Sick-bed

When I was little, and felt ill, my dad would sometimes make me what he called "a posset". This was supposed to make me feel better. Always excited by the culinary delights of the man who'd created Spaghetti Bolognaise a la banana (sadly, this is true), I was delighted by the idea. Apart from the banana incident, Mr Nunn's kitchen creations are generally pretty good. This is lucky, because if I'd had to survive on Mrs Nunn's cuisine (spaghetti with a tin of mushroom soup, spaghetti with a lump of goat's cheese... basically anything that involved spaghetti. And tuna. Lots of tuna. I digress.), I'd have probably starved to death aged eight. Out of choice.

So Mr Nunn would make me a posset. I'm uncertain of the exact recipe (being ill I was usually in bed when it was brought to me), but I believe it involved hot milk, raw eggs, some sort of alcohol - perhaps brandy - and nutmeg. Mr Nunn would bring it up to my room and I would drink it down. This drink was a miracle. It had a 100% success rate. Because literally minutes after drinking said posset, I would be vomiting my guts up. And then I would feel much better. Mrs Nunn eventually banned the use of possets.

And years later I found out a) nutmeg is a natural emetic (makes you sick) b) nutmeg is also a poison if taken in large enough quantities and c) I am actually quite allergic to both eggs and nutmeg.

So, if the child protection agencies are reading this, Mr Nunn used to feed his unwell only daughter with poison and alcohol. And never bought me a pony. Do you think I've got enough material here for one of those tear-jerker "terrible childhood" novels?

Parrot fashion

The parrot down the hall - Chloe - is working herself into a hitherto unknown state of hysteria. I do not know the reason for the hysterics, but hysterical she is. I can upset her slightly by returning up the stairs back to my flat. If I want to upset her a bit more than this, I set my food processor to "high". The level of excitement she's currently displaying can only be the work of another parrot. Or possibly a sparkler up her parrot bottom. I don't really want to speculate.

Actually, Chloe isn't a parrot at all - she's a cockatiel. I assumed she was a parrot because she squawks a lot and occasionally says, "I love you". One memorable summer, she sang non-stop Celine Dion. That's not cockatiel behaviour. But, after having chatted to her owner (who remains nameless to me, merely signing each year's Christmas card "From number 42"), I ascertained that her name was Chloe and she was a cockatiel. I didn't think to establish her owner's name or species, sadly.

Anyway, Chloe is hysterical, and for once I don't think it's my fault. That is all.

Bird brained

The man sitting opposite me on the tube caught my eye, smiled and slowly, as if he were in a porn film, started unwrapping something from Paperchase. He took it out of its bag, met my eyes again, smiled, glanced downwards, and slowly started opening the folded tissue paper.

He looked up again to check I was watching, and made the final preparations to reveal his purchase of... two small penguin-shaped Christmas ornaments. He turned to his mother (or his very old girlfriend) and said, "I wouldn't have paid six pounds each for those."

Then he carefully put his penguins away again, smiling at me once more.

The freaks were out in force on Oxford Street today, although I imagine this is only to be expected during the sales. Also I have noticed that when I am hungry or mardy, there are a lot more freaks about. To those of you who are scientifically minded, this might suggest that perhaps my state of mind is to blame for the presence or absence of annoying freaks. But you would be wrong. I am perfect, and it is only when I am hungry or mardy (or sometimes both) that the freaks come out. So there.

Mass murder

Well, well, well, I hope you had a splendid festive period. Mine has been the usual whirlwind tour of trying (and failing) to see all of my friends, and eating far too much chocolate. Much like every other day of the year.

High points included:

• The Midnight Mass service that I'm not allowed to talk about on pain of death from my mother, in case her friends read this. Let's just say that during the sermon the word "killing" was used instead of the word "kissing", to great (totally accidental) comic effect. One of the funniest moments ever because of its total inappropriateness.
• Revisiting old family photo albums and scanning them into Facebook to irritate my friends.
• A surfeit of bacon sandwiches - just the way it should be.
• Lots of baths. My flat doesn't have a bath - just a shower cubicle. So one of my favourite things to do at my parents' is to stay in the bath for a ridiculous length of time. I may be part mermaid.
• Sadly this year, I have failed to play (and beat) either Jack or Erica at Monopoly. I think they are scared. I did however win several hands of the card game "Cheat". I'm not sure what this says about me.

