Succumbing to the lure of dental tourism

I’m starting to realise that I’ve never been particularly vain;  I’ve always prioritised being healthy and in (relatively) good shape, rather than wanting to look 20 years younger than I am.

This approach to life, which I can only attribute to serendipity rather than wisdom, must have saved me shedloads of cash and endless trauma over the years – as I discovered last week, when I gave in to a moment of vanity.

My new dentist, Dr Chew, had a special offer on a super-duper teeth-whitening procedure, and he showed me the brochure with its tempting photos –

It was so much cheaper than it would be in the UK that I decided to go ahead and have it done.

The first indignity was having to wear a mouth guard that made me look as though I had a blue beak.

Just as well I’m not vain.

Then I got the Santa Claus beard look –

and finally the shades –

Then my teeth were covered in foaming white bleaching solution, which made me look as though I’d got rabies –

And finally, I settled back to wait for the magic to work, with a futuristic blue light fixed to my duck’s bill.

At first it was very boring, lying there completely still, but then my teeth started to complain.  It was the sort of pain you get if you bite on a piece of silver foil with a filling in your tooth – unpredictable, sudden and very painful.  I sat there tensed up, and either jumping with sudden pain, or wondering where the next twang was going to hit.

Finally the torture was over and Dr Chew was delighted with the results

But I spent the rest of the day twitching and whimpering as the tooth agonies continued, and had to spend 48 hours eating pale-coloured food only, and no coffee … yet more torture.

So, in short, I paid for 48 hours of torture and deprivation – but never again.

I plan to start a new trend …


… black is the new white.  Another glass of red wine, anyone?



Another must-do ticked off the list

No expat should pass up the opportunity to spend a couple of days in hospital in another country, just to enhance the immersive experience.

My weekend jaunt to the local private hospital cost about as much as a weekend at the Dorchester, and was considerably less fun.

The view from my room wasn’t bad

But it was still the same old bare room with hospital bed.

Mind you, the menu was considerably more exciting than the one I had to endure at the Norfolk and Norwich two years ago.

Here’s the breakfast selection

Not a hint of soggy cereal or leathery cold toast.

So I spent a very dull weekend sitting in bed reading the local papers and taking note of the more unusual stories … dog poo jelly anyone?

Luckily my suspected appendicitis turned out not to be and I got parole on Sunday night.  The doctor now thinks it was probably food poisoning – so the long list of restaurants I compiled from my hospital bed reading will have to wait a while until my gastronomic appreciation bounces back to 100%.


“… and then he farted defiantly.”

As W.C. Fields so memorably said, ‘Never work with children or animals.’

Actually, I need to be careful what I say here, because Mr Toad is reading over my shoulder

and he has a very disapproving expression on his face.

So I will concentrate on the ‘not working with children’ bit, and leave animals out of it.

The defiant farter was not one of my pupils, thank goodness; it was the Head Teacher who got the full malodorous force of that one.

But I have received two crushing blows to my fragile self-esteem this week.

In Episode One, Child A points to my leg and says, ‘What’s that lump?’

As I twist around, trying to look for a lump on my leg, Child B prods at my calf and says dismissively, ‘Oh, that’s nothing – it’s just fat.’

In Episode Two, small-but-evil Child C says, ‘You have very nice, soft fingers, Miss Louise.’

‘Thank you,’ I say with a smile, totally off my guard.

‘But your hands aren’t very soft, are they?  Why is that?’ she asks guilelessly.

‘I don’t know,’ I reply, on my guard now, but too late.

‘I think it’s maybe because you’re very old,’ says disingenuous Child C, mercilessly going in for the kill.

So there you are … I’ve been called old and fat, both in the space of a week.

I’m wondering whether the school will pay for my therapy.




Happy Hari Raya

Today marks the end of Ramadan, and in the true spirit of Malaysian gourmandising we decided to go to an all-you-can-eat brunch.

Our choice of venue – a prosecco and pork extravaganza – wasn’t exactly in keeping with Islamic principles, but the intention was there.

Then on to a gin palace, where behaviour deteriorated somewhat …

… not mine, I hasten to add.

