FACT: There is at least one OMG, or OMFG, experience for a 51 year old single woman travelling around India ...

The lovely young chappie who kindly spent 1.5 hours booking my e-train ticket from Mumbai to what was meant to be Amma (Hugging Mother)'s Ashram was not the 13 hours I thought he said at time of booking. You see, this sounded about right as Uncle Sam back in London had said about 13 hours: 1 direct train. Err, I got to Dadar Central Railway, Mumbai, and the Station Manager laughed in my face. No, Madam Mo (Miss, I corrected him - ok, I'm clearly Grandma age in India - that is becoming strikingly obvious ... ) Mr Station Manager says the journey is at least 30 hours. OMG. It turns out to be 38 hours, I am told by Chief Ticket Inspector (CTI).  More about lovely (CTI) who tells me he is 57 years once he has found my seat after about half an hour at least of what the British would call "going out on a limb" or "going out of his way" to try and help this half-demented Chinese tourist woman when I have the strength.

Just believe me for now, that after boarding train at 1538 on Sunday 24 Feb, I arrive in Cochin, about 1.5 hours before schedule at 0430, Tuesday 26 Feb. mainly through huge Andhra Pradesh state - all dusty and hot, like. Sinusitis gets even worse. Hacking cough. Glad that I happened to wake up 1.5 hours before my wake up alarm was set ... and a little peeved that it was clearly pitch blac ... therefore making it more difficult to maybe find a cleanish guest house.

Now, you might just be wondering where on earth is this woman's common sense, ability to plan, and GUIDE BOOK gone? I have plenty of the first two. Though my e-Lonely Planet Guide to Southwest India and Kerala has somehow vanished from my iPad tab! Grr. I know where I might be able to access the shitty little electronic mo'fo' PDF. But, again, I haven't the energy to go into it now.

OMFG. Amma's ashram is nowhere near Cochin. It's in Trivandrum ... Apparently Amma's Hospital is here. Maybe nice young e-ticket friend from Cochin was getting a little homesick, and listening to my hacking cough & watching the effluence of my severe sinusitis for the 1.5 hours he spent booking said ticket ... yes, maybe he thought quite rightly I needed AMMA'S HOSPITAL instead (in spite of the fact that I had quite clearly said ASHRAM, DARSHAN (Hindi for prayer).

Never mind, eh?

There is at least one OMG experience a day in India. And as the great painter, lino-cutter, and miraculous friend who somehow has stayed by my side, Mr DB (Dog's Bollocks, to you), how marvellously put:

India can be described as rather INCONVENIENT.

Today, I tried to buy a piece of cotton. About 2.5 metres of cotton plain-ish sari material. After about 45 mins in their shop. I was told by hte woman chasier that there would be no discount for the sun-damaged folds ... Apparently, discounts only available during festivals. Once she started rolling off the Diwalas and ... I did a tiny metaphoric roll of the eyes. Not wishing to offend, I said no thank you, and walked out into the heat and dust of Market Jetty.

FUCK ME. They'll be asking me for my passport for a DISCOUNT next.

Amma India, eh? I have about 3 weeks left to get strong, healthy and put on the 1 stone I have lost since before I came here. 

Where there is a will, there is a MO.

xxx

Mail trail to the Guru

Thanks. I like the first two sentences. 

After that, you become either self-righteous and self-unaware in terms of my needs, or just a plain show off. Takes one to know one. Also, you may forget that after a 14 hour shift of working in the BBC TV Control Rooms, BBC1 & BBC2, I used to arrive in a small-ish, but light and airy, dirty hovel that was called a 'cottage'. I think it was somewhere in that most bourgeois of places - East Sheen. You know, the posh-ish bit. After not being able to figure out whether you were a complete fool or wise-guy, I decided to try and encourage your ADHD pirouetting. It took me ages to discover that you didn't take drugs, or smoke ciggies. I'm not sure that I remember you drinking booze ... So, I brought along a RED & BLACK A4 book, presented it to you. Had a quiet word in your earhole, and said that if you were to write down everything you said - that you would become either a millionaire or genius. Words to that effect. I have never seen you stop in your tracks that fast since.

I will not indulge in a war of words with you Rendlesham, nor anyone else for that matter. Waste of time. This is about mutual respect. And I know full well that you have never really given a shit about ANYTHING. At least, that is what you'd like to portray to the outside world.