Friends reunited

Yesterday evening I went out with some old schoolfriends for a drink. Erica I see regularly, but the others I hadn't seen for about six years, so there was a lot of catching up to do. We managed this fairly effortlessly, mostly by bitching about other people whom we hadn't liked at school. Ten years (near enough) may have passed, but the venom felt on our contemporaries' over-achievement / bad haircuts / sports car boasting was still as active as ever. And so we passed an amusing evening. We discussed going to our ten-year reunion this summer. However, we wondered if it might be possible to sit in a corner away from the main event and make sarcastic remarks, thus emulating school itself.

Either that, or we could make up ridiculous stories about what we're doing with our lives. I bagsied teaching yoga to dogs in Ashby de la Zouch, hoping to branch out to Quorn and Rothley in the near future. Sara is going to pretend she's just been released from Guantanamo Bay (complete with orange jumpsuit), Jo is going to pretend she's been in France so long that she can no longer remember how to speak English... and Erica is still deciding. I suggested that she sold cotton reels to charity shops, but she didn't seem keen.

Anyway, the schoolfriends meet-up inspired a certain amount of nostalgia (crikey, I nearly typed "nausea" then... some would say that's symbolic) and I spent much of this evening locating my old photo albums and uploading some (frankly horrific) old images up onto Facebook. So anyone who is a friend in "real life" on Facebook can now see me a) dressed as a White Rabbit b) in school uniform (don't get too excited. It had grey tights) and c) dressed up as a maid... Hmmm, actually I'm sensing a fetish theme here. Oh well, play to your strengths, I guess.

Candid camera

I have had a few requests from you foolhardy people out there, asking when my next gig is... Well, I'm going through my annual "I'm not sure I want to do comedy anymore" blip at the moment, so don't really have any gigs in diary. However, in the Christmas spirit, please find here a couple of links to some videoed material I did a few months back. I'm never sure that video footage of stand-up works that well; without sounding too pretentious (hopefully), I'm not sure the medium is right. A lot of my stuff works by bouncing jokes off of punters - not easy to do when it's you and a webcam.

Anyway, as I can't be arsed to write a proper blog today, have a gander at this and let me know what you think. The Sky one usually goes down really well with an audience, but comes across (I think) as a bit confrontational on camera. Also, it's horrid watching yourself, so I'll stop!

http://constantcomedy.com/Video.aspx?id=141

http://constantcomedy.com/Video.aspx?id=116

Gifted

Do you know how many Christmas presents I've bought this year? Do you? Let me tell you: one. Which I gave to someone at work today. That was the only reason I even bought that gift. Because I knew time was short.

Actually, two. I bought my parents Sky+ for Christmas, but the greedy so-and-sos got it installed in November, thus usurping the gift of Christmas giving. Still, one less thing for me to wrap.

There isn't an awful lot I like about Christmas. But my absolute least favourite thing is wrapping presents. I am terrible at wrapping presents. I think my phobia started when I was at secondary school, and we were made to cover our text books in wallpaper to keep them neat. (Yes, before you ask, I did go to a school that based its entire learning methods on those fashionable in the 1950s.) My dad tried to show me how to wrap text books (which were genuinely in many cases, the exact same text books he'd used when at school in the 1950s). He failed. He drew me pictures. He wrote a formula for me (length of book plus 1 inch by width of book multiplied by two plus two inches). Sometimes I cried more over wrapping my text books than I did over the maths homework contained within. More often than not, I invited my friend Jennie over from next door for the dual purposes of wrapping my text books and doing my textiles homework (yes, I told you I grew up in the 1950s) whilst I wrote her English essays. She went to a different school, so this was totally ethical.

However, now I am a grown-up, I have mastered the art of present wrapping. Sort of. I can make most presents look quite attractive with a suitably expensive wrapping paper and a few bits of ribbon. I do however have one rule about presents: they have to be square. Or rectangular. Last year I bought someone an octagon-shaped box. Two fucking hours it took me. I nearly cried.

So this weekend will see a last-minute shopping spree for me. Folks of Loughborough, please be generous and leave me some square presents I can buy.


***

For Plogger friends - as usual, I won't be sending out Christmas cards this year, and instead will be making a donation to CRY - Cardiac Risk in the Young. This means a) it doesn't matter that I've missed the last post and b) I get to feel slightly smug. I'm so great. So, happy Christmas!

The weather outside is frightful... am I bothered?

It's nice to be home. Yes, the weather's freezing, and there's Christmas music on the radio and the traffic in London is bloody awful, and Lakeside is populated with morons... but it's nice to be home. I can drink the water without fear of death. There are no Indian Mr Beans (yet). I am reunited with Sky+. All is good.