They give you a bottle of gin and invite you to make a mark once you’ve had enough –

Needless to say, the bottle was well and truly empty once the crab crew got going on it, so no marking or haggling over price was necessary.

And this evening I can see fireworks going off in every direction as I look out from the balcony

This isn’t my photo … I can’t see the Petronas Towers from my window, but I’m sure you get the idea.

There are yellow and green decorations everywhere

and they are all in the shape of the little woven boxes that are filled with money and given to children at Hari Raya.

Here they are in a shop down the road – along with flaming torches, which seem to be another essential for Hari Raya –

– plus lots of bright, shiny decorations.

The guards at the gate of the condo have really got into the Ramadan spirit and decorated the guard house –

– despite the fact that they’re all Nepalese, and therefore presumably Hindu.

That’s the great thing about Malaysia; there’s a huge mix of cultures, and they all embrace everyone else’s celebrations with great enthusiasm.  So the Malays have a knees-up at Chinese New Year, and the Chinese flock to the Iftar buffets during Ramadan.

As a last word on Ramadan, I had a revelation at my final Iftar buffet last Thursday.  These buffets specialise in traditional home-style food which you don’t normally see in restaurants, and on Thursday I had some of this –

which I thought was artichoke.  But I was assured by my Malay neighbour that it was jack fruit.

I was so convinced that it was artichoke that I took a picture of the label

and looked up a translation later, and of course she was absolutely right.

So there you go, cooked jack fruit is indistinguishable from artichoke … I bet you never knew that.

So, as they say over here, Selamat Hari Raya Aidilfitri, or Happy Hari Raya – so no more Ramadan buffets until next year … sigh.


Getting to grips with Manglish

Manglish is an English-based creole used in Malaysia.

They also use British English, which is considered to be a second language rather than a foreign language in Malaysia, but it is a very idiosyncratic type of British English and takes some getting used to.

For a start they use some very quaint words and expressions, which have fallen out of use in England.  For example, children are always complaining of being scolded by their parents or their teachers – whereas I don’t think a British child has used the word scolded for about a hundred years.  Likewise, they talk about plucking fruit from trees, which has a definite Shakespearean ring to it.  And I also is used where we would say me too.

Rude words and offensive words are also very different:

‘Teacher!  Jacob just say buttock to me!’

I then have to feign outrage at such atrocious language.

The rudest word of all, referred to only as the ‘s’ word, is … stupid.  It’s so shocking that a child will gasp if they hear it, or refuse to read it aloud if it crops up in one of their British reading scheme books.

Conversely, shit is not an offensive term at all, and I’ve had five year-olds who routinely exclaim ‘Oh shit, Miss Louise – I’ve broken my pencil!’

On and off are both verbs in Manglish, as in:

‘Can you on the airconditioning, please?’

A whole variety of words are used much more in Manglish than in English, such as also, already, got.

Got is used all the time, and exists in a variety of tenses, including the future, I will got.

The suffix –lah is added onto words willy-nilly, and doesn’t seem to mean anything at all – maybe emphasis, but I’m not sure.  For example, a child memorably said to a fellow teacher when he found out her age:

‘So old, and not yet married-lah!’

Can and cannot – never abbreviated to can’t – are used all the time, and ‘can can‘ isn’t a dance, it’s merely a strong affirmation.  So a typical conversation in a shop might go like this:

Mend this, can?

Mend?  No, cannot-lah.

Buy new one same same, can?

New one same same, can can.

So, although I haven’t learnt much Malay yet, my Manglish is coming on a treat-lah.


My first Ramadan

I knew Ramadan was going to be a big thing in Malaysia when I saw that Tesco was selling special Ramadan boxes of tissues –

Hari Raya is the Malay name for Eid, which will be celebrated next Sunday after a month of fasting.

In the daytime, it’s difficult to notice much difference, as most of the Malays carry out their fasting quietly and with little fuss.  The only difference is the appalling traffice between 5 and 7 pm when Muslims all rush home to prepare for breaking fast at the designated time.

If you’re not sure what time you can start to eat in the evening, the newspapers publish the time every day, or you can look online

This website shows us that today the morning meal must be finished before prayers which start at 5.41 am, and then the Iftar, which is the name for the meal when they break fast, can start at 7.24 pm.

