Another Note to You, Dear Reader.

Hello, and thanks for checking into this travel blog bog thingy just now.

For anyone who doesn't know me. Even for those who do. I have a few 'warnings' and, 'excuses' if you like, about the rough 'n' readiness of this blog.

1. Typos galore.
2. Very messy syntax sometimes - you may have noticed. Though some words like 'west' which you may think should be capitalised with a "W" are NOT a mistake. I capitalise things pedantically, as it is a reflection of my mood - at any given moment.*
3. Profanities. Lots of 'em. And expletives. The whole works.**
4. And some of the earlier stuff in India, and even at home in the UK - I just didn't have the bandwidth and/or energy to fill in the missing sentences. So the writing actually 'drops out' mid-sentence, or maybe mid-word. I'm not sure which. Can't remember that far back. Plus, there are some infuriating glitches with the interface of this iPad and Google blogspot that I can't seem to fathom (excuses excuses).
5. If you feel like it, I suggest you go back and read one of the earlier posts which I think explains, in a gentler way than here, how I sometimes use the English language.

That's life, eh? Imperfect.

Lemme tell you. This is a massive turnaround for me. I have suffered from perfectionism all my life - and great secrecy, come to think of it, in terms of the excellent qualities, skills, gifts and talents of my past lives. So, this is partly an exercise in practising new habits, and letting go of some of the bad habits of old ... like presenting myself in a negative light, to tell stories that veer towards the Dark Side. Even in jest, I'm sure that at times I come over as a right old 'Dim-Sumitis' ***. Cute, but miserable little dumpling. Please, if anyone disagrees, put me out of my misery. It's difficult to have a subjective view of oneself, I find.

I hope at the very least I make you laugh, fart, go "Grrrrrrr", smile, roll your eyes in despair - actually, Anything, Any reaction will do. As long as there is a reaction, I feel - it's a good sign that one is not half-dead - don't you think? And that my writing is not a complete and utter crashing bore to read. That is one of my worst fears. To be boring. ****

Also, if you'd like to complain, comment, send me a kiss, or start a debate - please do so in the comment box. And I'll get back to you one way or another. That is, I'll either publish it. Or if you're a complete numpty - you'll get ignored. Autonomous? Ha, yes, call me a mini-dictator, if you like. I was born under a fascist dictatorship, 1961, Taiwan, The Republic of China and proud of it - so what the hell?  Native traditions and 'fascist-signs' run deep. Just like horoscope signs can. If that's your belief system, you're welcome to it. [You know I'm joking about the 'fascist' bit, right? I meant I'm proud to have been born in Taiwan. Made in Taiwan. Only the Best. And proud to be English too.

I'm still trying to find out what my belief systems are. As I have a terrible habit of being fickle, of changing my mind, of sitting on the fence, and generally taking ages to do some of The most important things in life ...

Anyway, whatever you might think of me after all this verbiage - it is clearly none of my business, as I have no control over what others might think.

I am me. And there's fuck all I can do about it.

Once again, thanks for popping in.

Seriously, I mean it.

Enjoy.

Love

Miss Mo xxx

Currently residing in Jin Shan Nan Lu, Section 2, Taipei, Taiwan, R.O.C., Earth [ooh, that was so tempting to type R.O.C.K. Earth, 'cos we are a rock, pebble, piece of gravel, dust particle, ash ... compared with the rest of the Universe, maaaan.]


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* Besides, I was introduced to syntax quite late in life (mid-'30s) by my former personal tutor, composer, and the then Dr Rhian Samuel (now retired Prof), City University.

Before that, schoolteachers did their best (ish) at the time, but left great gaping holes in my understanding of grammar and syntax. Come to think of it, our Basic Grammar teacher, Mr Rose, was such a bad teacher, I can't remember learning a thing. He had this seriously bad catarrh problem, and had to hawk off-puttingly into a handkerchief every 5 minutes or so. He spoke with a slight speech impediment, and spat regularly on my poor classmates who sat at the front of class. The only thing I took from the torturous two years of Basic Grammar was Christine G. bringing in her brolly to class on a hot summer's day - during the last week of the academic year. The moment Mr Rose opened his mouth, Christine made a fabulous show of opening up her girlie umbrella, right under his nose. And too right! After all the saliva he'd showered on her all those years - it wasn't a moment too soon. I so wanted to applaud her. I'm sure some of us burst out laughing, then were immediately scared by the large, bulging eyes, and hooked-nosed of Mr Mucous Mouth - hushed into a red-faced imploding silence. Christine G - what a legend! As a 13 year old, you gave me one of the best memories of Walpole Grammar.

