing to please you. At first you find it charming, flattering and lovely, but after a month you could take a bat to them.
All of the staff are creatures of habit who follow routines diligently, and they will try to memorize your particular wants and tastes to serve you better, which is fine for the most part - I have trained them all how to make my tea MY way, but if they get something wrong - it stays wrong. After the hospital fiasco I had a need for a glass of hot milk and some water to take some pills, I got what I asked for, a glass of hot milk and a glass of hot water with a slice of lemon. Even now if I ask for a glass of water I get it hot with a slice of lemon in it.
As for the cleaning staff - it is like being 14 and having your mother interfering with your bedroom. Having unpacked I arrange my things in the bathroom in among the various provided packages containing razors, creams, powders, soaps, and toothbrushes. I move the bathroom scales away from the toilet bowl as I do not wish to stub my toe in the morning, and I hang a robe on the back of the door to get out of the shower with. For the next week I battle for dominance with the cleaners as every day I stub my toe while slip sliding my way out of the bathroom to find a robe in the closet. I move things, they move them back, I even rearranged all the towels one day replacing face cloths with bathsheets just to see if they would get it - but that night normality and order was restored once more.
They are habitual and will not break or bend their routines for anyone. Although I was prepared to push one of them off of the top floor on my last trip- Working nights means that you want to sleep all day - a natural enough desire, except that the cleaners want to turn your bed four times and rearrange your bathroom. After a badly disturbed day of broken sleep I talk to the duty manager -
"I am sleeping all day - do not let anyone come in and clean my room"
"Ah yes, sorry - please use do not disturb"I hang the do not disturb sign on the door and try to sleep. Apparently in China 'Do not disturb' means 'Hey come on in - and please be noisy'.
"I was trying to sleep today - and I used the do not disturb - if the cleaner comes in again I will kill him. You can clean at night, you can hold parties in there all night for all I care but do not under any circumstances clean during the day. OK?"
"Ah yes, very sorry - we will not clean your room during the day"
Midday - third day - the door opens again.......
"Piss off or die!" I subtly hinted from deep under the covers.
"You promised me no more cleaning - You swore to me cleaning would not happen while I am sleeping!"
"But Mr. Andy - the cleaners were not trying to clean - they were just trying to deliver your fruit bowl."
"Gnnnnnnnhhh"
'Always read the label' are four words that I am realizing I really should try and live by. While packing and preparing for the 24 hours of hell known as traveling home I made something of an error which I share with you now to serve as a warning.
Remember the packages in the bathroom? Having stepped from the shower, slid on the scales again and grabbed a robe, I towel my petite little frame dry and notice a packet containing a white powder - Oh good methinks - Talcum powder. I keenly rip open the sachet and slap away all around the old British Beef and the big burger buns, only then do I notice that the talc is a little grainy and smells odd. So I grab the package out of the waste bin and realize that I must hit the shower once more to wash away all the laundry soap powder. Not pleasant - but my word the crown jewels did sparkle that day.
It is true to say that living in the Shangri - La Hotel is really an experience that should be tried. It is very easy to get accustomed to the regal treatment and finery of the large rooms and the king sized beds, and the piping hot power shower in the marble bathroom but it does all come at a price - you get too used to it.
I had a moment of utmost terror after returning home from my recent stint. There I was in the dawning hours happily slumbering in my bed when the good Mrs. Wrighty gently and fondly shook me by the shoulder to wake me with a cup of tea -
Was my first thought 'Ahh how lovely - thank you my pooky shmooky lovikins'? Not at all - it was 'Holy crap! Who the hell is in my room?'
Until we meet again............
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Dear Diary - once more I grace your pages with tales of life as it can only happen to a chubby little Limey.
Hookers
They are called San-Pei. They are ladies who make in one night what a factory worker makes in a month and a half, and these days they swarm like flies around a jam pot. I used to like the hookers in the hotel before it got too busy - (Let me explain that statement before the good Mrs. Wrighty is sporting a pair of new spherical earrings) - there was a quaintness about them that meant all was well with the world and operating normally.
My first and only full on encounter with one of these wonderful specimens was a few days into our first trip here. One had all the curves and figure of a whittled chopstick, while the other was several thousand clicks past due for a visit to the garage for an overhaul - (Mr Muffler presumably). I was the last of our troop in the Lounge Bar and sleepily wandering toward the corridor and elevator to my room when there was a grab at my elbow and I was spun round to look into the eyes of this lady of good fortune with enough 'feet in the air-miles' to fly to the moon.
"You want massage?" she asked using almost half of her English vocabulary in one whole sentence.
Now - we little Limey people are not shocked by the notion of such things generally. I am well known for my adventurous outlook on the world and quite willing to be daring - sometimes lights on, sometimes socks off, and on occasion the good Mrs. Wrighty will even put down her book - but my scruples, virtues and morals at this point in time were trying to hide in a metaphysical closet, and I was left panic stricken like the deer in the lights of an oncoming SUV.
Eager to find a release from the vice like grip of the vice-minded woman I looked around and in desperation used the only reasonable excuse that I could bring to mind at the time - namely we were in a lobby of a 5 star hotel and there was nowhere she could possibly make me go.
Language being something of a barrier this translated into Chinese by me shrugging my shoulders, shaking my head and saying "Where?"
At which she swept her eyes left and then right, leant towards me extending her finger and pointed it into my meat and two veg saying "There!".
Sensing the SUV shifting to high gear I stood dumbfounded and at a loss for a response other than "Arrrghhhhh', until salvation arrived in the shape of the large burly night manager who descended upon her with his arms crossed and a "Step away from the little Limey" look upon his face. I was so thankful I could have kissed him, but then realized that she would get more ideas from that and probably double her rate so I ran for the elevator.
So as I said - the hotel is busy now, and they have been replaced by predatory troops who are not respectful of personal space. They are not particularly clean, and will wear the same outfits for days, and they stalk you everywhere, in the elevators and even on to the streets, also they do not give receipts so they are of little use to a business traveler.