Yes, the jetlag is making me alternatively giggly-hysterical and clumsy-absentminded, but I'm feeling sleepy enough now that I'm hoping for a good night's rest tonight ahead of work tomorrow. I have not yet foraged for food at Sainsbury's, meaning I'm currently subsisting entirely on spaghetti bolognaise ready meals. I have no idea how long the human body can sustain itself on spaghetti bolognaise (and the occasional chocolate Black Forest Gateau), so perhaps I might grab a smoothie on the way in to work tomorrow. I know that man cannot live on bread alone, but can woman live on a Sainsbury's ready meal alone? If there are no future Plogs from me, you'll know the answer to that question. I'm just glad I can help you with these burning issues.

Right, I'm off to catch up on Cranford, Lead Balloon, Spooks (might save that one until the jetlag's dissipated), Ugly Betty and Christ, I need to get better taste in television.

A close shave

Woohoo! I have had my first bit of dodgy Plog-related communication.

On a high from finishing my final training course (the last few weeks have been like Groundhog Day but without the added excitement of suicide and ice sculptures), I came back to my room and checked my emails, and - unusually - had a Plog-related one. I've always worried a little bit about putting my personal email address on the site, but I figure, it's only email, not my real address, and I can handle the odd bit of spam. Mostly it's never used, and occasionally when it is, it tends to be a friend anyway. Some days I'm not sure anyone actually reads this. Today proved me wrong.

I got an email saying, "32d - nice size... u shaven bald too?" (sic)

Obviously I replied. How could I not?

"Yes. My whole head is completely smooth."

Well, it made me laugh anyway.

So I'm finished! I'm done! Ta-ra for now, Asia. You loooooose. Back to Britain, where the weather sucks, but the water doesn't kill you. Unless you drown in it. Then I suppose it might kill you a bit.

My least favourite thing about India? The abject poverty? The street-traders forcing you to look at their rubbish scarves? Indian Mr Bean? Nope.

It's how when someone doesn't understand you (not a crime - after all, I am the visitor here), they still nod and smile as if they have. So, for example, when I asked a staff member if they could arrange for whoever was hammering in the room next door to the training area to - well - stop, I was greeted with nodding and smiling... and absolutely fuck all happening. I sent some of my delegates to reason with them in their own langauge eventually.

Now I have no problem with the not understanding - they fared far better than I would have done trying to speak in my Foreign (French). But why not say, "I'm sorry, I don't understand."? I could have mimed. I'm very good at mime. Once in Hong Kong (not this visit) I did an Oscar-worthy mime for toilet roll. I wish you could have been there. But no. Politeness and affability and bugger all gets done.

And also, what's that funny nodding / shaking of the head all about? Are you agreeing with me or not? Stop waggling. Sit still.

My flight isn't until 3.30 in the morning, so I'm planning on staying in my hotel room, ignoring the tickle that's threatening to become a sore throat, and then sulk in Delhi Airport for a good few hours. I originally typed "suck in Delhi Airport". Well, I suppose it might make the time go faster, and I could earn a few rupees whilst I was doing it.

I'm off to the bathroom to start shaving myself bald.

Spicy Bean burger

I thought I'd risk it. In the last two weeks, other than popping out to the occasional cafe or restaurant, I've chosen to have room service rather than eat in the hotel restaurants.

But in India, I'm trying to be really careful about what I eat, so as nothing really appealed from the room service menu, I made a trip down to the cafe and ordered what I hoped was a fairly anodyne hamburger.

Service was slow, but the waiters were attentive, particularly one who looked like an Indian Mr Bean, complete with food stains down his suit. However, he was the only one wearing a suit, so I assumed he was the restaurant manager.

He asked me how I was. I said I was fine. He asked me how I was enjoying India. I said I'd just arrived. He asked me where I was from. I said London. He wandered off.

Ten minutes or so later, the Indian Mr Bean came back. "Can I ask you questions about London?" he asked.

"OK," I said.

"What is it like?"

"Well, that's a big question. How do you mean?"

"What is the lifestyle like?" asked Indian Mr Bean.

"Well, it's a very busy city. Lots going on. Expensive to live there, but good shops, great history."

"Would you mind moving to the other bar?" asked Indian Mr Bean, with his Restaurant Manager's hat on (not literally). I checked my food would follow. It would. I moved.

The bar was quiet. That's an understatement. I was the only person in it. Me and Indian Mr Bean. Trapped in a corner. Far away from other guests or even staff. Bollocks.