Let me tell you as a former teacher of UK secondary schools. I was personally abused on a daily basis. Ha, I was even called a 'chink' in a very good state school in Streatham, and a lousy school in Brighton. In fact, the latter has been ranked as one of the worst schools in the UK. I do pick 'em, eh? It was like the clocks had been put on fast-rewind to 40 odd years back. I was attacked physically, and had the classroom piano set on fire. Normal fare for teachers, really, in crappy rundown Music departments. Music departments don't figure in school league tables, so schools simply can't prioritise them in terms of budget and resources. And I was 'unlucky' I guess in terms of the schools I ended up working in. Weak Heads, or meglomaniac ones. Plus, I'm not cut out for full-on state school teaching - not in the UK system, that. Ach. Maybe more on that later, if I can be bothered ... There are plenty of teachers from my cohort at the Institute of Education who are doing brilliantly - notably Tessa A - but I bet the majority have dropped out along the wayside of mainstream teaching ... a well-known fact of life.

Suffice to say, my school days of the late '60s to late '70s were a stark contrast. OK, we were naughty. But respect and good manners towards teachers were still a prerequisite for us schoolkids then. If a teacher was rubbish - and there were plenty of them in those pre-regulation days - then they deserved the hell they got from us, as far as I'm concerned.

Ah, sorry. The memory rewind button went a bit too far there ... Back to City University now and the new arrival of Dr Samuel, formerly of Reading 'Stuffy' University, 1994. I'm referring to their music department at the time. It was very old skool compared with City University.

It was only in my second year (repeated second year) that I discovered I didn't even know some of the basics about syntax until Rhian doggedly picked me up on every single punctuation mark that was out of place. I will be eternally grateful for that. She even took issue with me starting off a sentence once with "Not only". I asked her why there was a red line through this, and how it was grammatically wrong. She had the honesty to simply say: I don't LIKE it. I may've crumpled inside momentarily, because she was a hard task-master. But she was good. Real good.

She showed me great kindness and compassion, and introduced me to Gender Studies in Musicology and made me aware how male hegemony had affected the suppression of Women in Music over the centuries. (She had co-edited the Norton/Grove Dictionary of Women Composers, after all). And this eventually led me to gain a place at Oxford to read Gender Studies under the tutelage of the musicologist Roger Parker. However, after one meeting with the tutor - I immediately sensed in his flamboyant demeanor, that there might be trouble ahead. I had met and worked for plenty camp, emotionally bitter and twisted types in BBC Television. I didn't want to put myself through that in an academic context too. I could see a devilish, maverick twinkle in his eyes - which I didn't quite trust.

After that meeting with the then Dr Parker, and the one introductory 'lecture' in the post-graduate music department - I found myself getting into my battered old Astra Estate and driving, eastwards on the M40. Foot almost flat on the floor and wringing an impressive 115 mph out of a 15 year old Vauxhall engine, when traffic conditions allowed, towards the safety and sanity of my own den in The Borough, SE1, central London. Fuck that for laugh, I thought. Oxford University, the genuinely lovely, friendly Yah-kids and buxom English Roses in the Post-Grad Common Room, Worcester College -  coupled with the fustiness of the oak-panelled meeting room which the music department had hired that day; the tweed jackets with elbow patches - worn un-ironically; the young, yet musty and out-dated European-privileged were not for me. It was like walking into a staid and washed-out anaemic version of 'The Love Story' that had been in suspended animation for about 30 odd years. I was even looking for cobwebs on the people around me, and in the corners of the room. I am not exaggerating. Any Walpole Grammar/Elthorne High contemporary of mine would've felt equally ill at ease, I'm sure.

I'd already forked out about GBP 60 - a not insubstantial sum back in 1997 - just to hire a flippin' gown, mortarboard, thin back ribbon - just so I could shake hands with the gigantically mumsy Dean of Worcester College. For the bought honour to sign my name in the College register. For said Larson Lady to shake my sweaty palm, and present me with a 3-inch thick College rule book that I could've done some serious weight-training with. One quick scan of it under the "Essential things to do to get your Masters" chapter: Attend 4 compulsory dinners in the Banquet Hall and pay GBP 25 for the privilege of getting some dreadful food. Never mind if you complete all your papers, sit all your exams, AND get a First for them all. No, you don't get your Masters unless you pay the college, what for me was, a huge sum of money. [What a feckin' liberty!!] Money money money makes the collegiate system go round. Me, naive? Course I was. I am still very naive about some of the most glaringly-obvious things in life ... strange that, huh?