I went to an Iftar meal last week with a group of women, organised by Amal, on the left, who is quite the most glamorous headscarf-wearer that I’ve ever seen – she reminded me of a cross between Liza Minelli in her heyday, and Lawrence of Arabia.

All of these women are Muslim, but come from different cultures with very different approaches to Islam, but they are all fasting for Ramadan.

I learned that Malay men can be imprisoned for a month if they are seen eating publicly during the day at Ramadan, and they also have to pay a hefty fine.  It’s not so stringent for women, as there’s a variety of reasons which exempt them from fasting; although if they don’t fast they’re expected to either make up the time later, or feed the poor instead.

But Malaysia being Malaysia, it seems that Ramadan is all about the Iftar i.e. all about the food.  There is a night food market every evening in each part of town, and all the hotels and a lot of the restaurants put on an Iftar buffet every evening, all trying to outdo each other with the splendiferous spread on offer.

So, purely in the interests of research, I went along to one yesterday evening with my dining chums Glenn and Jeff and two friends of theirs from Bangladesh –

It was a fantastic experience – I’ve never seen so much delicious food in one place before.

And it wasn’t just Malay food … there was a sushi chef

And a chef slicing raw fish and octopus, japanese-style

Plus the shellfish, of course –

– and I even impressed myself with my restraint when it came to a helping of these

… and it was a jolly small plate too.

It was a bit like waiting for New Year to strike, and as soon as 7.23 arrived, the hordes descended

I was particularly taken with the melons carved into dahlias

but I’m not sure what the strange potato-things are … I didn’t try one just in case it was a potato.

There was even a chocolate fountain

and a whole range of other yummy puddings

We eventually rolled out of the restaurant, discussing imminent diets, about two and a half hours later.

I’ve been invited to another Iftar next Thursday … can’t wait.


Another dose of crabs

Returning from my whirlwind trip back to the UK last week, I had a bizarre encounter with an amorous travel agent at the airport as I waited for my cab.

Me: No, I’m not going to meet you for a glass of wine, I’m afraid.

Him: Please don’t worry, I’m afraid too.

… not exactly what I meant – oh, well.

No – my real fear was that there might have been an outbreak of crab flu, or Dutch crab disease in my absence, forcing me to lead a crab-free lifestyle from now on.  But I’m happy to report that my fears were unfounded, and last night I even managed to add to my repertoire –

– bottom right is black pepper crab … just one more example of crustacean deliciousness.

One of the claws exploded with a loud crack as I attacked it with nutcrackers and it shot goo all over me, the table and the floor.  My neighbour cleaned me up after that little accident, but I still managed to make a terrible mess –

But at least the pile of debris wasn’t so high that I couldn’t see over it

Happy days.

Stuffing myself yet again

I can’t believe that I’d never heard of Plate Culture until last week.

And now that I’ve become a devotee, I can’t believe that it only exists in SE Asia – it’s such a fantastic idea.

At the risk of being accused of epicurean evangelism, let me try to convert you.

If you’re lucky enough to live in Hong Kong, Malaysia, Singapore or the  Philippines, you can go to a dinner party and enjoy a meal cooked by a real foodie, but without any of the stress of having to reciprocate … you simply pay for the dinner and then go home afterwards, leaving your host with all the washing up.

It’s described on wikipedia as ‘airbnb for food’; hosts list their offerings, and guests book up and pay via the website.

Eight of us went to Ken’s flat for an authentic Peranakan dinner.  He used recipes that came from his great-grandmother, who was 102 when she died in 1979, so it must be very healthy food.

I’ve become really interested in the Peranakan culture since I arrived in Malaysia. It used to be called Straits Chinese and is mainly found in Malacca and Penang, so I was delighted to find someone with authentic Peranakan roots and recipes here in KL.

Ken is a university lecturer who loves cooking and sharing his heritage on his days off.

The write up sounded fab:

We had a fantastic meal, took our own wine, and listened to all Ken’s stories about his family and food

and the cost of the evening was £13.24 a head.