"Can I ask you more questions about London?" he asked, taking a seat opposite me.

"Erm, OK."

"How do you meet women in London?"

Oh, here we go.

"How do you meet women?" I clarified.

"No," said Indian Mr Bean. "How do you deal with women in London?"

"I don't understand," I said.

"I am in the right. But my wife doesn't trust me. How do you deal with that in London?"

"How would you deal with that in India?" I asked, my facilitation skills of answering every question with a question working to their maximum power.

"That is why I ask you. It is good to get opinions."

"Try a conversation?" I suggested. Indian Mr Bean clearly would rather I had suggested he slapped her round a bit.

"Are you married?" he asked. This was one of many questions I fudged. Including, "Can I have a business card? I collect them." and, "Do you need someone to show you round Delhi today?"

He then sat opposite me as my food arrived and watched me eat. Now, I hate eating in company at all. Anyone who knows me even slightly knows that unless I'm 100% at ease, even with close friends, I can struggle in restaurants - worst case is it can actually make me physically sick.

Now imagine the following situation:

- My flight was delayed by ten hours, meaning I didn't arrive here until 5 a.m.
- The plane itself had wires hanging out from under the seat and looked as if it was manufactured in 1945.
- It is 4 degrees in Delhi... and the hotel heating is broken. When I finally complained at 6 a.m., they brought a heater to my room. And acted as if I was a trouble maker.
- I finally got to sleep at about 7 a.m., to be woken (and I kid you not) straight away by the hotel alarm clock (which I hadn't set) playing "Happy birthday to you" - as if it was in a cheap greetings card. It confused me sufficiently to briefly wonder if it was my birthday.

Now let's juxtapose that with the Indian Mr Bean with food stains down his front hitting on me and watching me eat, and you can see why my appetite waned rather rapidly.

Still, it's nice to know I've still got it. Hardly anyone hit on me in Singapore or Hong Kong - just a slightly creepy French guy and a Canadian who was scared away by the furry gay caterpillar.

35 hours and I should be on my way home. With my new married passport name: Laura Indian Bean.

Air-ated

I thought I'd take it easy today. I had a flight to Delhi late afternoon, and as I packed a lot in yesterday in Hong Kong, I thought I'd veg out in my hotel room: treat myself to a manicure, read the end of my novel and run the battery down on my new Nintendo DS. This would then allow me to board my flight, watch an in-flight movie and arrive in Delhi in time for bed.

I arrived at the airport more or less exactly at the required two hours prior to departure... to find out that my 5.30 p.m. flight had been rescheduled - to midnight. So I will be spending a total of eight and a half hours at Hong Kong airport, in the world's crappiest business lounge, with no novel to read and a Nintendo DS with flat batteries. This means I will arrive in Delhi at 3 a.m. local time, nearer 6 a.m. on the time I'm on at the moment... So far, I am not a fan of Air India. Let's just hope the plane has two wings.

I have been aware that my posts over the last week or so have been rather lacking in joy. I'm not entirely sure why this is. I do love travel, and of course it's an exciting opportunity to get to do this with work. But I think that's what the problem is. The work I'm doing out here is physically demanding, and mentally draining - particularly when trying to deliver training to people when there is a language or cultural barrier. So in the evenings, or at weekends, I'm in an exciting place, and the part of me that loves travel is pressuring me to make the most of it... and the other part of me knows that on a day I've run a training course in London, it's usually pretty unlikely I'd make evening plans, because I know how tiring it is.

As a result, I either drag myself round the sights and sounds of the city, and feel even more tired and umpty as a result, or I give in to the tiredness, stay in the hotel room, and feel like I'm missing a fantastic opportunity. It really is a lose-lose situation. It's a bit like one of those computer games where the scenery changes every level, but the content, the basic gameplay, is identical.

Level 1: Singapore. Backdrop: futuristic skyscrapers. Goal: deliver training.

Level 2: Hong Kong. Backdrop: stunning mountains and smog. Goal: deliver training. Avoid falling prostitutes.

Level 3: Delhi. Backdrop: Delhi airport. Goal: deliver training. Avoid food poisoning by eating nothing other than the pizza-flavoured crisps purchased in Hong Kong for this very purpose. Try not to faint.

The business lounge has just started playing The First Noel. I fear there may be bloodshed.

Kable Karma

I took a long-ish journey on the tube in Hong Kong today, intending to get a cable car up to see a famous statue of Buddha. However, on arriving at the cable car place, I found out that the cars were closed "for the foreseeable future" - mostly owing to the fact they keep plunging off the wire and down the mountain. Still, I bet the view would have been pretty.