To a Comprehensive-educated, first-generation immigrant the whole shebang felt wrong - very wrong. I felt out of place and choked in the hallowed medieval confines of some moth-balled cloister of smelly Oxford University. More importantly, I couldn't bear or justify adding at least a further £15,000 of debt - I'm talking 1997 money) to my already scary student loan. And what was I to do after a Masters anyway? Have a full-on academic wank? Leave it out. I needed to do something to pay the bills, and pay off the first student debt. Bye bye Oxford.


**One old classmate of mine has described the content as "scatological". Here's a non-ironic, and heartfelt 'Thanks' for that, because I'd forgotten about that word. However, the pedant in me feels compelled to point out that in the context in which you used it, i.e. in the C-word post, is incorrect.  That fine word you used relates to excrement, and/or an obsession with it. I can be that if you wish. Strangely enough, I have been wondering whether to go that far in this blog bog thingy, or not, as it happens. So maybe you have given me the final push (pardon the pun) to quite literally, have a literary dump. By Jove, JK, what a brilliant inspiration you have been to me. I mean it. You have been only the Third Man (and person) to have bothered leaving me a comment in this whole time. And that means a lot to me, Comrade.

*** The former BBC TV Drama Series & Serials producer, Caroline Oulton, used to call me Dim Sum-itis, when I had the fucking dire experience of working there in 1987-89. 

Colin Rogers - what a closet-gay numpty! Oh, and that Jonathan Powell who humiliated me during my work performance review - after all the slaving I did for your bum chums George Gallaccio & Rogers. You were all having a right old momentary titter at my expense, weren't ya? Thanks for that. I hope it made you feel even more powerful than you already were. Did you enjoy that, Powell? I hope you and your broadcast meedjah dick-waggling ways as the Thin Controller of BBC1 afterwards made you more of a steamin', chuggin' plonker than you were as the Almighty Head of BBC Television Series & Serials. So good luck to you. If that was your thang. Fair play to you all. To me, it was just tellyvidge. Such a low form of 'art'. One that I couldn't get that excited about. Plus, I didn't know the right people, or go to the right University. [Christ, I hope that after exorcising all these ancient memories for the first time, I'll be able to Om-out and breathe renewal into my system ...].And thinking back, I reckon that my 'buried' disdain for the industry probably had a funny way of showing, through the chinks of my little Dimsumitis skin.

Err, sorry. Back to the lovely Caroline Oulton.

Whenever she greeted me with this name, I never used to bat an eyelid. I thought it was a term of endearment! Little did I realise that she was being a cheeky little so-and-so. She was nice. I mean it. English, gentlewoman, seriously gifted and talented, slightly eccentric in that whiz-kiddie kind of way, and very quick-witted. She was a real wunderkind back in those days. A great Cambridge degree, one of Alan Yentob's protegees at the time -  along with my soon-to-be boss, Michael Jackson. I believe - though this is from unresearched (ok, I just made up that word) memory - so don't quote me just yet, they were among two of the Bright Young BBC Things that Yentob felt could freshen up the BBC. Bring some new, young blood into an artery-hardened clunky old beast. While Caroline Oulton championed new scripts by women, directed by women - Michael Jackson pioneered a Brave New World of live daily TV arts programming - The Late Show. These young kids were promoted quickly into positions of enormous cathode-ray power, back in the day. Incidentally, I was headhunted to work for Michael Jackson. No disrespect, Michael, but you were a bit of a social freak at the time, no? You were very tightly-wound, and I did pamper your every whim. I just yes sir'ed and no sir'ed all the way through my dreadful BBC TV career. Just like the obeisant Chinese female I felt I ought to be ... Still, I can now acknowledge that I was actually sought out to work for you because no other Production PA had lasted more than a week, you were that difficult. So I can now breathe on my fingernails, and polish them on my tee-shirt with pride. I wonder where you are now? Heard that after being the Chief Exec of Channel Four, you buzzed off to LA donkey's years ago ...?

**** On reflection, maybe 'boring' is exactly what the doctor might order. Like, maybe accepting that I'm no spring chicken any more, and that it might be a good idea to stop running around like a headless one? Like, less risk-taking when it comes to intake of drugs. Less bamboo-caning it on chemicals - both pharmaceutical and illicit - and booze, and ciggies and, and, and ... Goddam, that sounds sooooo boring already. Zzzzzzz.