With a bit of forward planning, I should easily be able to stick to my resolution to avoid cooking for the whole of my stay in Malaysia; whilst at the same time supporting the local economy, keeping traditions alive and fostering intercultural relations … I’m beginning to feel like a bit of a hero.


On the yoga trail

One thing I love about living in a big city is that there’s so much going on and so much choice; whether it’s restaurants, bars, hip coffee shops, music venues, karaoke bars, exercise classes … just scroll through the options and you’ll find one that’s just perfect for you.

Having spent the past ten years in a tiny, provincial town where I was lucky to find one yoga class, I was very excited to find that in KL there are hundreds classes, and you can practise every type of yoga you’ve ever dreamed of – or had nightmares about, depending on your perspective.

I found a studio within walking distance and signed up for the Newbie Special, which allows you to take as many classes as you want to for the first week, so I decided to get my money’s worth:

Class number 1 – Vinyasa

This involved a lot of complicated sequences of movements, and I was at a distinct disadvantage because the girl next to me appeared to be made entirely of India rubber, and was twisting herself into the most outrageous shapes, so there was no way I could follow her.

Plus I was distracted because I’d seen a cockroach disappearing into a hole in the cloakroom just before the lesson started, so I kept peering around anxiously, hoping that it wasn’t about to emerge from the woodwork and make a beeline for the top of my t-shirt – which was what my previous cockroach had done.

I did enjoy climbing backwards up the wall though, despite a bit of an issue with free-range cleavage, which this man obviously didn’t suffer from –

– no wonder he found it so much easier than I did.

Class number 2 – Ashtanga with the lovely Valerie

If Madonna can do it, I thought, then so can I.  But I think the lovely Valerie was rather disheartened by the end.  She took to adding ‘even if you can only …’ to the end of every instruction, and I knew this was directed at me.

We started with the lotus position

which wasn’t the pose in itself – it was just the beginning as we worked towards something even more challenging.

‘Even if you can only manage the half lotus that would be good,’ she said, hopefully.

Wanting to please her, I grabbed my foot and forced it onto my leg, gritting my teeth.  But my knee wouldn’t lie flat like smarmy Miss Yoga’s does in the picture here –

mine was sticking right up in the air, with the bottom leg objecting furiously and trying to straighten itself by twitching wildly, while I tried to balance and pretend that everything was fine.

‘Now touch your forehead to the floor,’ said Valerie.

You have got to be joking, I thought.  The only way my forehead was going to touch the floor would be if I passed out.

‘Even if you can only move an inch that would be good,’ she added, looking at me.

Cunningly, I moved my arms backwards, hoping to make it look as though I was bending forwards, but it just made me look like a desperate, dyspraxic spider.

Class number 3 – Restorative

I felt much in need of something restorative after the Ashtanga, so trotted along yesterday morning at 8 am to see Dr Birgit.

Restorative yoga involved a lot of breathing, while Birgit chanted ‘vun, two, vun two, vun two …’ and invited us to look at the white light in the chakra in between our eyes.  I couldn’t quite manage that bit, but I did manage to breathe, thankfully.

Birgit was very thorough and pulled me into the right position several times, and tutted at my downward dog.  But when I toppled sideways off my mat onto the floor during a failed attempt at pigeon pose

and then got a fit of the giggles, I could tell that I’d disappointed her.

Class number 4 – Hatha

This morning’s Hatha teacher had big glasses, and because the light was behind her, I couldn’t see who she was looking at when she was talking … and it was usually me.  So she had to keep repeating herself, and quite clearly thought that I was half-witted as well as inflexible.

She also had a strong accent which I found difficult to understand and  I was sure that she’d said ‘now work your pancake’ at one stage during the class.

Then, towards the end, I thought she said ‘press your vagina into the mat’.

At this point I was reminded of a class I took in Cambodia with a heavily accented instructor who I thought had said ‘and now massage your vagina’.  I glanced surreptitiously at my neighbours, neither of whom moved a muscle, so I didn’t either.  I asked about it afterwards and they explained that I hadn’t misheard, you just massage it mentally … phew.

Assuming that this was a similar instruction, to be done mentally, I ignored it.  But then she repeated ‘Louise, press your vagina into the mat’, got up and pulled my shoulders back and pushed my pelvis down.