Just let me leave you with one idea. Normally, it is considered to rude to slam a phone down mid-sentence on the other person. I'm still the person that has bothered to keep in touch. So what does that make me?

I am simply PAST CARING now.

Time to LIVE, a little.

(Thanks, Bee ... as if I haven't been living all my god-damned days.)

Sent from my iPad

On 21 Feb 2013, at 01:37, Lord Rendlesham wrote:

yes go ahead 

by the way although camden was squalid my life wasn't - it was full of romance both self and otherwise not like the frightened little rat like existence now...

i was never rude...such an assumption is too precocious and bourgeois - i was there to take you all to the "light" which has no time for self discretion or harmful superficiality as they stifle the soul - such social observations are best kept to the suburbs of ealing and the like

your guru

-------- Original-Nachricht --------

Datum: Wed, 20 Feb 2013 10:22:11 +0000

Von: Miss Mo 

An: Lord Rendlesham

CC: Natalie Most 

Betreff: Dear Poofy and Persian Princess

Dear Poofy Tell

I've started a 'blog'. I have little respect for that word, but just have

to get over the fact it exists and has entered the English language long

ago.

It is partly a way of keeping on track. I find when I write things down,

it

helps to keep me a bit more focussed in times of overload especially. I

have only just realised this lately.

I would like to be able to include the recent mail trail between you and

I,

Pete - the one about Gossips, your one about Valour, Art, Francis Bacon

etc.

If I don't hear from you by the time I get to Bombay, and have had a

one-night sleepover this Thurs/Friday, to get over my long haul flight, I

may make an "executive" decision, and bung our correspondence up on the

blog anyway. I hope not to resort to this option - which doesn't sit with

me well, as it is partly your intellectual property. But as a pedantic

reference-maker, I feel I may not have a choice in the matter, as I am

rather liked my side of the correspondence. So I would reference your

'work' by naming you some such thing that feels right at the time ...

Maybe

Lord Rendlesham might suit?

I don't know what it is about you Pete, but you seem to bring the best out

of me - in spite of your extreme rudeness over the years, e.g. going for

the jugular, where no-one would dare, and your penchant/obsession for

slamming the phone on me mid-sentence over the last decades. While knowing

full well I am a very sensitive soul. You should do by now, you git, ha.

You are a very lucky man indeed to have met Natalie. Though we all know

that you've had this peculiar idiosyncratic magic touch with "women" -

Laura and that mumsy bird you picked up in your suffolk

gravestone-dreaming

days, to name but two.

I feel that we are doing a role reversal. Particularly after what you

pointed out during our last conversation. That you spent about 21 years

driving psychiatrists round the twist and living on government hand-outs.

You and Machado, as you may have known at the time, played up to the fact

that you were the real-life "Withnail and I", well before the film even

came out. Though the reality of your Camden squalor was even darker and

filthier - compared with the celluloid fantasy.

Meanwhile, I have not driven many psychiatrists round the bend. Though I

fear that I may have just started to, this past year with my social

worker.

I suspect he wouldn't feel that way about me, as it would appear that he

is

a person with enormous self- compassion, kindness, patience and charity -

which is then reflected onto me. Rapport is such a luxury, don't you find?

~ ~ ~ ~

N, I'm copying you in on this as I suspect that due to work commitments

and

his occasional social swanning around, your "husband" may not get the

chance to see this in time. I hope you don't mind giving him a gentle

"prompt" in the computer direction.

As usual, I hope wish you and Bubba Ive, a good day under today's grey

morning skies. I hope Bubba is chugging away nicely. Bless him.

Love

Y x

p.s. this is going up on today's Blog as I type ...

http://chineseblossoms.blogspot.co.uk/

Dear Jane Capon

I keep thinking about you and your blog.

Tomorrow, on this mega-train journey, I will be having a bandwidth embargo on the old iPad wotsitsname.

At feckin' last.

Hope life is going well in Ghent.

I still haven't made it anywhere near what I call a sauna, nor a steam room, nor anything remotely health-giving, and life enhancing.

I am disliking electronic gadgets. I hear that one is able to to surrender oneself to an Electronic Gadget Free Detox haven ... I think I could do wiv one PRONTO, like.

Dunno about you?

Yikes, I can hear the traffic starting up already, and it's 05:25, precisely ...

Here's to Ghent and that lovely spa by you.