I got a taxi eventually up to the mountain top where Buddha sits. The taxi driver was particularly fond of overtaking at blind corners, usually when a lorry was coming the other way and there was a sheer drop. I suppose it's quite a dull job, so he has to keep it interesting. Or perhaps he was Buddhist, believes in reincarnation, and quite fancies coming back as a sheep.

The weather was beautiful - a warm 23 degrees or so, and sunny - like those first tentative few days at the end of April or start of May. Not enough to sunburn you, but enough to make you sit with the warmth on your back and smile. Apologies for gloating to all those of you in the UK (and possibly the US) as I hear you're going through something of a cold snap at the moment. Anyway, as an atheist (with a particular dislike for Buddhism, which is perhaps a separate story), Buddha himself installed no feelings of inner peace for me, and neither did his tacky gift shop. But the mountain scenery and the beauty of the day (admittedly marred by pollution smog from China) lifted spirits immensely.

I took the bus back to the tube station - again some near-death experiences, mostly caused by a large furry caterpillar that had found its way onto the bus and was terrorising the Spanish girl next to me to the extent she fell off her seat twice. I swear this caterpillar actually had teeth. It might have been auditioning for a horror film. I'm not sure. Though it looked a lot less scary about ten minutes later when it got a bit of pink fluff stuck in its menacing black fur. Big gay caterpillar.

Finally, to make you laugh or smile, a couple of photos of amusing things I've seen over the last few days.

Just once I'd like to go abroad without "whore fun", or however you spell it. Porridge is optional.

Admit it, you laughed.

Going through customs

I have started this Plog three times and have abandoned it just as many times, aware that it has turned into a strop. So instead of stropping individually about things, I will label the fact that I am clearly In A Mard, and instead bullet point some amusing things so far in Hong Kong.

• The taxi driver who told us to get out because his car had broken down... and then drove off
• The four taxi drivers who refused to pick me up this afternoon, possible because I was holding a big box, and maybe looking like a terrorist. Still, they pissed me off sufficiently to complain to reception, who didn't understand what I was talking about, and pointed me in the direction of the taxi rank. Thanks.
• The stroppy bitch on yesterday's course who had a go at me because I flicked a business card down the table to her... Apparently you're supposed to pass it with two hands. Really? And that matters in your world? Grow up.
• How quiet Chinese people are at work... and how noisy they are in large groups when socialising in bars.
• Seeing the longest escalator in the world, which is a bit of a con as a) it isn't an escalator, it's a moving walkway and b) is broken into about six sections so is not technically one escalator. Or walkway.
• Eating dinner with colleagues last night: the first meal I haven't eaten alone for about ten days.

That is all. If I think of anything else, I will let you know.

Corporate whore

I am in Hong Kong, staying at the sort of hotel that, when I came to Hong Kong last as a backpacker, I looked at and thought, "I wonder what sort of person stays at a hotel like that?" Well, now I know. Me!

I have a lovely view of Victoria Peak (which I ascended on my last trip here for its amazing panorama of... fog), and I'm right in the middle of everything. I don't have to pay for my own food or worry about finding a laundrette. I'm totally spoiled.

Yet it really does seem less of an adventure. Last time I was in Hong Kong, I did an awful lot of walking, and at some point, my knee decided it had had enough. Crunch. That was literally the noise my knee made, though it was also slightly drowned out by the sound of my screaming. It didn't get any better.

However, I was off to Sydney in just a couple of days' time, so decided to try and wait it out, rather than seeing a doctor in Hong Kong where I was likely to face language difficulties. But the pain really was excruciating. I hobbled to Tsim Tsa Tsui and thought perhaps I should embrace Eastern medicine... get a massage.

So I did. Except, oddly, the masseuse seemed to be based on the second floor of what looked like a block of flats. But a lot of businesses are like that over here, so I didn't think too much about it.

In I went for my massage, carefully putting my geeky money belt on the floor in front of the massage chair where I could see it. The masseuse gave me a towel and told me to change into some slightly strange boxer shorts. I obeyed, and covered my top half with the towel. She started to do her massage thingy. I hoped it would help my knee. After a while on my legs, she pointed at the towel covering my top half and asked me, "Is this OK?" She didn't speak much English, but I assumed she was seeing if I was comfortable.

"It's fine," I said.