‘There – this is how we do cobra – can you feel it?’

I certainly could.

My only quandary now is which classes to sign up for permanently, and which instructors are going to have the thrill of seeing me turn up to their class every week.


In which I devise an ingenious plan …

Is there anything more rewarding in this life than teaching three-year-olds?  Watching little eyes open in wonder?  Seeing young minds flourish and blossom?

Yes, is the resounding answer to that question … a long list of things actually, starting with herding cats, and ending with painting the Forth Road Bridge or pushing a boulder endlessly up a hill as a punishment from the gods.

I have one class of three-year-olds a week, and frankly it’s one class too many. After spending nearly four months in their company, I have come to realise that there are several inherent design flaws in the construction of three-year-olds and they really need fixing:

Firstly – there is the vast gulf between their actual ability and their perception of their ability

‘Can you write your name?’ I asked one small girl during her first lesson.

‘Yes,’ she replied, confidently, and then produced something which looked more like an electrocardiogram.



So we moved on to writing the letter A.



In this picture you can see a couple of beautiful green As that I drew on the board.  The surrounding squiggles are their copies – upside down, stepladdered, or just random lines – but they were delighted with their efforts and thought that they looked just like mine … or possibly better.

Likewise their cut-and-stick copy of Inky the Inchworm, which they made whilst looking carefully at the original, which was on the table to help them.



They managed create Inky’s identical twin …



… presumably after a tragic accident with a lawnmower.


Secondly – they have a woefully short concentration span.  This afternoon, in the middle of singing a song, they all suddenly and inexplicably disappeared under a table.



Thinking I could lure them out, I picked up a story book,

‘Who wants to come and see the colour of the birthday cake in this picture?’ I called enticingly.

‘Nobody!’ came the answering shout from under the table.

So I sat and looked at the cake by myself … and it was pink, in case you were wondering.

Thirdly – they tell you things that you’d really rather not know, like ‘I have stomach ache, but my poo won’t come out.’

I have no idea what I’m supposed to say in response to this sort of revelation, or indeed any orifice-related revelation – and I’ve had a few.  So I generally make do with a half smile and an understanding nod of the head, before moving smartly out of the danger zone.

And fourthly – there is a magnetic attraction between three-year-olds and climbing frames.



So much so that they can’t pass one without being drawn towards it at high speed. Ferrets hurtling up drainpipes could pick up a few tips from three-year-olds swarming up the nearest climbing frame.

I’m so sick of prising them off multiple times per lesson, that I have devised a fiendish plan … to grease the top rungs.  Then next time they give me a defiant look out of the corner of their eye as they race towards it, I will be able to smile calmly and wait for them to reach the top, ping off and slither to the ground.  Then I will simply round them up and herd them back to the classroom.

In the meantime, whilst I wait for my Amazon delivery of two kilos of Extra-Slippery Bear Grease, if anyone knows of any quick fixes or updates that I can apply to reconfigure these mini-menaces, please let me know.



Just popping down to the jungle stall

Did you know that every market in Malaysia has at least one jungle stall?

No – neither did I – until yesterday, when I went on a cookery course which began with a trip to the market.

The market is literally within spitting distance – and I can’t spit very far – of the school where I work, so I will be popping in regularly from now on to sample all the jungle produce.

These are pandan leaves

which are a very common flavouring and colouring in Malaysia, but are also used to keep cockroaches away … so I will be ordering a regular bulk supply.

This is called Pegaga or centella asiatica

and is apparently good for warding off dementia, as well as being delicious in a salad – so what’s not to like, for we over fifties?

And fiddlehead ferns look really pretty and make an excellent side dish cooked in coconut.

They contain antioxidants and omega 3 fatty acids, but if you eat too much of them, you could get beri-beri, cancer or be poisoned by an as yet undefined toxin, depending on which variety you pig out on (note to self – caution advised).

This is not a lump of coal – it’s a century duck egg

an essential ingredient in my latest favourite food – salted egg yolk crab/prawns/chicken/croissant/cronut/cruffin etc. etc.