Yx

p.s. Why is it so hard to really look after ourselves? You know, like go to a sauna or 3? We always call it 'treating' ourselves, when it should be a given, don't you think?

new note to all you lovely e-readers wherever you are whatever you are doing

this is a blog bog thingy which is partly true, partly false, and partly made up

so there

thanks for reading, if you can be arsed ...

xxx

Dear Mr Spud U Like

This page is for you ... 'cause I promised

I'm fine. Alive and kicking. Leaving Mumbai (renamed by Indians since 1988, I asked a lovely Sikh gent, complete with colourful head wobble. Then checked again while talking to Mr Guesthouse, who then sent me to a "friend' of his, who is THEMANAGER, of this gaff.

All kind of good. Due on the 15:45 Dabar Central train direct to Kochi, Kerala today. Half-confirmed seat permitting. All down to a nice train seat allocator man, apparently. So will have to wait and see.

Love

Your ex-Music O Level pupil from Kingsway Princeton, as it was then.

p.s. I bet you don't even bother opening that link I sent you ... to this blog bog thingy-mug-jig.

p.p.s. Hope the Russian man is keeping you smiling, soft, happy, and t'ing.

p.p.p.s. I'm finding myself cleaning my own 3* star hotel bathroom. What on eartth is wrong with me?

one mosquito, four bites, no sleep ...

bombay barking dogs, noisy indian guest departing in middle of the night

giving poor receptionist man a hard time

poor receptionist man says, with no indian head wobble AT

ALL

which is kind of odd ... maybe reception staff have had the wobble trained out of them here ...

OH, no shouting ...

are you for one minute telling me i'm deaf, methinks

just because you're called in to to your second shift of the day, don't tell me you don't have a good job mr receptionist, in your holier than thou non-smoking, non-drinking ways

are you going to sit there all dark brown and poker faced all night long?

answer me, then?

it's okay.

i've been there. just that i turn on that professional smile when i'm forced to work double long shifts ...

plus, my boy, you have probably a good 15 years more left than me - at least.

night night folks

sleep tight wherever you are.

insomniac for tonight only

Over, but not Out.

Miss Mo (to you lot)

p.s. mr receptionist. i liked the fact that when you arrived all bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning, et moi aussi, i fought ... gosh, he's serious, so let's crack a joke. you laughed, innit? well, life in the darkness of night at 0452, has wiped that smile off both our faces ...

If that Mr Bright Sunshine which appears bashing on me winda first fing, i'll poke me own eyes. err, just jokin', like ...

p.p.s. I also made a mental note that you are a friend of The Hotel Manager ... i.e. the friend of the Mr Anil who sent me here in the first flippin' place.

p.p.p.s. Goodbye all you hotel staff of Bombay. Till the next time.

Blog bog nonsense. Hey, Leon ... You reckon more people read blogs than books these days? None of my lot have time to fart let alone read blogs!

BTW, if you ever get to miraculously Read this boring old blog bog thing of mine ... be a good lad, leave a comment to say:

I woz 'ere.

Cos again my lot haven't even left me a kiss ... Like a ...

x x x x x x x x x x x ...

And, after all, this was your idea. Not that you knew when we said goodbye on the Marsh, in that curious little cafe ... When we shared a coffee table for our separate drinks.

I've lost your email address. Doh!

Miss Mo

ps I did check out your guardian obit you wanted me to see. Great woman too. Though I'm more a fan of the Eye these days. The Independent is too fat for me. Too full of news. Besides, I only buy newspapers for the cryptic crosswords. So, 20p ain't half bad for a cryptic. Not compared with the telegraph ... Let us face it. Sure only First Estate, Second Estate, Third Estate minions, and the nouveau riche of Essex can afford that paper?

Saturday 23 February

Day 3 in India. Feels almost like Day 300.

Oysters, holidays, Portslade and all that jazz.

Today is a good day.

Even though Mumbai Metro hotel is on one of the busiest roads, I understand, of commercial Mumbai (according to Mr Hotel Receptionist who spent a year working in some american hotel chain for a year in Coventry. Ha, sent to Coventry ... no wonder he thought that english people were racist. The poor young fellow prefers our american/canadian counterparts. They tend to say it like it is) - the stench of the stagnant river, the 2 massive construction sites, the beggars, the commuters - the everything of that 300m stretch of Sakinaka Junction, Andheri East, to the corner of Marol Maroshi road, to Marol Residency where I ended up staying on my first night in India ...