So she whipped off the towel and started kneading my breasts. This was unexpected. But technically I'd just agreed to it, so it felt a bit churlish and impolite to stop her. I tried to think about other things as she tweaked my nipples.

(Apologies to my parents if they're reading this.)

It's very hard to think about other things whilst someone is tweaking your nipples.

After the massage, she called me "beautiful girl", kept stroking my hair and gave me her card which informed me she did "home and hotel visits". Had it not been clear before now, there was no escaping the fact that I had just spent an hour with a prostitute.

So I haven't done that this time, yet. But walking through Tsim Tsa Tsui earlier today, I did stop, smile and fondly remember when Hong Kong was an adventure, not just work and a retracing of already-trodden footsteps.

Body beautiful

The Christmas carol jazz pianist has been joined by a string quartet. For fuck's sake.

Also, I am sorry to report that I do actually have monkey arms. I went to pick my suit up yesterday, and saw it on the hanger, next to normal people's suits. Normal people's suits had the arms roughly at the waist level. Mine went on for a good three inches further. I have monkey arms.

And apparently my breasts are too big. I was browsing in a lingerie shop earlier today, just looking. A shop assistant came up to me. "What size you?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm just looking," I said, conscious that in Asia, a B cup was probably as large as you were going to get.

"What size?" she said, clearly not understanding me.

Easier the route of no resistance. "32D," said I.

"D?" she - let's be honest - shrieked. "D?! Oh that is very big. Too big. You too big. C biggest. D very big."

Thanks for that. I am the monkey-armed, over-chested girl. Suitors may apply to the usual address.

Also I was given a pearl necklace in the middle of the office this morning, but perhaps that's an anecdote for another time.

Humbugis Market

One of the main reasons I readily agreed to coming out to Asia for work was that it meant I would miss out on all that horrific build-up to Christmas. You know what I mean. Queueing for forty minutes in Boots to buy a sandwich because some fuckwit old granny has decided that every single one of her great-grandchildren has to have matching hot water bottle covers with reindeer on. Getting rained on as you push children out of the way to get to the tube station. Fucking office fucking Christmas fucking parties.

(I believe that's happening some point this week, so have a great time everyone - sorry I couldn't be there. I do love Secret fucking Santa.)

There was one thing I didn't take into account. Despite the fact that my hotel room has a copy of the Wisdom of Buddha rather than a Gideon Bible, they do indeed appear to "do" Christmas in Asia after all. Just worse. Imagine the nastiest Christmas song you know. Let's take Jingle Bells for example. Now imagine it in Singlish (English but with half the words wrong). What was annoying to start with now becomes (in your best accent please with a nice jangly musak accompaniment):

Dashing through some snow
One horse on the sleigh
Through some fields we go
We laughing hey hey hey!

Oh for fuck's sake. Every sodding shop. My least favourite (and this is a tough competition) was The First Noel being played on continuous loop at Bugis Market. And when I say continuous loop, please let me remind you that The First Noel is the only arsing song in the entire bastarding universe where the irritating chorus sounds exactly the same as the bollocking verse. IT DOESN'T NEED REPLAYING. Not that I'm angry. I'm Zen-like, me. I could have written that little Buddha book. But I couldn't be arsed. Too zen.

My hotel has a giant Christmas tree and a jazz pianist hired to play cheery Christmas songs at me, as I shuffle past scowling. Christmas lights are all over the place. They are holding Christmas parties at the hotel every day this week. Badly.

Still, I got to push a small child out of the way on the MRT (tube) this evening. And it was raining. So I'm still thinking of home.

A little lift

It was about eight in the morning on Friday. I got into the lift in the hotel, on my way to the office. A man already in the lift greeted me.

"Bonjour," he said. This confused me a bit. Firstly I am in Singapore. And secondly, how did he know that I have two languages: English and foreign, and that my "foreign" happens to be French?

"Bonjour," I said, or to be authentic, je dis.

"Comment ça va?" he asked me.

"Erm, ça va bien, merci," I said, dragging my early-morning, little-serviced French to the front of my mind. I followed this up with, "Et toi?" Oh no! Mistake! Using the "tu" (informal) with a stranger! Even this early in the morning, in the wrong language I was aware of my faux pas. "Desolée," I said. "Vous. Vous. Desolée."

And so I spent a slightly awkward lift ride having behaved slightly inappropriately towards a total stranger. Just like being back in London.

Go gadget go

Today I bought things. Lots of things. Shiny, shiny things. Things I wasn't going to buy. I don't really need a new iPod. What would I do with a Nintendo DS Lite? I don't even normally wear skirts to the office.