As if fresh durian didn’t smell bad enough, they also sell fermented durian –

– the facial expression here says it all.

The course itself was in a lovely old house in one of the peaceful villages that are dotted around in the jungle areas surrounding the city.

There’s no air con, but a traditional ice shaving machine makes cold drinks and desserts to cool you off.

There is so much pounding involved in cooking here that Malay women must have biceps to rival Amazon warriors –

but I did like the way that the drying pestles and mortars are used to create an installation.

We made fish parcels in banana leaves which was my favourite of the dishes –

The panda sticker on my shoulder is an ingenious mosquito repellent.

Then we pounded yet again to create a chicken curry and fiendishly complicated lacy pancakes, which Hani our instructor made so beautifully –

whereas mine were more blobby than lacy

but they tasted OK.

I will definitely be coming on another course here – if only to keep my biceps beautifully toned and to learn more about the miraculous properties of jungle produce.


I have a new pet

I’ve been worrying a bit lately about leaving Mr Toad on his own for so long, while I’m at work.  I think he’s lonely, and he spends far too much time watching trashy TV –


So when I saw the advertisement, I just couldn’t resist …



And so far it seems to be a success; Mr Toad and Dave the Date have really bonded and love spending time together –



And I have discovered that a date really is the perfect pet.  They don’t need walking, grooming or feeding, and if they should happen to suffer an unfortunate accident …



Then Dave the Second (Third, Fourth, Fifth etc …) is there in the fridge ready to step up and take his place


And, just like a child with a replacement goldfish, Mr Toad is none the wiser.

The Crab Crew go to Crab Island

I suppose it was inevitable – like junkies drawn irresistibly to Amsterdam – that the Crab Crew would end up on Crab Island, or Pulau Ketam as it’s called in Bahasa.

Mr Tan, the man with a van, picked us up and took us to the port for a rather blustery ride across the Straits of Malacca, through the mangroves

and past fishing villages on stilts.

When we got to the island we headed straight for the restaurant, where the decor reminded me vividly of Cromer –

And then, finally, we were able to get down and dirty with some very sticky sauces and sumptuous seafood

A new dish for me was fresh oyster omelette – made at a roadside stall next to the resaurant –

There was much fun to be had afterwards on the fitness equipment

and posing in front of the local street art

When all of a sudden the artist’s muse himself arrived, and recreated his pose –

albeit looking reassuringly less like Frankenstein’s monster in the flesh.

After more photo opportunities on the way home, I have just one question to ask:  why is it that when I’m behind the camera, everyone looks like a normal human being –

But as soon as I’m in front of the lens –

the wind whips up and obscures me from view?

It’s either a tribute to my photographic skills, or the gods of photogenicity are conspiring against me … and I’m tending towards the latter.


Gin, fags and karaoke … a typical night out in KL

Have had my first experience of karaoke Asian-style, and I think I’m hooked.

Here in Malaysia everyone sits around the edges of the booth, looking at the screen and singing along – a choral performance rather than a solo, with several microphones in every booth.  So, as long as someone knows the tune, you’re in with a chance of being able to warble along too.

With as much or as little drama as you like –

The gin and fags took me back to my student days …

… when smoking bans hadn’t been invented, and the economy of scale mentality kicked in whenever you were given the choice between a single measure of spirits or a whole bottle.  Of course, a bottle is sooo much cheaper in the long run  … well, it is if you’re planning to have 40 shots over the course of the evening.

I did a bit of booth stalking while I was there, and the place is enormous – at least fifty booths filled with couples, families with kids, birthday parties, rowdy groups of drunken teachers … everyone singing lustily in their soundproof boxes.

After a quick look at the website –

I found that you can even pop in during your lunch-break for less than £1 an hour.

Now that the physical and psychological benefits of group singing are being extolled by all and sundry, I think that employers should be required to organise a weekly sing-along lunch-hour for all staff – compulsory attendance required.

You’d have to bring your own instruments, obviously.


What’s in a name?