... well, yesterday, I nearly threw up from the pollution, stench of the dead stagnant river, getting back here to Marol. Which I now consider to be my 'home'. The surburban corner a few door along from Marol Residency has enough humanity to last a girl like me a short lifetime. On Day 1, I stood there and marvelled at the idea of an Indian 'suburb'. Breathed, then when the threat of a couple of tears welled up in the old eyeballs, that's when I had to stop breathing.

In spite of all that, I still managed to give away a beautiful pair of handstitched Mexican-made cowboy boots, which have been with me since St Marie de la Mare, Provence, where the culture is more Romany and gaucho culture, than it is provincial pomanders ... (to a bemused cobbler not far from the hotel.)

Bought boots from a holiday taken with Mr DB. And what a brilliant holiday it was. Missed the Killer Mosquitos there, saw flamingoes fly in RAF formation for the first time. Hilarious. Serge Gainsbourg playing on the bootleg CD in hire vehicle, bought in Nimes from where we were returning.

There I discovered probably for the first time that I had started my allergy to oysters, en Provence.  I was sick as a dog on the very first night of arriving at our budget, but beautiful chalet near St Marie de la Mare, I persisted on the oyster cuntal obsession for a good 3 years more. Three countries and capitals later, again in St Marie de la Mare (capital of the Romany Gypsies, I believe) near the bullring, and a beautifully clean oyster-only sunny cubby hole - 5 days later - I was fine that second time. Guess my body could handle them after being in France for 5 days. Then again with Mr DB in Lisboa. I remember I wrote an email to my friends on my return to the UK after that one-week wonder in the sun. Wrote something about the ugliness of the dozen oysters that had arrived on my plate - I mentioned something about 'Shell Suits' - the Portslade version of oysters, complete with Bovver Boots. (I'd just finished teaching in Portslade earlier that academic year. The whole reason why I'd moved down to the south coast, to get my first full-time, permanent contract. The Induction year teaching jUnpleasing to look at, and gorging on a whole dozen, I spent another evening throwing up. Nice. The third and, I hope, last time was in Brighton. South Lane, with Mr Sweet. A long lost friend from NYC. We decided to celebrate by ordering 6 oysters, I think, between the two of us. Knowing me, knowing his pocket, knowing my penchant for champagne - I probably also asked for a nice glass of bubbly. Or should that be blubbly? as the chances are, I may never get to see the ol' fella again ... Of course I hope he will live till he's 100 years old, but I fear that may not be the case. Not unless they invent a pill that cures CANCER. So one glass of bubbly it was. To keep my blubbly tears at bay.

I haven't got a bean - not compared with MS at least - but at least I haven't got oral cancer. M gave up ciggies 25 years before we met again on Brighton shores in 2009, and he questioned my reasoning for continuing the habit. His renal cancer team had said that the cancer was caused by smoking all those years ago. Idioats. What the hell do doctors know?

Friday 22 February

Mumbai is Mental.

That's about all I have energy to write just now. Some Indians are kind of bullshitters. Have come to an expensive hotel today - needs must - have to wait till Sunday to get a train out of here to Cochin. Sinusitis. Terrible chesty cough. Hotel reception staff, one of whom has lived in Coventry and didn't much like the English, said it would be nice and quiet in a room nearby reception. I had my doubts as I know how loud Indian voices can reverberate ... 

I came back to the hotel from what was the most unpleasant major road I have ever had the misfortune to walk down. I arrived to a find huge 100-MAN party on the huge garden roof. There's some celebration on. Banging music, live DJs, and though I've been  moved to the furthest end of the corridor, it is still Fucking Loud.

Clearly, the idea of  'quiet' Indian-stylee is very different to my idea of QUIET.

Indian business bullshit has a particular vibe about it that is unique. It goes a little bit like this. I just want to help you. A friend has a hotel. Why pay so much more when you can pay a massive discounted rate at the Metro Mumbai ...?

Friday 22 February

Is it really only Day 2 in Mumbai?

After today, it feels like I've been here in Bombay Mix Mental Headache-troplis forever.

I love that word "forever", ha.