Oops.

I only just stopped myself from buying a Nintendo Wii, and that was only because they're actually more expensive over here than in the UK. Just call me Inspector Gadget. Well, don't, because that would get annoying after a while. And would also be a bit inappropriate in a work-based situation.

"Hello, can I ask who's just joined the audio conference please?"

"It's me - Laura."

"Laura? I don't know anyone called Laura. Oh, sorry, do you mean Inspector Gadget from the London office?"

No good meeting starts that way.

On a similar note, I had an email from a delegate from the course I ran recently, saying she'd enjoyed the day, and asking how I got into my chosen career. It was very tempting to reply, "Fuck knows, got drunk, got on a plane and thought I'd just blag the rest..."

Here. Have some photos of me and Singapore. Don't say I never give you anything.

Bollocks, can't get it to work. Check out http://www.laurainsingapore.shutterfly.com. Not that interesting, but a few snaps of what I've been up to today... as for once it hasn't been raining!

Un-ape-ropriate

"You have long arms," the Singapore tailor said to me. "Very long arms. You like a monkey. Ooo ooo ooo." He made monkey noises. "Normal people your height, normal people arms stop here." He indicates my wrists. "But you monkey girl with monkey arms."

Believe it or not, I'm paying this man to make some clothes for me. Do we want to take bets on whether or not I'm going to end up in a furry brown suit holding a banana?

Oodles of noodles

So I went out to Orchard Road last night. This is the main shopping area in Singapore. People were queuing outside Gucci. It's not really my thing. The prices are cheaper than the UK, but hey, it's still designer goods, so not exactly bargain basement. The shops are similar to the USA - Banana Republic, Calvin Klein... but without the excellent sales.

Anyway, I'd come armed with Bleak House (the sheer size of this book means it handily doubles up as an actual weapon) and went to find a restaurant to have some food, as it's expensive to eat in the hotel and the food choice is limited. I found somewhere that did dim sum, but the queues were huge. So I settled for a noodle place. I was put on the same table as a chatty Singapore woman called Sarah, who was also on her own. I had no need for Bleak House. We talked about Singapore house prices, living costs, the cost of having a car - did you know, over here an average family car will set you back more than £40,000? They deliberately hike the prices to keep the number of cars down. I now know everything there is to be known about the Singapore school system (complusory school fees of £5 per month, and paid-for "enrichment classes" on top of that for competitive students).

I feel culturally appraised about Singapore. Interestingly everyone I ask about what to do in Singapore, they firstly mention shopping, then the night zoo (not really a fan of caged animals)... then they look slightly disturbed and say, "Well, that's about it really."

It's not raining (yet) here today: wish me decent weather for the weekend!

Time and a half

I am not enjoying the time difference. On top of the (inevitable) jetlag, which means I go to sleep readily at 10pm, but wake up bright and breezy without fail at 2 a.m., and can't sleep again until 5 a.m.... my alarm clock waking me barely an hour later... on top of this, it's a very lonely time zone.

I'm eight hours ahead of the UK in Singapore, so just as I'm getting up in the morning, all of my friends and family are off to bed. As I finish my working day at about 5 p.m., everyone else is hard at work. By the time they've finished work, I'm in bed. It's rubbish.

Singapore is apparently the same size as the Isle of Wight... with far fewer tourist amenities. Yes, there's shopping if you're into your designer goods, but beyond that, not a lot. I did pop out yesterday afternoon (mostly to stop myself falling asleep in the bath... again) but besides getting rained on and irritated by trying to divide everything by three* (harder than you think with jetlag... and my maths), I didn't achieve much.

This evening I'm torn between visiting the major shopping district and just holing up in the hotel room. I know I should be making the most of being somewhere new and exciting, but after a full day of training people through a total mind-fog of jetlag-ness (yes, that is a word), I can barely be bothered to breathe out once I've gone to all the trouble of breathing in in the first place. And it's still raining. Apparently it never rains for this long. So far I've heard this in: Hong Kong, Sydney, Cairns, New Zealand, New York and now Singapore. I should be sent to areas of drought. I should be marketed. I'm talking bollocks again, aren't I?

The most exciting part of my trip so far is finding out that over in Singapore, the vending machines at the office are free. Free! Free Oreos and Coke and rice milk (no, I don't know what that is either, and not really sure I want to find out. How do you milk rice? The mind boggles, picturing tiny rice udders.). When I asked why this is, a lady told me that perhaps it was because we were too big in London, and they were much smaller in Asia. I'm assuming she meant office size rather than calling me fat.