Hopefully not too much … as this was the name plaque on my door at Parents’ Meeting this weekend –


At the other end of the name spectrum – I now have my own meme, which makes me feel totes ahead of the curve .  I arrived at school on Wednesday to find it stuck on the inside of my locker door –


Me and Leo – yay!  But I soon found myself fretting …  does this really capture my essence? Can you discern my je ne sais quoi – even with a ridiculous hat on?

Time to get a grip, I realised – essence or no essence, Hardon for Bardon inside my locker is a hell of a lot better than Mr Lousie B on my classroom door.

But it’s not just the Barden name that’s been up for laughs this week; there are some names over here that still make me smile, no matter how often I hear them.

For example, my new dentist is straight out of happy families … Dr Chew.

Then at school there’s Jo Kin, which gives us teachers the opportunity for all sorts of banter:

‘You must be Jo Kin?’

‘No, I’m not Jo kin.’

‘I hope you’re Jo Kin.’

etc etc

And how about Kang Foo?

Then the very talkative girl in one of my classes, who’s called Yap.

And my current favourite … Amberlyn.  If there was ever a name crying out for a meme, then this is it –


I hope you’re impressed by my newfound skill – my life has taken on a new meme-ing.




Everything you’ve ever wanted to know about leeches

I went on a guided forest hike today, and before we set out the guide gathered us together for the briefing, which included instructions on dealing with leeches.

‘Rule number one,’ he said sternly, ‘is don’t become hysterical.’

A mere five minutes later we had all forgotten this instruction, and there was general hysteria from the crowd, and more focused hysteria from Sarah, the first person to find a leech attached to her.

Luckily (for the rest of us) this gave the guide the opportunity to show us how to roll the leech round and round with your fingers to detach it.  But once you’ve detached it you have to flick it away very quickly or it attaches to your finger and starts bloodsucking again immediately, and you have to repeat the whole process.

I shouldn’t have been surprised by the clinginess of the leech, as I’ve been using that metaphor for years – but obviously without really thinking about the creature itself.  I expect I’d be equally surprised if I saw a couple of rats having a race, or a kangaroo dispensing justice; the expressions have become detached in my mind from the creatures in question.

Anyway – the whole point of this walk was not to learn how to deal with leeches, but to hike through the forest to the canopy walkway and then walk across wobbling planks suspended between trees, 30 metres up in the air.

It was frankly terrifying, and I’m very glad that I didn’t find out until afterwards that it’s closing permanently on 30th June, because it’s so old and dilapidated.  Not quite as decrepit as the ones that the likes of Indiana Jones run across to escape marauding natives or runaway boulders, but more ramshackle than anything you’d be allowed to tackle in England without a hard hat, ropes and a signed disclaimer.

I managed to get across, chanting to myself ‘I can do this, I can do this’ – and even cracked a feeble smile for a photo.

As you can see here, some of the planks are coming apart – I just hope they last until 30 June.

Then, when I got down, as if that wasn’t enough excitement for one day, I had to remove a leech, that has left a hole in my foot.

But it’s a compliment according to our guide – they only drink good quality blood – so leech marks are a sign of health.  Well, I believed him …




Crustacean Fixation

Is this a recognised obsession, or am I the only sufferer?

It’s only really surfaced since my arrival in Malaysia.  I spent the previous decade living a mere 10 miles from the home of the Cromer Crab without developing any symptoms at all … apart from a totally understandable urge to snigger at the crab-shaped lights decorating the Cromer seafront.  But after three months here, I’ve developed a full-blown mania.

It all started on a trip to the seaside, where I first tried salted egg yolk prawns –

– and they were so delicious that I found myself sucking the empty shells after all the prawns had been eaten.  Only my own shells, I hasten to add – although that was in the early days of my infatuation, so God knows what lengths I mightn’t go to now, if I found myself in the same prawn-deprived situation.

Then I was told that the home of salted egg yolk seafood is Penang – and the salted egg yolk crab is the dish to go for – so I had to go and try it –

and I was hooked.

The wonderful thing about crabs in Asia is that they are served hot and white; no prissy ‘dressed crab’ here – which I always think is an excuse for putting just one measly spoonful of crab meat onto a pile of brown sludge that tastes like ptomaine poisoning in a shell.

And it’s not just the crabs in Penang that are wonderful – the prawns are pretty amazing too – and you can choose the ones that take your fancy –

– this one was about the size of my forearm.