Forever means "eternity" for me. What is eternal in this life? Our mortal life, that is? Unless one is religious, I guess Heaven or Hell are where we reside once we die. And I understand that is For Ever. I am not religious. Though I do have faith, I'm beginning to realise. I believe in a kind of purgatory on earth. In some respects, the hanging about, sitting on the fence, the nail-biting terror of making that "leap of faith" has been several lifetimes of different types of purgatory for me. Some self-manufactured and, some, I'm beginning to realise were forced up me.

I'd be interested to know how many of my old or close friends will know why I chose the courses I did, since I left the BBC in 1989 - then, a very stable "cradle to coffin" type of employer. I

Some Indians are such bullshitters. Yesterday, I thought they were all lovely. You smile at them, 9 times out of ten, they smile back.
Today, I've had to move hotels. Today I realised that even though some say they are trying to help you - which I'm sure they genuinely are - some appear to have have friends who can offer you a good rate - like better than Expedia etc, which is true if you don't arrive with any personal recommendations.

For example, after having a terrible night's sleep

Still Day One, Marol Residency, Marol suburb, Old Bombay

Anything seems to go in this metropolis. I LOVE the Indian head wobble. It seems universal in Mumbai. I wonder if it pervades the whole Sub-Continent? Will find out tomorrow on that train to Kerala.

Mr Govt Money Exchange down the dusty road said I wouldn't have enough cash for a four week stay here. Never mind. Tough. It will have to last, and I have a few contingency plans in my suitcase. All should make sense once I get my springy iPad keyboard fully charged by the 'morrow. just can't be typing like a retard on this touch screen nonsense ...

You're about to find out why Miss Mo prefers to travel alone ...

Thurs 21 February, Mumbai, Marol Residency

Not Hotel Comfort Bliss as booked via Expedia, with beautiful, though clearly beguiling online photos. Instead, have been shunted a few doors down the street to a shabby sister hotel. Comfort Bliss has a squiffy fuse box. Short outs today. A bit like my neurotransmitters. It's okay, comfort bliss will have to wait till Kerala.

I've decided. Was going to maybe stay for two nights in old Bombay. But, seeing as the Chesterfields Reds I left behind outside Heathrow T5 at around 20:00 hrs last night transpired not to be my last ever crackerbox of cancer sticks ... I think I'd better stick with advice given by the S&S double act, currently of Seven Sisters. Stay one night and get the hell out of Mumbai. Get straight on train to the southwest, were their instructions.

Curiously, I am right opposite the Seven Hills hospital. What is it with me, numbers, and names?

Been a good girl, eating tarka dal, a green salad which is actually cucumber shaved, tomato, red raw onion rings, carrot. Not exactly green in my book. Followed my Luncheon Alarm, which plays a nice Buena Vista Social Tune. Alarms keep me on track. Especially when all other systems have failed, gone to seed, or simply 'cause I've lost track of time. Time Is The Most Important of commodities.

(Was going to insert photo of lunch, but learning this iPad interface is not the same as the bookPro. Humph. Technology, eh?)

Trying not be a tad gloomy about the Teensy Matchbox Bombay-Line (budget hotel) Disaster. Will elaborate after a good siesta. This is India, after all.

Mango lassi next. Saw a nice cubby hole around the corner. Men only, eating deep fried food. The food and drink is about a 10th of the price of this joint.

Love Mother India. Even the noises, grime and dust. It's warm and sunny for a start. always a bonus.

Wednesday 20 February

Skin 'n' Bone Woman and Eating Habits

I've no idea how much weight I've lost this past month. Hideous. Considering I'm not exactly on the fat side of things. Nervous energy seems to burn up food - no matter how much or little I eat. Bummer that. Hence, it's about finding inner peace, finding that balance, as best as I can.

Last  night, out of necessity, I popped over to the The Windmill Pub on The Cut, to get some Thai food. I've recently dithered over several local places to go to in order to get fed. When life gets hectic, and at worse CHAOTIC, I tend to have potentially dangerous accidents in the kitchen. Nuking dry saucepans, nearly setting fire to things. Marvelling at coals of food fused to the bottom of pans. That kind of thing. It's ok, folks. I always buy the very best of stainless steel cookware that money can buy at the time - just so that they will last me till I die.