So I am nostalgic for the simpler times when we could stagger in late at night weary from our working day and fall into the Lounge Bar for a grab to eat and a slosh of a drink, and these two women would always be there, sitting in a corner or near the entrance waiting eager to spring into action. Knowing that we were off limits they never bothered us, but I would often be greeted with an exchange of glances and the raising of eyebrows in the "how’s business" type way of one professional to another - or one Pro' to one Ho' at least.
Hootch
Not only do they cook anything in China - they also drink anything. I pride myself on my multi-cultural dexterity and I am able to get proficiently drunk in several languages, so this advice I pass on to you freely. Drink the beer. The beer is okay - beer being basically beer wherever you go - it is the small strong stuff that catches you out.
Chinese white wine:-
This is to ordinary white wine what Godzilla is to kittens, and is something of an acquired taste. If your taste buds are in the need of the sensory equivalent of having the crap kicked out of them for three days by smelly hairy bikers then this is the stuff for you. It is served in small thimble sized glasses and I can only imagine that this is because too much of the stuff in contact with any surface would probably melt through it. Drinking it down in one go is not so bad. But having it claw its way back up your throat and start throwing it's weight around is another matter. After a glass of it you can drink absolutely any substance you like from Tabasco sauce to drain cleaner and you will still get a vaporous belching eruption of the stuff which you can feel curling the hairs in your nostrils as it escapes. It is not a beverage to get drunk on. It is something to consume only if you are trying to save money on mummification and need to embalm yourself cheaply. The average recovery time from such a thing is 3 days.
Snake wine:-
By comparison this is not as nice to drink as Chinese white wine. That sentence on it's own should be enough to send any sane person running for the exits, but not I. The bottle, a large 5 gallon demijohn, is half filled with little red beans and also contains for your pleasure a large dead snake. I am not certain if he was dead or not when he was put in the wine, but judging by the look on his face he wasn't happy to be there. Served in a single shot glass and drunk while staring at the nasty little bugger, there is not much more needs to be said about it other than the fact that it tastes exactly like a dead marinated snake and will instinctively induce a bar slapping gagging reflex action in any partakers. Recovery in not a physical thing as much as a mental anguish - there are nightmares of live drunken snakes swimming in jars and for days afterwards just picturing the beast is enough to send a judder up and down your spine. Be warned.
Flaming Red Dragons:-
One flaming dragon is notoriously bad for your health and your senses. It is red, served in a large martini glass, it is on fire, and drunk quickly through a straw. Two flaming dragons seem like a good idea at the time. Three dreaming flagons are too much, and four of "them red things on fire" is beyond the point of safe return. This does bring up another toilet incident, for which I seem to be getting a reputation. Anyway..........
There is a bar called Win-Win. It is the only bar that I know where the toilets are bigger than the actual bar area. The men’s urinal is in fact a large glass wall of cascading flowing water which basically you pee into. Men do not grow up - their toys just get bigger - so it is quite common to see drunken pissing contests to prove how high you can get up the waterfall. A fun was to pass the time while you pass the beer, and funnier still when viewed from the roadside looking like a salmon run up a mountain stream. The last albeit fuzzy memory was of fire drink of death # 4, followed by waking up in my room soaking wet and smelling like a skunks arse. In a nutshell - we were getting taxis home - I needed to go - I went - I was watching the flowing water - I fell in.
My leather watch strap and my wallet actually disintegrated over the next two days. The clothes went to the laundry service daily but still smelled bad, and my sneakers carried an odour so retchingly pungent that I had to stuff them into a couple of plastic bags to hide the smell and when I threw them in a garbage can in the hotel people were sure I was disposing of the remains of a dead cat. For days I had the worrying feeling that I had tried to swim home before the memories finally managed to catch up and hit me. In truth I would rather go another round of crouching toilet - hidden danger than experience this ever again.
And finally.....
A note of warning:-
If ever in China be sure to go for a massage - not the goolie grabbing hooker type - I mean the real feet and body relaxing experience thing. But mind yourself. Accustomed as I am to nobody understanding a word I say - I have a tendency in China to state things aloud that one wouldn't generally do. So if you find yourself having your shoulders massaged and your feet soaked in the waters of 1000 flower petals, do not say aloud "I love you, I am staying at the Shangri-La and my room number is 1768 - please move in and bring your massage tools with you!" Because there is a 1 in a few million chance that you will find the only English speaking local for 5 square miles is rubbing you down at that very moment.
Until next time........................................
Hookers
They are called San-Pei. They are ladies who make in one night what a factory worker makes in a month and a half, and these days they swarm like flies around a jam pot. I used to like the hookers in the hotel before it got too busy - (Let me explain that statement before the good Mrs. Wrighty is sporting a pair of new spherical earrings) - there was a quaintness about them that meant all was well with the world and operating normally.
My first and only full on encounter with one of these wonderful specimens was a few days into our first trip here. One had all the curves and figure of a whittled chopstick, while the other was several thousand clicks past due for a visit to the garage for an overhaul - (Mr Muffler presumably). I was the last of our troop in the Lounge Bar and sleepily wandering toward the corridor and elevator to my room when there was a grab at my elbow and I was spun round to look into the eyes of this lady of good fortune with enough 'feet in the air-miles' to fly to the moon.
"You want massage?" she asked using almost half of her English vocabulary in one whole sentence.
Now - we little Limey people are not shocked by the notion of such things generally. I am well known for my adventurous outlook on the world and quite willing to be daring - sometimes lights on, sometimes socks off, and on occasion the good Mrs. Wrighty will even put down her book - but my scruples, virtues and morals at this point in time were trying to hide in a metaphysical closet, and I was left panic stricken like the deer in the lights of an oncoming SUV.
Eager to find a release from the vice like grip of the vice-minded woman I looked around and in desperation used the only reasonable excuse that I could bring to mind at the time - namely we were in a lobby of a 5 star hotel and there was nowhere she could possibly make me go.