***** Funny how a brand name has entered the English language as an actual verb. Pretty annoying and impressive in equal measures, if you ask me. Though it's quite old hat now. The transitive verb, to google, according to Wiki, entered the OED on June 15, 2006. It's a bit like how we might say in England: 'Oh, jolly dee. It gives one such joy and happiness to hoover every morning ...'.

Dumplings, Earthquakes, Smelly Tofu, Taipei City

27 March 2013.

Taipei is all about food. Food, food and more food.

Even the 7Eleven down the road from here sells hot food 24/7. You'll find different types of tofu, fish balls, eggs that have been hard-boiled in their cracked shells in tea, thereby staining the egg whites into a lovely tea-brown, marbled effect and some strange sausages that look suspiciously like frankfurter sausages (or weiners as the Americans might say) that look like complete junk food. 

In the refrigerator, there are rows of different types of soya milk, brown rice milk and other types of grain milks. Great if you're sensitive to gluten grains as I am. That reminds me, I have some brown rice milk in the fridge here at my new 'home'. Excuse me while I try some ... Strange consistency. Nothing like Rice Dream that we get in UK supermarkets. This is more like a coffee-coloured Angel's Delight, of a thinner liquid consistency. Comfort food almost. A bit like melted ice-cream.

Yesterday I tried a carton of "Adlay and Brown Rice Milk". The illustration of 'adlay' looked exactly like pearl barley. Amazing stuff it was, with imperceptible bits of ground peanut in. Phwoarr! Yumsville. The soya milk you get in cartons here is of supreme quality compared with out Blighty version. And the proper freshly made soya milk that is found in breakfast cafes here is world famous. Even the Malay Chinese in Kuala Lumpur acquiesce supremacy to their Taiwanese cousins when it comes to 'doh jang, shao bing, yo tiao'. Phwoar, phwoar and phwoar. I'll take some photos when I eventually make it out for a doh jang (hot soya milk) breakfast, so at least you'll be able to see what I'm on about ...

Kind of opposite to the 7Eleven is a cart with a couple in their sixties, I'd say. They are making and selling fresh steamed dumplings - 'siao lung bao' - literally translated as Little Basket Dumplings. Haaaa, little basket dumplings for a dumpling of a basket case like me ...

I can't believe this place. I love this city. I have only ventured about 40 yards from home, and there is so much on my doorstep even at this early hour - when hardly anything's open. I don't even care if the dumplings are 'no good' - they'll be more than good enough for me. I'm going to buy some. I ask how much they are? NT$ 70 for a whole steamer basket or NT$ 35 for a half basket. I go for the latter. And a few yards along I buy myself a 'yo bing'. I am in breakfast heaven.

Maybe it's while I'm drooling over the dumplings - the earthquake in central Taiwan measures 6.1 in magnitude, and tragically kills one person, and injures about 86. There are two tremors that reach Taipei city. I am completely oblivious. I don't find this out until I look on Facebook as a newly acquainted friend works on Taipei Times, and wonders if her office has been hit, and won't have to go to work ...

I wonder how I can miss a 'quake. Am I really such a greedy guts? Probably ...

Moving swiftly on, a notorious Taiwanese speciality is called 'smelly tofu'. It is fermented beancurd that is deep fried, and it comes out all light and almost "fluffy" in texture. It's divine. However, even the most militant vegetarian beancurd devotees have been known to forsake this Taiwanese speciality. The smell of it being deep-fried could well be used for chemical warfare purposes. I guess you either love it or hate it. I LOVE it.

Dad has never tried eating smelly tofu either. Again, it's the pungent odour that turns his stomach and puts him off. Funny considering that we used to live in the most famous street for smelly tofu back in the 1960s. Yong Kang Jie (Yong Kang Street) Remember - I'm using my own made up pinyin again. It's just around the corner from here.

Maybe that's what did it. The close range, daily, olfactory bombardment sealed his intense dislike for it. Much in the same way that deep-frying seals in a minutely sour flavour from the fermented and holey beancurd. I guess a very rough analogy could be drawn by describing it as a slightly sour, holey, immature cow's cheese. It's nowhere as pongy as ripe brie ... err, actually ... I'll let you know when I get my grubby mitts on some soon.

In any case, never mind the smell. If you ever find yourself in Taipei, I urge you to try some smelly tofu. It's fab. 