The restaurants, kebab joint, Chinese Culture Grub - are all pretty lousy - especially if you,re on a budget and trying to eat healthily. Wasabi in Waterloo Station is just about my favourite - but sometimes, even the 4 minute walk seems far too time-consuming or long - simply due to freezing cold weather, and me feeling under it (the weather) - and the hordes of stressed commuters/bewildered tourists. Fishcoteque on Waterloo Road is great. But, really, deep fried everything - as fresh and quality as it is - is that what my body needs?

Those who know me regard me as a good cook. Thanks guys. I can be when slotted into a jolly good routine. When routine goes out of the window - through no fault of mine. Doing the most basic essentials in life, like COOK, EAT, SLEEP & SHIT - go to pot. Simple as that.

Yes, Brigs, I know I have to save money. But you barely know me. Sometimes, I simply can't cook. I should know myself after 52 years of surviving. The last 20 of which have been entirely on my own. Living alone. Who else has done that, out of the people I know. I can think of Mr Wells ... a Stuckist painter in Brighton, poet and lino-cutter extraordinaire, and my wonderfully inspiring and steadfast friend Stan the Man. Having retired recently from decades of Science teaching in Manhattan, he can now paint to his heart content in the mountains of Idaho. If only he could get the hang of the farm machinery, the snow plough, and take photos of the Moose that recently threatened to eat all the good stuff in his snow-swamped garden.

Now I say 52 years, not because I'm getting that number confusion/dyslexia thing I can get under stressful conditions (it happened a lot during my BBC Production years way way back.) But because in Chinese birth years, one is already "one" year old on the day of arrival. That always used to confuse me. Well, I said to myself on arrival here in the UK - damn it - if my English friends, and if my parents and school say I'm 6 and three quarters - then so be it!

However, these days I love the idea of being 52. It makes an awful lot of sense. Like anyone else, I had to survive that gurgling blobby time in in the amniotic fluid. And more of that later ... Our gestation isn't 9 months, girls, is it? Come on all you old fashioned mothers. Own up. Isn't pregnancy more like 40 weeks or so? And how the week's run up to conception date, hmm? Answer me. I am no mother - as you all know. Though I did get called  M.I.L.F. by a 25 year old boy called Tom at Waterloo Station recently. Cheeky booger. Bless him. What he had to say will be repeated at a later date - as urban dictionary is not his real strength, I gather ...

I even got a text from him a couple of days ago. (Crumbs, the foolishness of older age, and the audacity of youth.) I warned him, I did. So I hope he was put off by my reply.

Going back to Stan. Since 1982, you have been such a steadfast friend to me. I guess if you experienced so much crazy-death throughout the '60s and '70s, small wonder you were so hapless in the chaotic traffic of Taipei City back in the '80s. Some white, curly-haired Giant Lanky (are you 6'4"?) Dude, with the slowest ever Southern Drawl. Some funny-looking mo'fo' on a motorcycle or Honda scooter - hitting the back of buses and whatnot. What were you like? I used to rip your letters open, back in my Surrey Docks and Telegraph Hill days with Nick - to see what madness you'd dallied with of late. Hey, I guess I ought to send you a copy of this before anyone else gets to read it first ... though I remember, now, I already sent you a link.

Adios, amigos

Final look out the window at that thin"thing".


ps Postman just arrived at 13:15 and delivered one letter

and here it is Propped against the screen of macbook Pro.

pps   messrs cameron, osborne -

pps   C U N T S 

All together now [Public Enemy] :

A TO THE MUTHERFUCKING CAKEHOLE YAAAA
A TO THE MUTHERFUCKIN AAAAAAAH

Gosh, it's enough to make a girl's blood boil.
Next: LUNCHEON.

Mail to a teaching agency ...

Dear Chris

Thanks so much for your email.

I've been waiting for suitable Music teaching opportunities which appear to be getting thinner on the ground (maybe I've been looking in the wrong places?).

As luck would have it, just on the day of embarking on a long-awaited trip to India, Kuala Lumpur and Taiwan, to look for possible opportunities abroad - I get this from Synarbor!

Thanks again,

I look forward to hearing from you on my return in early May - regarding appropriate permanent appointments - in schools with a strong headteacher.