Language being something of a barrier this translated into Chinese by me shrugging my shoulders, shaking my head and saying "Where?"
At which she swept her eyes left and then right, leant towards me extending her finger and pointed it into my meat and two veg saying "There!".
Sensing the SUV shifting to high gear I stood dumbfounded and at a loss for a response other than "Arrrghhhhh', until salvation arrived in the shape of the large burly night manager who descended upon her with his arms crossed and a "Step away from the little Limey" look upon his face. I was so thankful I could have kissed him, but then realized that she would get more ideas from that and probably double her rate so I ran for the elevator.
So as I said - the hotel is busy now, and they have been replaced by predatory troops who are not respectful of personal space. They are not particularly clean, and will wear the same outfits for days, and they stalk you everywhere, in the elevators and even on to the streets, also they do not give receipts so they are of little use to a business traveler.
So I am nostalgic for the simpler times when we could stagger in late at night weary from our working day and fall into the Lounge Bar for a grab to eat and a slosh of a drink, and these two women would always be there, sitting in a corner or near the entrance waiting eager to spring into action. Knowing that we were off limits they never bothered us, but I would often be greeted with an exchange of glances and the raising of eyebrows in the "how’s business" type way of one professional to another - or one Pro' to one Ho' at least.
Hootch
Not only do they cook anything in China - they also drink anything. I pride myself on my multi-cultural dexterity and I am able to get proficiently drunk in several languages, so this advice I pass on to you freely. Drink the beer. The beer is okay - beer being basically beer wherever you go - it is the small strong stuff that catches you out.
Chinese white wine:-
This is to ordinary white wine what Godzilla is to kittens, and is something of an acquired taste. If your taste buds are in the need of the sensory equivalent of having the crap kicked out of them for three days by smelly hairy bikers then this is the stuff for you. It is served in small thimble sized glasses and I can only imagine that this is because too much of the stuff in contact with any surface would probably melt through it. Drinking it down in one go is not so bad. But having it claw its way back up your throat and start throwing it's weight around is another matter. After a glass of it you can drink absolutely any substance you like from Tabasco sauce to drain cleaner and you will still get a vaporous belching eruption of the stuff which you can feel curling the hairs in your nostrils as it escapes. It is not a beverage to get drunk on. It is something to consume only if you are trying to save money on mummification and need to embalm yourself cheaply. The average recovery time from such a thing is 3 days.
Snake wine:-
By comparison this is not as nice to drink as Chinese white wine. That sentence on it's own should be enough to send any sane person running for the exits, but not I. The bottle, a large 5 gallon demijohn, is half filled with little red beans and also contains for your pleasure a large dead snake. I am not certain if he was dead or not when he was put in the wine, but judging by the look on his face he wasn't happy to be there. Served in a single shot glass and drunk while staring at the nasty little bugger, there is not much more needs to be said about it other than the fact that it tastes exactly like a dead marinated snake and will instinctively induce a bar slapping gagging reflex action in any partakers. Recovery in not a physical thing as much as a mental anguish - there are nightmares of live drunken snakes swimming in jars and for days afterwards just picturing the beast is enough to send a judder up and down your spine. Be warned.
Flaming Red Dragons:-
One flaming dragon is notoriously bad for your health and your senses. It is red, served in a large martini glass, it is on fire, and drunk quickly through a straw. Two flaming dragons seem like a good idea at the time. Three dreaming flagons are too much, and four of "them red things on fire" is beyond the point of safe return. This does bring up another toilet incident, for which I seem to be getting a reputation. Anyway..........
There is a bar called Win-Win. It is the only bar that I know where the toilets are bigger than the actual bar area. The men’s urinal is in fact a large glass wall of cascading flowing water which basically you pee into. Men do not grow up - their toys just get bigger - so it is quite common to see drunken pissing contests to prove how high you can get up the waterfall. A fun was to pass the time while you pass the beer, and funnier still when viewed from the roadside looking like a salmon run up a mountain stream. The last albeit fuzzy memory was of fire drink of death # 4, followed by waking up in my room soaking wet and smelling like a skunks arse. In a nutshell - we were getting taxis home - I needed to go - I went - I was watching the flowing water - I fell in.
My leather watch strap and my wallet actually disintegrated over the next two days. The clothes went to the laundry service daily but still smelled bad, and my sneakers carried an odour so retchingly pungent that I had to stuff them into a couple of plastic bags to hide the smell and when I threw them in a garbage can in the hotel people were sure I was disposing of the remains of a dead cat. For days I had the worrying feeling that I had tried to swim home before the memories finally managed to catch up and hit me. In truth I would rather go another round of crouching toilet - hidden danger than experience this ever again.
And finally.....
A note of warning:-
If ever in China be sure to go for a massage - not the goolie grabbing hooker type - I mean the real feet and body relaxing experience thing. But mind yourself. Accustomed as I am to nobody understanding a word I say - I have a tendency in China to state things aloud that one wouldn't generally do. So if you find yourself having your shoulders massaged and your feet soaked in the waters of 1000 flower petals, do not say aloud "I love you, I am staying at the Shangri-La and my room number is 1768 - please move in and bring your massage tools with you!" Because there is a 1 in a few million chance that you will find the only English speaking local for 5 square miles is rubbing you down at that very moment.
Until next time........................................
Monday, June 26, 2006
Dearest Diary
How are you? It's been a while but I thought I'd drop by and fill a few more of your pages with insight into the ways of the world from the eyes of your chubby little Limey pal.
Never get sick in a foreign country - trust me.
I assumed I was just tired from long working nights and little bitty sleeping days. My candle had indeed burned down from both ends, all the cheese was gone from my cracker, my game had stopped at 4th and 99, there were no more beans in my grinder. I had a pain in my head. Not a little twinge, not an occasional stab, but a full frontal attack that felt like an ice-pick lodged behind my left eye. Not just an ice pick - but one that had been carefully sharpened and heated until it was glowing.