Storm. Raining cats & dogs in Taipei city, 19:23 hrs

While there was an earthquake yesterday morning in central Taiwan measuring 6.1 in magnitude, there is now a thunderstorm and very loud rain tonight. In England, the label would be "extreme" weather. Here, it is just normal. Tragically, the earthquake killed at least one person, and injured about 86, according to one news source. I hear from a very trustworthy source back in the UK that the video clip of the earthquake was quite horrendous. The effects of which could be felt here in Taipei city. I've no idea what I was doing. Probably outside drooling over steamed dumplings that a street vendor was selling. Apparently if you're outside when a slight tremor hits - you're less likely to feel it compared with being indoors.

This was only a moderate earthquake.

http://www.scienceworldreport.com/articles/5848/20130327/strong-6-1-magnitude-earthquake-strikes-taiwan-kills-injures-19.htm

Tonight, it is raining. When it rains in Taipei - it pours. Woooo-ah! Just when you think it can't rain any harder - it buckets down. The English concept of rain when it is 'normal' is much gentler. I don't know how to describe it here. It's not quite monsoon -  but it is very loud, big fat, fast rain.

My plans to go and eat Beef Noodles at the famous Yong Kang Beef Noodle restaurant in the street parallel to the road I'm living in will be scuppered for the night, I reckon ... Still, one never knows, I may be in luck. Besides, I'm not exactly going to die of starvation in this apartment. (Sorry, just can't bring myself to use the 'correct' English word 'flat' on this occasion. It's wrong. Flats are called apartments in Taipei. The one 'flat' thing that immediately springs to mind is a 'yo bing' (second tone, third tone). Yo bing is what I call a Chinese version of a Keralan paratha. (The wonderful, beautiful, scrummy, deeeelicious, slightly oily, breads I couldn't eat the whole time I was in Kerala due to having a variety of lung infections.) Except yo bing has a tiny amount of chopped up spring onion. And like the paratha - you can eat them for breakfast. Yum yum yum yum yummeeeeee.

Thankfully, my normal voracious appetite has returned. I wonder what with this no smoking mallarkey whether I might be as big as a Shaolin Temple by this time next year ... I hope not, of course. I hope that I still have hollow, if not slightly Buerger'ed / buggered, legs.

Friday Fright Night comes to Mo's room, Cosmic Hotel

Worst primordial nightmare come true. Room 304 "Neptune", 3.30am Saturday (to be precise). With footnotes of my BBC brush-with-National-paedophiles, and my Maida Vale, W9 attic flat, showbiz days.

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The deep fear of the unknown. That's why the film Jaws was so successful. Playing on one of our greatest primordial fears. Who hasn't leapt out of their skin, or wet suit, when taken by surprise in the ocean by an USM (unidentified sea monster)? For a good 15 years after seeing Jaws when it came out at the cinema with Preston, and having literally fallen off the edge of the 1970's cinema seat during the sunken ship (submarine?) moment - I had serious fears about anything that was slightly dark and unknown in the sea. Even clumps of seaweed would have me panicking and breathing irregularly, and consequently swallowing mouthfuls of ghastly ultra-salty sea water. Enough to make one sick. Pathetic. Mortifying too, if one had to behave as if everything was normal while the other English tourists were staring dreamily out to sea at close range from the tiny but beautiful Greek island cove. When in actual fact I was having a seaweed spaz-out in the Med, trying not to flail my limbs around like an epi-fit kid in shallow waters.

You'll be glad to know that I learned to overcome that fear ... mostly. I forced myself to. It became a money issue. I'd be damned if I was going to have a phobia about swimming in the sea, when I'd forked out money for a one-week holiday in the sun - on meagre BBC wages - only to float on my back in the Mediterranean (so I couldn't see what was below me), shitting myself if I swam too far from the beach. I gradually practised meditative 'swimming', and now I'd be happy to learn to free dive to the bottom of The Blue Hole** - if I had half the chance. Mind you, if I saw one of those fat ugly moray eels again, I'd probably have to swallow my own sea-snot words.

There is of course such a thing as mind over matter. I guess it's a form of meditation. All the Zen stuff which I've been practising since last October has been making me 'come over all strange'. (Yes, stranger that usual, if that's possible.) Difficult to put my finger on it. No doubt a rambling, off-the-wall 2000 word paper will come out in due course on matters of breathing, observing and expelling fears.