And then last month in Singapore, at the Hillman Restaurant, I lost my inhibitions.

Chilli crab is the dish to eat in Singapore – and their food website tells us:

“The king of all crab dishes, this popular dish is served with the shell on, and is typically eaten with one’s hands. Make sure you have plenty of napkins handy – it’s messy work!″

… and it certainly was.  This was my chilli crab when it arrived –

and this is what the table looked like after I’d finished –

I was the floor show for the evening – the staff kept popping out of the kitchen to stare at me, as chilli sauce dripped off my elbows and I wiped it off my nose with the tablecloth, but I didn’t care.

Last week my infatuation moved to another level at Restoran New Wong Poh, where we had chilli crab, salted egg crab, plus my new favourite – butter crab.

You even get your own hammer –

so you can splatter your friends with chilli sauce

or you can just cover yourself if you prefer –

We’re now forming the Tuesday Night Crab Club, so I’ll be able to indulge my passion on a regular basis.  If I can find similar enthusiasts for a Prawn Thursday and a Clam Saturday, then my happiness will be complete.




Mr Toad becomes a luvvie

We’ve just had Dress Up As Your Favourite Book Character Weekend at school, and we all took it extremely seriously.

I had my Professor McGonagall costume imported from England (thank you, Anthony) and then spent hours in front of the mirror working on my role.

The stance was very important –

But the facial expressions even more so …

… think I’ve got Dame Maggie to a tee now.

Cleopatra spent hours on her make up –

And our genuine luvvie – the drama teacher – got into role as Count Olaf every morning –

While our esteemed deputy-head added all his Frankenstein’s Monster stitches painstakingly, one by one, every day –

What a bunch of dedicated professionals –

Mr Toad, ever the narcissist, was keen to play himself, but I managed to persuade him to play Trevor the Toad from Harry Potter instead, which he did grudgingly.

And at the risk of sounding a little like Mr Toad myself, my photo on the school Facebook page has ‘nearly gone viral’ according to the Headmistress


My only worry now is what to do for the next book weekend in October.  If I don’t decide soon, I won’t have time to perfect my character.  Any ideas for a suitable battleaxe that I could play?  If so please let me know asap.

Cockroach in a coma


What do you do when you suddenly realise that a cockroach the size of a fist has materialised from the cloth you’re carrying and is crawling across your decolletage?

Well, if you’re anything like me, you scream, drop the cloth and jump around like a demented dervish until the creature flaps its wings – yes, these huge, tropical ones can fly too – and heads for the floor.

It scuttled around looking for somewhere to hide and finally settled on the dark corner under the bathroom cupboards

I watched from a safe distance as it backed into the corner and hunkered down, obviously planning on a long stay.

Well, it’s him or me, I thought, and I pay rent and he doesn’t.  So I grabbed a glass for stage one of my cockroach elimination plan.

Edging gingerly forwards, I tried to put the glass over the huge twitching creature, but it suddenly rushed sideways and I shrieked and leapt backwards.  This lunging, shrieking and retreating went on for some time, like a strange crouching version of the hokey-cokey, until I finally managed to corner it and slam the glass down quickly before it rushed up my arm and gave me full-blown palpitations.

It whirled round and round inside the glass, making the most horrible rasping noises, while I dashed off to consult Google on the best way to kill a cockroach.

I discovered that it’s actually very hard to kill a cockroach – they can even live for a week without their head – and stamping on them is a very bad idea, as cockroaches like nothing better than feasting on their dead relatives.  So the smell of a roach that’s been splattered across your kitchen floor will have them flocking to your door from miles around.

But then I found an article suggesting that the best way to get rid of a cockroach is to put it in a coma.  You get some soap and water and shake them together in a bottle and then squirt the soapy water onto the vile beast.  This blocks its airways and puts it in a coma, and you get rid of it before it comes round.

I tried it, and it worked! And my comatose cockroach has now gone to convalesce in a bin bag a very long way away.

I feel rather proud that I’ve added to my skill set, but this evening, whenever the fan makes my papers move and rustle, I jump and look nervously around.