I could neither keep my eyes open, or shut, I couldn't move them, I couldn't lie down, or sleep for the searing spike that felt like it was carving a message into the inside of my skull, and a rude one at that. My entire left eye socket was sore to the touch and the eyeball felt like it was ready to pop from my head like the cork from a shaken bottle of champagne, but without the cheering and the only clinking of glasses would be a result of it ricocheting around the room and knocking something over.
I have to wonder if the word pain translates into Chinese - because everyone I asked for a painkiller gave me the internationally know bemused look with a slightly raised eyebrow and a muttering sound commonly pronounced 'Uuurgh?'. I'm not too proud to say that I begged and whimpered like a puppy wanting attention to try and explain my agony - after all I had been awake for nearly 30 hours straight thanks to the constant throbbing. (And I had worked my shift - what a hero! - There is something wrong when people in a factory in China, who make worker ants look like snails, tell you that you work very hard)
The hotel staff - apparently not trained to deal with red-eyed crying Limeys - called the house doctor whose knowledge of English was only rivaled by my knowledge of nuclear fusion. She gave me eye drops, which in the history of medical aid ranked up there with selling band-aids to the French aristocracy after they had been through the guillotine. She called the Duty Manager, who did know a reasonable amount of English, but hadn't reached the 'P's yet as he also gave me an 'Uuurgh?' when I begged him to take the pain away. Somebody called my boss (It could have been me - there are blurry parts in the day - figuratively and literally) - who was helping to hold down the fort at the factory - and the next thing I know I am being bundled into a taxi with the three of them in the back, heading to the Peoples Hospital of Zhongshan.
So we arrive at the Eye Treatment centre and I am shunted hither and thither until a small, old, and incredibly sadistic nurse takes over dealing with me. Initial attempts at diagnosis basically involve her jabbing her thumb into my left temple and watching me jump up and down in tears and cries of 'Owwww!' Entertained by this reflex action she shuffles my weary form into a seat in front of a height chart and sees how high I can jump with each jab of the thumb. Other doctors are asked for their opinion of my condition and in a weird moment of clarity my addled brain was able to translate their conversations perfectly as "Watch how high he jumps when you press right here. See - Now you try and beat my score."
Via translations through nurse to hotel doctor to Duty Manager to boss to me (Hey look - real Chinese whispers), they decide I either have either:-
(a) something in my eye,
(b) a nerve problem,
(c) something going horribly wrong in my brain.
Before I travel any further with this tale I must point out a couple of quirks of this chubby little Limey which you must bear in mind:-
1 - I am deaf in my right ear - I was born that way, it cannot be fixed, it is hereditary and comes from my fathers side of the family - (There are associated tales of mirth and merriment from my misunderstanding of things said which I will share another day)
2 - I cannot focus on anything with my left eye - I kid you not, medical care being a tad hit and miss in Britain it was never spotted while growing up, and is too late to deal with now. Short of strapping a telescope to my left eye it merely helps me to see that things are out there. (Basically it could tell me that I would be run over by a car, but I'd be buggered to read the license plate)
Anyway…………
They have a most ingenious eye chart made up of capital E's facing left, right, up or down that you have to read and gesticulate with your fingers pointing which way up they are and which direction they are facing. So the nurse decides to check the vision in my useless left eye while the Duty Manager stands close by my right side and whispers instructions into my useless right ear.
Now I can just about see the wall and tell that there is a 5 foot high chart hanging on it, which I tell the Duty Manager while explaining to him that I cannot hear a word he is saying. Within seconds of translating this back I am surrounded by a sea of horrified faces.
The face of the nurse contorts with sheer terror as she is convinced I am suffering with option (c) and going into some kind of neural hemorrhage with all higher brain functions rapidly shutting down. The face of the Chubby Little Limey contorts with sheer terror as I realize I know what she thinks is going on and that she is getting ready to prep me and cut open my skull to try and save me from a full system failure. Self preservation instincts kick in and fuel my attempts to overcome language barriers and explain my quirks. Thank goodness that the Duty Manager had read past ‘D’ in his learning English studies.
So over the course of the next hour I am prodded, poked, and checked over in every room of the treatment centre before being discharged with enough drugs to make me a South American baron. (6 White round ones every morning with 2 orange ones, a blue one, 2 red ones, and a white one to eat with a meal - which I would leave till last as I was nearly full by the time I had got through the others) Basically I lived to tell the tale and came home.
Interestingly enough another attack a week later in Canada had me lying in ER waiting to see someone again. Although unlike my first visit this one took over 8 hours before I was seen by anybody – and when he did turn up he was Chinese!! (We must have been waiting for his plane to come in) - Following another round of ER frolics we find me having an MRI scan to see what is going on. I cannot say much of the MRI apart from the fact that I now know how a willy feels about a condom.
So I finally pluck up the courage and call my doctors for the results. The news was quite a shock. I have a brain. It is in good condition with low mileage, shaped like a donut but bigger and with no holes in it. My orbitals are fine too, which is good considering I do not know where my orbitals are or how to maintain them. I know that I am in possession of a couple of sphericals, but I am pretty certain that the scan did not go that low, so it must mean something else.
I officially have Trigeminal Neuralgia - (Doctors speak for loose wiring) it is apparently rare (which gives it a windswept and interesting quality) - although like most 'rare' things I now know of at least 2 other people who suffer with it. And when it flares up it is bloody painful - but it will not kill me. - that is unless I am hanging by my fingers on the edge of a cliff over a shark infested sea and I have to grab at my head to stop the shooting pain - that could probably kill me…….
How are you? It's been a while but I thought I'd drop by and fill a few more of your pages with insight into the ways of the world from the eyes of your chubby little Limey pal.
Never get sick in a foreign country - trust me.