Though the plaque on my hotel room door reads Room 304, Neptune, I'm not here to relate some bizarre Romanesque water-based nightmare from my newly-tiled ensuite bathroom at Cosmic. Sure, it does have a kind of 1-star, monsoon-type shower. In fact, the double combo of a large overhead shower head, and the smaller normal movable shower hose has been nothing short of a dream for me. When I'm under the weather, stressed, disorientated or ill - I innately go for my own version of water-therapy. I find myself standing for ages under a hot shower. To rehydrate,  to cleanse - corporeally, emotionally and spiritually. Like a momentary baptism of calm. The Christians love to quote: Cleanliness is next to Godliness. In my mind, I have my own interpretation of that. But my philosophy on the themes of personal hygiene, self-worth and social nuisance - all interconnected - will need to wait for another time.

For now, back to the Cosmic mother of all fears, around 3.30am.

Ever since I can remember - faces that leap out of the pitch primordial dark - such as in the 1970s TV series 'Lost in Space', have been terrifying me to this day. Dr Smith who was the "camp as Christmas"* anti-hero, spaceship rider, that minced around in a gold lurex suit (see postscript), who's ironic catchphrase was:

"Never fear! Dr Smith is here."

Ironic because he was the most neurotic, hysterical, and back-firing evil, scaredy-cat there ever was. If I remember correctly, almost all of the scariest things would happen to him. Jimmy and I would piss ourselves laughing when something frightening would happen to him. Except for one episode, when both of us actually leapt out of our skin, and Dr Zachary Smith nearly imploded with fear. He was looking out into a pitch black primordial cosmic soup from the front of the spaceship. All of a sudden, AAHHH!! a huge alien face popped out of nowhere, and we both screamed! the house down.

I dare you to look out of a dark window, in an unfamiliar place, especially around the witching hour or beyond. My worse fear has been, and still is, that a face will flash in front of mine - appear out of nowhere - at ghoulish nano-second speed. AAAARGGH. Shit me.

It's the same as looking into a mirror when feeling a little unnerved for some reason. Perhaps in an eerily deserted Ladies toilet, in the bowels of some labyrinthine cinema complex, after watching one of the those horror films that properly worked and put the fear of Evil up your bum [a David Cronenberg number should do it, the original Cape Fear with Robert Mitchum, or maybe The Shining ...]. And the inexplicable dread that you might one day see - not your own reflection - but something spectre-like with rotting flesh that's hanging off the bone, and dark yellow-neon eyes. Or something equally peaceful, and pretty to look at.

I couldn't settle again properly again on Friday night. Can't remember why. While in Kuala Lumpur, I seem to have fluctuated between being dog-tired and and sleeping like a log through the incessant Malaysian F1 soundalike circuit noise of Jalan Malabalelehabajaba-feckin-bingbong - the busy main road that Cosmic Hotel is on. And being dog-tired and too hot to be able to fall into any kind of satisfactory sleep.

At around 3.30am, for some reason, I get fed up of flinging my duvet from one side to another. I sit up to take a sip of water. I absent-mindedly look out of the window through the 6 inch gap I've left between the edge of the curtain and the wall. It's not fully drawn as I had wanted some weak natural light to wake me slowly in the morning. Also, there are no windows directly opposite on that side of my hotel window - so no fear of any late night warehouse or office workers catching sight of me - in this strict Muslim country - unclad, or barely clad in the humidity of Kuala Lumpur's nocturnal discomfort. [You know already I can't sleep with A/C on ...]

Next thing: Whoooo-waaaaaahhh! My heart nearly jumps out from my ribcage.

FACE, neck AND shoulders of MAN with close-cropped hair appears out of nowhere in front of my window. I SCREAM the hotel down. 

To be precise. I am that shocked and disturbed, I do a deep growling kind of FUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKKKKKK off you FUCCCCCCCKKKKINNG PERVERT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! At the top of my voice. The kind of screaming that comes from the gut, not the upper hyperventilating respiratory tract.

What the fucking hell do you think you are playing at? GGGGGGGRRRRRRRRR, gaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh. I yell into the dark, and at the interconnecting wall.

I am so scared, and livid. Livid because the little shitting perve has seen me topless in a country where I have done my utmost to respect its customs, and not even have a bra strap showing - as I did in India - let alone any hint of a cleavage. To be honest, I'm such a skinny moo after pneumonia and living in such hot and humid climates such as India and Kuala Lumpur - that I don't own anything that can be described as a 'cleavage' anymore. Huh, I should be so lucky lucky lucky. [Sorry, just had a Kylie moment there. See post- postscript.]

I phone up Rajeet in Reception and complain about the bell-end next door. What the hell was he doing? Methinks: How fucking dare he? How very dare he? In a Catherine Tate kind of voice [see post, post, postscipt].

Reception: OK, I'll call him and find out what happened.