Well, petite they may be in Singapore, but at least in the UK we don't drink the product that comes from squeezing the teats of grains of rice. Freaks.

* For the exchange rate, not my own personal amusement.

Adventure-less

A couple of years ago I arrived in Hong Kong. Following instructions from the hostel I'd booked, I lugged my suitcase to a shop at the airport to break a note to get some change. I then used a payphone to dial the hostel for further instructions. They told me which bus to get on. I pulled my giant suitcase to the wrong end of the airport... and back again.

Two men pushed in front of me on the bus.

Arriving at Mong Kok (no, really), I called the hostel again, and after ten minutes waiting in the dark, someone came to meet me. After getting in a lift with the worrying notice, "When there is a fire, please do not use the lift" (when there is a fire? Not if?) I was shown to a room roughly the size of a postage stamp and a Chinese man slept on a campbed outside my door. I had to do an unfortunate mime in order to obtain toilet roll. I went out straight away and tried pig's cheek from a street-corner food market.

Yesterday, travelling for work, arriving in Singapore, things were rather different. My baggage was first off the carousel, having been marked as "priority". A driver with my name on a placard met me at the airport, took all my luggage and went to fetch the Mercedes to pick me up in. I was greeted at the hotel by about four hundred different staff members and shown to a lovely hotel room. I ordered nachos from room service. There is no-one asleep outside of my door.

Yet somehow it feels less of an adventure. More than twelve hours later, I've not yet been bothered to leave the hotel. Ah well, it's not a holiday I suppose.

Lounging about

Well, I'm currently sitting in another BA Lounge, but believe it or not, I've booked a complimentary spa for later. Facial, massage... something or other anyway. (And it doesn't even involve prostitutes this time. Probably.)

But for some reason, the Internet in the Heathrow lounge isn't free. Well, that's not quite true. I'm sitting in their business section, on one of the crappy BA PCs and Internet is perfectly free. Slow, but free. Yet, the laptop in my bag and the whizzy wireless that's zipping around my ears are redundant unless I pay money.

So to recap: BA Lounge: alcohol - free, meals - free, Elemis spa - free, yummy little muffins - free, Internet - costs money unless you use a crappy BA machine. Upsettingly I can't get Facebook Scrabble to work, and I can see the next few hours dragging on somewhat.

"So where are you going, Laura?" I can hear you cry. "You mentioned Delhi, and you mentioned packing, but surely you're not taking three suitcases for two days? Even you could pack lighter than that."

You'd be right. Today I am off to Singapore for just over a week, then onto Hong Kong, and finishing up in Delhi just before Christmas. Before you get too excited, it is for work, and there's not much free time built into my schedule. (But yes, I am still quietly excited.)

So, I remembered to leave cheques for the cleaner and turn the heating off. I threw the perishables away out of the fridge. I have arranged for a flat-sitter and Corsa-sitter. (Though I don't expect the Corsa-sitter to sit in the Corsa full-time. It gets chilly in December.) I have even remembered my pyjamas and my toothbrush. I have my passport. I bought aspirin for the flight, so I don't get economy class syndrome (is that possible in business class? Oh poor me...). Yet I know I've forgotten something... Bets please.

Time capsule

Oh dear. I found out from British Airways that I can take up to three items of check-in luggage. This means any type of discretion I may have previously used when selecting what to pack has now gone out of the window. I have so far packed all of my casual summer clothes, most of my work summer clothes, a lot of my work winter clothes, and some of my casual winter clothes. I have yet to pack my work laptop, my electrical bits and pieces and some reading material. I have already filled two items of check-in luggage and have run out of further receptacles.

I am the girl who went "backpacking" for five weeks around the world with a large wheely suitcase. Travelling light isn't really my style. It's not that I'm vain; it's not thousands of pairs of shoes and bags of make-up... it's more that I'm indecisive. And too lazy to do one of those "capsule wardrobes" they're always banging on about in those crappy women's magazines.

I've never been very good at reading those women's magazines. Once I was in the hairdresser, and they gave me a copy of Heat magazine to read. I didn't recognise a single person in the magazine. It took me fifteen minutes to work out what a WAG was, or why I would want to be one. As a colleague recently asked me: "Laura, are you some kind of cultural retard?" Yes.

So, from shitty women's magazines to decent literature, I have a book recommendation for you - A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini (of Kite Runner fame). Not a cheery read, but somehow uplifting despite its harrowing subject matter. Go and buy it now. Off you pop.