I assumed I was just tired from long working nights and little bitty sleeping days. My candle had indeed burned down from both ends, all the cheese was gone from my cracker, my game had stopped at 4th and 99, there were no more beans in my grinder. I had a pain in my head. Not a little twinge, not an occasional stab, but a full frontal attack that felt like an ice-pick lodged behind my left eye. Not just an ice pick - but one that had been carefully sharpened and heated until it was glowing.
I could neither keep my eyes open, or shut, I couldn't move them, I couldn't lie down, or sleep for the searing spike that felt like it was carving a message into the inside of my skull, and a rude one at that. My entire left eye socket was sore to the touch and the eyeball felt like it was ready to pop from my head like the cork from a shaken bottle of champagne, but without the cheering and the only clinking of glasses would be a result of it ricocheting around the room and knocking something over.
I have to wonder if the word pain translates into Chinese - because everyone I asked for a painkiller gave me the internationally know bemused look with a slightly raised eyebrow and a muttering sound commonly pronounced 'Uuurgh?'. I'm not too proud to say that I begged and whimpered like a puppy wanting attention to try and explain my agony - after all I had been awake for nearly 30 hours straight thanks to the constant throbbing. (And I had worked my shift - what a hero! - There is something wrong when people in a factory in China, who make worker ants look like snails, tell you that you work very hard)
The hotel staff - apparently not trained to deal with red-eyed crying Limeys - called the house doctor whose knowledge of English was only rivaled by my knowledge of nuclear fusion. She gave me eye drops, which in the history of medical aid ranked up there with selling band-aids to the French aristocracy after they had been through the guillotine. She called the Duty Manager, who did know a reasonable amount of English, but hadn't reached the 'P's yet as he also gave me an 'Uuurgh?' when I begged him to take the pain away. Somebody called my boss (It could have been me - there are blurry parts in the day - figuratively and literally) - who was helping to hold down the fort at the factory - and the next thing I know I am being bundled into a taxi with the three of them in the back, heading to the Peoples Hospital of Zhongshan.
So we arrive at the Eye Treatment centre and I am shunted hither and thither until a small, old, and incredibly sadistic nurse takes over dealing with me. Initial attempts at diagnosis basically involve her jabbing her thumb into my left temple and watching me jump up and down in tears and cries of 'Owwww!' Entertained by this reflex action she shuffles my weary form into a seat in front of a height chart and sees how high I can jump with each jab of the thumb. Other doctors are asked for their opinion of my condition and in a weird moment of clarity my addled brain was able to translate their conversations perfectly as "Watch how high he jumps when you press right here. See - Now you try and beat my score."
Via translations through nurse to hotel doctor to Duty Manager to boss to me (Hey look - real Chinese whispers), they decide I either have either:-
(a) something in my eye,
(b) a nerve problem,
(c) something going horribly wrong in my brain.
Before I travel any further with this tale I must point out a couple of quirks of this chubby little Limey which you must bear in mind:-
1 - I am deaf in my right ear - I was born that way, it cannot be fixed, it is hereditary and comes from my fathers side of the family - (There are associated tales of mirth and merriment from my misunderstanding of things said which I will share another day)
2 - I cannot focus on anything with my left eye - I kid you not, medical care being a tad hit and miss in Britain it was never spotted while growing up, and is too late to deal with now. Short of strapping a telescope to my left eye it merely helps me to see that things are out there. (Basically it could tell me that I would be run over by a car, but I'd be buggered to read the license plate)
Anyway…………
They have a most ingenious eye chart made up of capital E's facing left, right, up or down that you have to read and gesticulate with your fingers pointing which way up they are and which direction they are facing. So the nurse decides to check the vision in my useless left eye while the Duty Manager stands close by my right side and whispers instructions into my useless right ear.
Now I can just about see the wall and tell that there is a 5 foot high chart hanging on it, which I tell the Duty Manager while explaining to him that I cannot hear a word he is saying. Within seconds of translating this back I am surrounded by a sea of horrified faces.
The face of the nurse contorts with sheer terror as she is convinced I am suffering with option (c) and going into some kind of neural hemorrhage with all higher brain functions rapidly shutting down. The face of the Chubby Little Limey contorts with sheer terror as I realize I know what she thinks is going on and that she is getting ready to prep me and cut open my skull to try and save me from a full system failure. Self preservation instincts kick in and fuel my attempts to overcome language barriers and explain my quirks. Thank goodness that the Duty Manager had read past ‘D’ in his learning English studies.
So over the course of the next hour I am prodded, poked, and checked over in every room of the treatment centre before being discharged with enough drugs to make me a South American baron. (6 White round ones every morning with 2 orange ones, a blue one, 2 red ones, and a white one to eat with a meal - which I would leave till last as I was nearly full by the time I had got through the others) Basically I lived to tell the tale and came home.
Interestingly enough another attack a week later in Canada had me lying in ER waiting to see someone again. Although unlike my first visit this one took over 8 hours before I was seen by anybody – and when he did turn up he was Chinese!! (We must have been waiting for his plane to come in) - Following another round of ER frolics we find me having an MRI scan to see what is going on. I cannot say much of the MRI apart from the fact that I now know how a willy feels about a condom.
So I finally pluck up the courage and call my doctors for the results. The news was quite a shock. I have a brain. It is in good condition with low mileage, shaped like a donut but bigger and with no holes in it. My orbitals are fine too, which is good considering I do not know where my orbitals are or how to maintain them. I know that I am in possession of a couple of sphericals, but I am pretty certain that the scan did not go that low, so it must mean something else.
I officially have Trigeminal Neuralgia - (Doctors speak for loose wiring) it is apparently rare (which gives it a windswept and interesting quality) - although like most 'rare' things I now know of at least 2 other people who suffer with it. And when it flares up it is bloody painful - but it will not kill me. - that is unless I am hanging by my fingers on the edge of a cliff over a shark infested sea and I have to grab at my head to stop the shooting pain - that could probably kill me…….
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Me again.