Kind regards

Yeu-Ing Mo

Secondary & Primary Music Specialist
~~~~~~~~~

NOTE to the reader: This is a fantasy email. I don't know why I wrote it. Self-amusement, I guess, as I have no real intentions of rejoining the education system in the UK or abroad. After about 5 years, it's obvious it doesn't suit me ... certainly not for a long while.

Addendum (15 March, Kannur, North Kerala):

I told a porky. This was an actual email I wrote back to Synarbor. Did I not have anything better to do that day? Teaching secondary music in the UK sucks. I wasn't cut out for it. I never went into teaching to do crowd control and attend endless meetings after school. I know I am an excellent one to one piano teacher, and class teacher, from having taught in a British school in Tanzania. The Head of Secondary told me so. I was the best Music teacher Braeburn Arusha had had in 14 years - since the school opened.

Around five years of full-time classroom teaching in state schools in the UK is probably enough for one lifetime. Though I would consider a part-time primary school job in the UK, or private piano teaching in Dar es Salaam. You know, somewhere lovely by the sea, like ...

Mail to Poofy and Persian Princess

Wednesday 20 February

Dear Poofy Tell

I've started a 'blog'. I have little respect for that word, but just have to get over the fact it exists and entered the English language long ago.

It is partly a way of keeping on track. I find when I write things down, it helps to keep me a bit more focussed in times of overload especially. I have only just realised this lately.

I would like to be able to include the recent mail trail between you and I, Pete - the one about Gossips, your one about Valour, Art ... Francis Bacon /Melvyn Bragg. Thanks for the latter especially - as you were quite right - a must see, indeed, and very pertinent.

If I don't hear from you by the time I get to Bombay, and have had a one-night sleepover this Thurs/Friday, to get over my long haul flight, I may make an "executive" decision, and bung our correspondence up on the blog anyway. I hope not to resort to this option - which doesn't sit with me well, as it is partly your intellectual property. But as a pedantic reference-maker, I feel I may not have a choice in the matter, as I am rather liked my side of the correspondence. So I would reference your 'work' by naming you some such thing that feels right at the time ... Maybe Lord Rendlesham might suit?

I don't know what it is about you Pete, but you seem to bring the best out of me - in spite of your extreme rudeness over the years, e.g. going for the jugular, where no-one would dare, and your penchant/obsession for slamming the phone on me mid-sentence over the last decades. While knowing full well I am a very sensitive soul. You should do by now, you git, ha.

You are a very lucky man indeed to have met Natalie. Though we all know that you've had this peculiar idiosyncratic magic touch with "women" - Laura and that mumsy bird you picked up in your suffolk gravestone-dreaming days, to name but two.

I feel that we are doing a role reversal. Particularly after what you pointed out during our last conversation. That you spent about 21 years driving psychiatrists round the twist and living on government hand-outs. You and Machado, as you may have known at the time, played up to the fact that you were the real-life "Withnail and I", well before the film even came out. Though the reality of your Camden squalor was even darker and filthier - compared with the celluloid fantasy.

Meanwhile, I have not driven many psychiatrists round the bend. Though I fear that I may have just started to, this past year with my social worker. I suspect he wouldn't feel that way about me, as it would appear that he is a person with enormous self- compassion, kindness, patience and charity - which is consequently reflected onto me. Rapport is such a luxury, don't you find?

~ ~ ~ ~

Dear N, I'm copying you in on this as I suspect that due to work commitments and his occasional social swanning around, your "husband" may not get the chance to see this in time. I hope you don't mind giving him a gentle "prompt" in the computer direction.

As usual, I hope wish you and Bubba Ive, a good day under today's grey morning skies. I hope Bubba is chugging away nicely. Bless him. Oh, I have a baby hot water bottle for him, though this will have to wait until next autumn, as I return in spring, after my travels.

Love

Y x

p.s. this is going up on today's Blog as I type ...

http://chineseblossoms.blogspot.co.uk/

The Amazing Miss Mo, Southbank, London SE1

Having walked a meandering route from Warren Street to run last-day errands, Waterloo Bridge and the Southbank was the last resting place before making the home run.