Remember, when Miss Mo gets deeply disturbed, upset or affronted - especially by male willy-wagglers - the reaction is not a tearful one - it is usually one of angerrrrr.

Reception said he'd just moved his car and parked it outside the hotel, and was looking out of the window to check it was ok. Oh My! I'm not even over this episode enough to be able to write how fucking stupid that excuse was. As if there's now a car park in my little Neptune nest of a room - all of a suddin.

Rajeet: Perhaps you'd like to change rooms, ma'am?
Me: No I would not 'like' at all! (The cheek of it.) HE can change rooms as he had no right to do what he did. He nearly scared me to death. I like my room - tell HIM to move, thank you.
Rajeet: The hotel is fully booked tonight ...

Blah blah feckin' boring blah, I think.

I am still shaken when I put the phone down. Before I can help myself - I find myself barking and growling right outside next door's window. In case the pervert tries it on again.

The next morning, on my way out, both receptionists laughed a little when I brought up the matter. It's only beginning to dawn on me that perhaps they're not used to a woman behaving like me? Rajeet is Malay of Indian heritage, and the younger Sharif was born and bred in Bangladesh. I think I may be able to guess how they expect their women to behave ...

Forthright and indignant, I'd say I was. Though I have not a clue, nor even care what they think of me. They may've even been laughing lightly because I made them slightly nervous, or just think I overacted. I will never know.

Also, as much of a buzz as it is to be able to converse with people in Mandarin here, I wonder now if during such a short, 4 day stopover - whether it may have served me better to have been a deaf mute. I might have coped better. May have been insulted less by elderly male Chinese shopkeeper. Cunt. There. First time I used the C-word. Think I set myself a world record there. 38 days since the start of this blog, and not one C-word in sight. Pretty good going for a puddle-mouth*** like me.

Correcto-mundo, again - of course you can expect a 2000 word essay on my love of that word, and everything that is associated with it. For me, it is a wonderfully expressive word. I urge you to look up the etymology of the it ... "Gropecunt Lane ... organised prostitution in Southwark ..." according to Wiki. Mate! I can't 'elp livin' in Sarf London ... 

Watch this space. The possible working title of paper:

'Cunt. Cunts. Cuntal****." And maybe the odd 'oyster' in the sub-title thrown in, just for a good crack, like ...




* Thanks, Jamie Lee Antonia Curtis of Payyambalam beach. I owe this wonderful phrase to you. I know you were surprised I'd never heard of it before, but I hadn't until I had the privilege of meeting you at Mascot reception that fateful morning. And our subsequent highly entertaining yacking sessions. You made me laugh so much over our breakfasts there that I nearly vommed what I was eating at any given moment, and back-inhaled it through my nostrils. Quite awkward with the wheezy old chest I had back there. Having to hold my under-boobs every time I guffawed. You're a devil, you. I guess it takes one to know one. See you on Hampstead Heath one day for a jolly nice picnic ... or down Lower Marsh and the smelly Southbank.

** The Blue Hole (hahaaaa, I just realised I wrote 'hole'. Christ, I can be childish ...), near Dahab, South Sinai. That's another thing I'd love to learn to do before I die. Another reason to stay off the old ciggies ... I remember watching a nice short film in which a middle-aged-looking English woman was interviewed, against the dreamily azure, amniotic waters of the Red Sea. She was, and maybe still is, a world-class free diver. She sounded and looked lovely. What I'd call an English gentlewoman. She talked of her phenomenal ability to be able to stay under water without coming up for air using Mindfulness techniques.

*** Thanks to Steve Hunt (oh, no, guess what that rhymes wiv?) who so gently described my foul language by calling me something far nicer: puddle-mouth. I like that a lot. Thank you, Steve. You've been so generous to me over the years. And it was so lovely to visit your amazing wife and boys last year. I hope the laurels are not sitting on their laurels - and growing into fine 'bushes' (aaah, no, I'm at it again - puerile sense of humour ...).