You would not believe how difficult it is to get in and out of a country these days. Take Canada, for an example. I am as you know a chubby little Limey, who happens to live in the land of the maple leaf as a Permanent Resident. To me that sounds like a lodger who refuses to leave, and maybe that is what I am, either way I have done it for four years now and I enjoy it. It's very pleasant, nice people, lots of sun in the summers, many different kinds of snow in the winter ( I saw some yellow snow once - tasted rather odd) and on the whole the world of the Canook/Canuk is a nice little world, until that is you have to deal with official paperwork.
You could ask a group of drunks at two in the morning the shortest route to Florida and get yourself a more clear and coherent plan than you can get a piece of paper (or in my case a piece of plastic) out of the Canadian Government.
Picture the scene at the airport having returned from my first adventure in China.....
"Where are you from sir?"
"I'm from England, but I live in Canada."
"Do you have a Resident Card sir?"
"Well, no I don't, but I do have a drivers licence, health card, Social Insurance card and a large sheet of legal paper in my passport that says I live here."
"I'm sorry sir, that legal sheet of paper is not legal anymore - you must have a card to allow you in to the country. I will let you in this time but you will have to apply for one immediately"
"So what do I do when travelling while I await the arrival of this magical card then?"
"You will have to get a temporary travel permit sir, it will cover you for one return trip from outside of Canada."
"Can I get that here?"
"No sir, you must visit a Canadian Embassy outside of Canada, say Buffalo, to obtain the travel permit to return to Canada"
"So to get this straight - if I leave the country you won't let me in again unless I get a permit to travel, and if I want a permit to travel to Canada I have to leave Canada to apply for it, without somehow using it up while returning to Canada before I really leave Canada for my trip?"
"Yes sir. Have a nice day sir"
The fuse is lit......the seconds tick away.........I am now Mr Phelps............and my mission really is impossible.
So here I sit, on the Peace Bridge, at the border to the US of A, trying to reach the Canadian Embassy. It is 9:00am, and I can see the building from the bridge, it is hidden away within the Hong-Kong & Shanghai Bank plaza in downtown Buffalo. I appreciate there is some twisted irony to the name of the building, but do not wish to dwell on such matters because time is against me.
You see it says on the official government website that the Embassy is open to the public from 8:00am till 4:00pm, and on the very next line it also says that the public are only admitted to the building between 8:00am and 11:00am (What the public go and do with themselves between eleven and four while staying in the building I have no idea, it has the same kind of logic as a sign saying 'Do not read this sign', but who am I to argue?).
You can notice things change as you get over the bridge. A mental adjustment is required on your part, to stop you thinking that a mental adjustment has been administered to everyone else. My car was now a Vee-Hickle, and any signs of intelligence or wit are met with suspicion.
"Where are you going sir?"
"To the Canadian Embassy, to get a travel permit to leave Canada"
"You cannot enter the US without a visa sir"
"I don't really want to enter the US, I just want to go to that building over there and then get back to Canada."
"Please park your Vee-hickle and go through door number one."
"Can I have the prize behind door number two instead?"
The stony silence and the blank look hit me rather hard as I realised that I was now in the realms of the ultimate Customer Support team - they have no sense of humour, they follow their procedures to the letter and will not deviate, and they all have guns with one button and an inscription saying "Point THAT Way" on them, and they will use them if you fail to follow their procedures to the letter.
9:03am So to recap - I am now applying for a visa to enter the US to apply for a permit to enter Canada. I am starting to feel like the two headed pushme-pullyou llama out of Doctor Doolittle, as technically right now I cannot get into either country, and if someone doesn't have a nice day I could find myself living on the bloody Peace Bridge.
10:03am And we are all still here. A couple of snow birds waiting for their visa are telling me that they have been married for almost sixty-one years. Just to try and gage things I ask them how long they had been married when they started lining up for their visa.
10:30am I discover that a labour dispute means that the shiny, happy people of the border are on a work to rule, go slow, doing what they want to all day. Oh joy.
10:35am And I am finally being processed. "Yes..from England.....living in Canada......no I don't want to visit the US........nice gun", when I finally come up against the front line of defence in America's war on terror - a cunning device, foolproof in it's simplicity and impossible to avoid - a questionnaire on a piece of card.
Question 1 - Are you a terrorist?
Question 2 - Are you currently part of any terrorist organization?
Question 3 - Have you ever been involved in any terrorist activities?
I can almost picture the scene when someone ticks the yes column - the sirens must wail, the lights probably flash, and no doubt there are whoops and high fives all round, as another one is caught out. Mind you, they are not alone in the silly questions department - when I left the UK for my new home in the land of the Loon I was asked if anybody had been in my case without my knowledge, to which I replied if it was without my knowledge then how the hell would I know?
10:37am Having passed the test - "Just need your fingerprints scanned and your photograph from this webcam sir. It will not take a minute."
Three crashed pc's later and it still had not taken a minute - or a picture for that matter -
"Can I do it on the way back?"
"No sir"
"Can I draw a sketch?"
"No sir"
"Could you maybe find someone that knows how to use the computer?"
"I do carry a gun sir."
10:45am Finally I am tearing up the streets of Buffalo aiming at the HSBC tower. In my Chrysler Grand Caravan looking like 'Knight Rider - The Retirement Years' I reach the parking lot in one piece and a time that would make KITT proud. (Yes I know it was a one way street - I only went one way down it!) I am here - what could possibly go wrong now?
10:50am "Where are you going sir?"
"To the Canadian Embassy, to get a travel permit to leave Canada"
"Where are you intending to go sir?"
"China"
"Do you have any weapons sir?"
"No, my plan was to visit China, not invade it."
"You cannot see the Ambassador without us checking your Vee-Hickle for weapons sir - please park over here and step away from the Vee-Hickle"
So then follows a farcical attempt to check for weapons which basically consisted of me opening the trunk and two guards staring at my winter recovery kit and a couple of blankets before they cleared me. Luckily I was carrying my 24 pack of grenades on the back seat for easy access next to the bazookas, otherwise there would have been too much explaining to do.