Comment from a "random" stranger, NFT cafe, outside area, early evening: Cy from Edmonton, Malaysian Chinese descent, said to me after a brief exchange:

It's ok to have a dramatic life.

I immediately counteracted her statement with a negative response. "Oh, I just wish that the "shit" that happens would stop sometimes ... like, this old mare has been doing the Grand National for at least a year, and really wants to stop".

Hey, Cy. Two hours later, the penny's dropped. You're right. I am making the most of it, and maybe just haven't given myself the credit for it.

I am no drama queen. This life of mine is for real! Shit happens, and ... I may as well CELEBRATE it.

Monday 18 February

Dental Non-Hygiene

Among all the multitude of THINGS TO DO, I had to go all the way to Brighton to visit the kindly dental hygienist. Eek (a Mouse). How I got down there, with two minutes spare, from the reclaimed boglands of Waterloo having overslept by 2 hours is still beyond my ken.

Bleedin' gum infection now. WHAT on EARTH next? As if I don't have enough on my plate ... If I get one more person, medical or otherwise suggesting that it's time to STOP smoking ... oh, never mind all that.

Me speechless. Me tooth-hurtie.*

Miss Mo, speechless? (Bwahaaaa! as the young 'un's say on facebook.) Quite.

It's now something like 36 hours till dehydrating and vegetating in an aluminium can on the T5 runway to The UNKNOWN.

No longer counting. I'm more like a little country bumpkin hedgehog that's marched 10-15 miles for food all day long, and is now stuck in the middle of the night near FULKING (?? Yeah, you 'eard!) on the A281, exhausted and dithering. Yes, dithering.

YIKES. Earth is rumbling. The girl and boy racers are out. Quick March. Forget that ROCK ... LET'S ... R O L L,  bubbas ...

7 heavenly rollies today and counting!

INHALE exhale, inhale Exhale, inhale EX-to the mutherfuckin'
EX to the Ex to the Ex to the
EXHALE Hale





Yeu-Ing Mo


*Dear Mr Spud, That was possibly the worst joke I heard in a long time. Toodlepip, old boy. x

16 February 2013

For all you lovely e-readers

This is my very first attempt at "blogging" (hideous word, methinks, as it rhymes with FLOGGING. Very unsexy in my opinion). Sometimes, my multi-lingual little brain gets confused with basic Mandarin syntax, words, phrases etc, in moments of overload.

That's why I think there's such a huge difference between my speech (i.e. when I talk to friends, especially if I'm out of breath, angry and nervous, I often gabble very quickly, often without mentally editing what I need to say first) as opposed to when I physically put pen to paper. Actually, thinking about it, I think I sometimes talk far too quickly for my own good! Though not when I am teaching. I've been told I am a deeply inspiring one-to-one, and class teacher. (Thanks for that Mrs neo-Colonialist.)

Please excuse typos and syntax which may or may not be mistakes.

For those of you who know me, well ... I end up coming out with some hilarious Spoonerisms, and can get my English idioms back to front, and suchlike ...

... even though I have lived here in the UK pretty much all the while, in London, since 1968.

I also tend to swear a lot.

Enjoy. A Spoonful of Mo.




Yeu-Ing Mo

16 February 2013

Saturday

aka The Shabbat Day*

My original blog for today which was lost after 5 hours of writing and editing, is for the time being, lost on some iCloud, Googly Server, or some such e-nonsense. In short - it HAS GAWN. Vanished, into a puff of smoke, with a stroke of a key. Split-second mistake. Never mind, eh?

So in its place, the following will have to suffice. It is to be read to the tune of the following track by Ice Cube, not the words, just the rhythm and the "gentleness" tone (timbre) its melody.

If there are other musical references, literary or otherwise, Fear not! Miss Mo will be name-checking as she goes along. Miss Mo is NO CHRISTIAN WARD - the Swear-Name - currently being circulated among my poetry gang. Prize-givers, academics and performers alike are rubbing their hands with glee as I type. In Poetry Current Affairs, CHRISTIAN WARD = PLAGIARISM. Ah-ha. Did he not learn a thing? OK, enough already!

Today today is a rest day
I lost the words, to my blog day
Today today is a rest day
I didn't have to use my A-K
Today today is my REST DAY
Can't be-arsed-to retrieve my WORDS day

Today today is a Zen day
I'm gonna go my OWN WAY
Today today is Breath Day
I'm gonna feed this OM day

Today today is Mo day
Forever to my Om day

[G F HANDEL]

Aaaleluyah
Allelujah
Allelujah
Hallelujah
Halle-loooooo-oo-jah

A to the mutherfuckin' cake-hole-JAH, A-to-the-mutherfuckin' KAY





Amen



Yeu-Ing Mo

p.s. original blog for today to be retrieved at a later date ... I suppose ... I'll ... fink about it.


* Thanks, Tim, metaphoric hug 'n' kisses