10:57am I am finally in the building where a lady slaps a sticker on my left tit and ushers me into an elevator while saying over her shoulder to Bubba the guarding gorilla "No - more to come in today" The grunt of understanding in return made me realise that I was it - the last one through.
One hour later I am back on the bridge - the Canadian customs guard ask me where I have been and why - I tell him - he rolls his eyes and smiles "Then you have a good afternoon sir" and I am back - and finally I am happy to do what a customs official has told me.
You would not believe how difficult it is to get in and out of a country these days. Take Canada, for an example. I am as you know a chubby little Limey, who happens to live in the land of the maple leaf as a Permanent Resident. To me that sounds like a lodger who refuses to leave, and maybe that is what I am, either way I have done it for four years now and I enjoy it. It's very pleasant, nice people, lots of sun in the summers, many different kinds of snow in the winter ( I saw some yellow snow once - tasted rather odd) and on the whole the world of the Canook/Canuk is a nice little world, until that is you have to deal with official paperwork.
You could ask a group of drunks at two in the morning the shortest route to Florida and get yourself a more clear and coherent plan than you can get a piece of paper (or in my case a piece of plastic) out of the Canadian Government.
Picture the scene at the airport having returned from my first adventure in China.....
"Where are you from sir?"
"I'm from England, but I live in Canada."
"Do you have a Resident Card sir?"
"Well, no I don't, but I do have a drivers licence, health card, Social Insurance card and a large sheet of legal paper in my passport that says I live here."
"I'm sorry sir, that legal sheet of paper is not legal anymore - you must have a card to allow you in to the country. I will let you in this time but you will have to apply for one immediately"
"So what do I do when travelling while I await the arrival of this magical card then?"
"You will have to get a temporary travel permit sir, it will cover you for one return trip from outside of Canada."
"Can I get that here?"
"No sir, you must visit a Canadian Embassy outside of Canada, say Buffalo, to obtain the travel permit to return to Canada"
"So to get this straight - if I leave the country you won't let me in again unless I get a permit to travel, and if I want a permit to travel to Canada I have to leave Canada to apply for it, without somehow using it up while returning to Canada before I really leave Canada for my trip?"
"Yes sir. Have a nice day sir"
The fuse is lit......the seconds tick away.........I am now Mr Phelps............and my mission really is impossible.
So here I sit, on the Peace Bridge, at the border to the US of A, trying to reach the Canadian Embassy. It is 9:00am, and I can see the building from the bridge, it is hidden away within the Hong-Kong & Shanghai Bank plaza in downtown Buffalo. I appreciate there is some twisted irony to the name of the building, but do not wish to dwell on such matters because time is against me.
You see it says on the official government website that the Embassy is open to the public from 8:00am till 4:00pm, and on the very next line it also says that the public are only admitted to the building between 8:00am and 11:00am (What the public go and do with themselves between eleven and four while staying in the building I have no idea, it has the same kind of logic as a sign saying 'Do not read this sign', but who am I to argue?).
You can notice things change as you get over the bridge. A mental adjustment is required on your part, to stop you thinking that a mental adjustment has been administered to everyone else. My car was now a Vee-Hickle, and any signs of intelligence or wit are met with suspicion.
"Where are you going sir?"
"To the Canadian Embassy, to get a travel permit to leave Canada"
"You cannot enter the US without a visa sir"
"I don't really want to enter the US, I just want to go to that building over there and then get back to Canada."
"Please park your Vee-hickle and go through door number one."
"Can I have the prize behind door number two instead?"
The stony silence and the blank look hit me rather hard as I realised that I was now in the realms of the ultimate Customer Support team - they have no sense of humour, they follow their procedures to the letter and will not deviate, and they all have guns with one button and an inscription saying "Point THAT Way" on them, and they will use them if you fail to follow their procedures to the letter.
9:03am So to recap - I am now applying for a visa to enter the US to apply for a permit to enter Canada. I am starting to feel like the two headed pushme-pullyou llama out of Doctor Doolittle, as technically right now I cannot get into either country, and if someone doesn't have a nice day I could find myself living on the bloody Peace Bridge.
10:03am And we are all still here. A couple of snow birds waiting for their visa are telling me that they have been married for almost sixty-one years. Just to try and gage things I ask them how long they had been married when they started lining up for their visa.
10:30am I discover that a labour dispute means that the shiny, happy people of the border are on a work to rule, go slow, doing what they want to all day. Oh joy.
10:35am And I am finally being processed. "Yes..from England.....living in Canada......no I don't want to visit the US........nice gun", when I finally come up against the front line of defence in America's war on terror - a cunning device, foolproof in it's simplicity and impossible to avoid - a questionnaire on a piece of card.
Question 1 - Are you a terrorist?
Question 2 - Are you currently part of any terrorist organization?
Question 3 - Have you ever been involved in any terrorist activities?
I can almost picture the scene when someone ticks the yes column - the sirens must wail, the lights probably flash, and no doubt there are whoops and high fives all round, as another one is caught out. Mind you, they are not alone in the silly questions department - when I left the UK for my new home in the land of the Loon I was asked if anybody had been in my case without my knowledge, to which I replied if it was without my knowledge then how the hell would I know?
10:37am Having passed the test - "Just need your fingerprints scanned and your photograph from this webcam sir. It will not take a minute."
Three crashed pc's later and it still had not taken a minute - or a picture for that matter -
"Can I do it on the way back?"
"No sir"
"Can I draw a sketch?"
"No sir"
"Could you maybe find someone that knows how to use the computer?"
"I do carry a gun sir."
10:45am Finally I am tearing up the streets of Buffalo aiming at the HSBC tower. In my Chrysler Grand Caravan looking like 'Knight Rider - The Retirement Years' I reach the parking lot in one piece and a time that would make KITT proud. (Yes I know it was a one way street - I only went one way down it!) I am here - what could possibly go wrong now?
10:50am "Where are you going sir?"
"To the Canadian Embassy, to get a travel permit to leave Canada"
"Where are you intending to go sir?"
"China"
"Do you have any weapons sir?"
"No, my plan was to visit China, not invade it."
"You cannot see the Ambassador without us checking your Vee-Hickle for weapons sir - please park over here and step away from the Vee-Hickle"
So then follows a farcical attempt to check for weapons which basically consisted of me opening the trunk and two guards staring at my winter recovery kit and a couple of blankets before they cleared me. Luckily I was carrying my 24 pack of grenades on the back seat for easy access next to the bazookas, otherwise there would have been too much explaining to do.
10:57am I am finally in the building where a lady slaps a sticker on my left tit and ushers me into an elevator while saying over her shoulder to Bubba the guarding gorilla "No - more to come in today" The grunt of understanding in return made me realise that I was it - the last one through.
One hour later I am back on the bridge - the Canadian customs guard ask me where I have been and why - I tell him - he rolls his eyes and smiles "Then you have a good afternoon sir" and I am back - and finally I am happy to do what a customs official has told me.
Saturday, April 29, 2006
Dear Diary
For my third instalment of coping in China I thought I'd mention some useful essentials that are somehow overlooked in the travel brochures and TV shows - pay attention - they might just keep you alive.
Driving
There is nothing like driving safely on the streets, and in China the really is NOTHING LIKE driving safely on the streets. The average family commuting vehicle is a scooter, upon which you can pile a driver, several small children and a second adult at the back with as much shopping balanced on either side as you can strap down, making it look like some kind of novelty act from a Cirque de Soleil show. Momentarily you ponder how the police could allow such things to happen, until you watch a police scooter go by with as many flashing lights as can fit and two policemen riding on it too (presumably if you are arrested then you get to sit in the middle). And if you have ever heard the expression 'Keep death off the roads - drive on the sidewalk' then the chances are that it originated in China because you get as many scooters on the sides as you do in the streets, making a stroll around the shops something of an adventure, whereby you will actually jump into the road to avoid being run over.
There are certain features of the roads which you get the feeling China has heard about, and included them for the benefit of visitors, but they have no actual function. Prime examples being signs, painted lines on the road and traffic lights which are there merely to provide accentuating mood lighting rather than traffic control (My wasn't that a particularly nice shade of red back there that we drove through at 45 miles an hour).
Language
The use of the English language is a wonderful thing - it can teach us, it can express feelings of the heart, it can tell us stories and make us wonder of our place in the world. Foreign language is a mystical thing, the rolling of the tongue, or the accenting of a sound to denote different meaning to what seem like similar words, and the sheer beauty of the structure and sounds can be captivating to listen to. Trying to use the English language as a tool to interact with the foreign language on the other hand is a disaster waiting to happen.
Watching one of our colleagues as we sat in a restaurant gesticulating wildly to a waitress, using one hand to indicate that he had a fly in his beer and waving the other to show that everyone's glasses were dirty. Had it not been for our local guide stepping in to save us she would have served us 6 more flies so that everyone could have one. (Oh the look of disappointment on the face of the chef, who had been saving some particularly fruity little numbers for just such an occasion, as he packed them back into the fridge)
A local chap told me the other day that he liked to ski the internet in his spare time, which to me sounds like much more fun than surfing and from now on I will ski the web too. Someone else wanted to know if I'd like to go to the Gay Ball of China, which I thought was a little forward, as we had not so much as been out for a drink together. Wearing an expression somewhat similar to a first day convict who has just heard Big-Bubba say "Who's your Daddy?" I shook my head slightly and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "It's very big and long," he continued enthusiastically, "many people come to China to see it" (mission control to Wrighty nerve centre - closing emergency doors - unlawful entry detected) "You can walk up it for hundreds of miles." Imagine my relief when I realised we were talking about the Great Wall.
Language holds no fear for us Brits though - as it is a well known fact that we can be understood clearly anywhere in the world by simply speaking very slowly and loudly at people - it is a proven technique and has never failed me once
Toilets
Yes toilets. The most common of acts almost turned into the most deadly for this poor chubby little Limey when caught short with a need that was not going to wait.You see the actual toilet is not the westernized and indeed civilized little seated number that we take for granted here. The best way to describe it is to take a gentleman's urinal, lay it on it's back and stick it in the floor, and put a hole at the front for everything to flush down.
"So how does one sit and sh....?" well that's the point - you don't sit, you squat, and the smallest but most important missing detail is that there are no handles on the walls for you to hang on to.Try this little exercise on a carpet - keeping your feet squarely on the floor squat down so that your bum rests on the calves of your lower leg, and then stay balanced without holding on to anything. Now if you are like me and best described as a fridge magnet rather than a babe magnet, you will probably find yourself rolling backwards and ending up staring at the ceiling.
Now take that little scenario and replay it actually in a Chinese toilet and you will find yourself picturing my predicament. Desperately sliding backwards while holding on to the toilet walls I was looking like a cross between Mini-Me and Sampson. Never before in my life have I had to face the rather unfortunate prospect of peeing up my own nose, but here I sat (or not as the case may be) with nothing but willpower and the already overworked Wrighty nerve centre between me, 2 socks full of crap, and the need for industrial strength tic-tacs. It almost wasn't pretty, but I did survive with dignity bruised yet still intact.
And so dear Diary I have these simple tips to sum up my travels and trials
When travelling - keep your eyes closed and whatever you do don't look at the traffic flying by - it seems to work for the drivers
When trying to talk the lingo - remember the subtleties of pronunciation are hard to understand - there is a very fine line between "Bring me the wine list" and "My mother is very fond of goats"
And when you've gotta go - take some rope and tie yourself to the toilet door - think of it as water ski-ing for beginners
Untill next time....
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