**** And perhaps a nod to an old former pothead I shall call Didier Lambourghini. It was he who came up with the word 'cuntal' back in the early '90s. He's the only other person who I knew at the time who felt the same way about the beautiful C-word ... I clearly remember his short soliloquy on the matter, from the comfort of his white armchair. The import of his extemporisation was deliciously accompanied by perfect hand gestures. Exquisite it was to me. I've no idea how the other motorcycle boys thought of it at the time. I have no doubt that they have all but forgotten that fine moment. And I'm thinking now - it's funny what I remember, and how memory works in general.

p.s. Maybe I got the gold lurex suit mixed up with that of Jimmy Saville's? Doctors, priests, Savile? Paedophiles all the same ... [Clearly I don't need to use the C-word here, because surely most of us are thinking of our own form of extreme profanities when it comes to paedos?]. I had worked on 25 Years of Top of the Pops while I was on the BBC TV Production panel, and had a slight brush with Evil-personified itself. My job was to call up all the old BBC TOTP disc jockeys and ask them if they wanted to take part in the programme. Along with the Most Evil of All English paedophiles, Gary Glitter was asked to waggle his scrote in front of recording cameras at BBC Television Centre. He was one of the performing artists. I invited my then temporary flatmate along - one of those people that Lisa Houghton used to shove into her room when she went off on some dancing tour with Barry Humphries. She was so considerate then, she never took the trouble of pre-warning me. Showgirls, and drama school kids, for you, eh? Flighty, vain and as self-obsessed as a haughty Swan Lake corps ballerina. They can't help it. It goes with the territory. The dreadful auditions, and horrid panels they had to put themselves through just to earn a crust - if you don't believe your the best thing since sliced tutus - you are a complete goner. Cut throat industry. Anyway, I invited the temporary flatmate to the recording of the show, and she was completely made up she was. Sweet how she nearly wet herself when Glitter made a passing comment at her on the stairs in the recording studio. Small minds, eh? I know I sound bitchy. But honestly, working in BBC Television was horrid compared with the intellectual integrity of the producers, and radio journalists I'd left behind at Bush House - the home of the World Service, and External Services. Run on a shoe-string compared with their millionaire TV counterparts.

It took a lot for me to be starstruck. Errol Brown was on that same show. And he threw me a rather hot chocolatey gorgeous velvety look. It was only afterwards, many years later, that I wish I hadn't been so churlish (or was I actually shy, can't quite remember?) and just smiled sweetly back at him, instead of giving him one of my inscrutable Chinese Ming Vase blank faces with a too-late attempt at smiling. He was all right, that Errol, you know.

p.p.s. Incidentally, didn't Cathy Dennis write and produce that song for Miss Minogue, consequently reviving the latter's lagging pop career? Think I'm right, no? Little Cathy used to come round to a flat I used to live in in Maida Vale, 1988 - 1990. A good friend of my dancer flatmate, Lisa. Cathy was, and probably still is, a little weirdo, i.e. eccentric. She had red hair, was a bit imp-like, kind of dreamy and air-headed in her beret. Petite, and always stylishly-dressed. She used to ring up to speak to Lisa, and infuriate the hell out of me with her strange, off the wall, disconnected-from-reality comments. One day when Lisa wasn't in - she rarely was - Cathy even asked if I wanted to buy her clothes rail or wardrobe or something equally daft. She knew exactly how tiny my box room was! Funny that. Thought I was weird ... At that time, I remember Lisa used to yack away about how Cathy had a powerful boyfriend in the music industry, and that one day Cathy would go far.  I had not an inkling what the hell she was talking about. But I listened. It was fascinatingly other-worldly to me. Though, if I didn't know them personally, they were just meaningless 'names' to me. Simon Fuller Who??

p.p.p.s Yes, of course there are European women, both western and eastern, that walk around with teensy-weensy belt-like cut-off denims. There was the odd western tourist with huge boobies that almost spilled out onto the pavement. Or taller and leaner versions, perhaps Germanic, where the sides of their bras gaped out from their too-big hippy Thai singlets. Likewise, I remember feeling a little surprised, after the Conservatism of India, when I see a local, middle-aged Chinese Malaysian (about my age, or slightly older), more petite and skinnier than myself, wearing equally tiny cut-off denim shorts. However, the latter will never be showing a bra-strap, nor any hint of a bosom. That is saved for the bars, where imported Filipino girls might show a modest portion of their decolletage ... Even that is considered "sexy' in this country, from the little that I have seen.

p.p.p.p.s. Catherine Tate is a geee-nius. How the hell did I not pick up on her during her hey-day as an international BBC comedy sensation sell-out back as 2004...? Oh, I was doing my PGCE the whole time. No wonder. I barely had time to sleep then, let alone fart and watch telly. I am not even kidding. Then teaching up until 2010. Catherine's agent - if you get to read this - please may I interview her one day? For free, like? She kept me sane during my bootcamp days in Tanzania - via the hysterically funny impersonations that Miss G used to do. In exchange, maybe I could do a couple of days' voluntary work as your Executive PA? I used to temp for Michael Barrymore's agent - when the news came out that he was gay. Christ, that was badly timed. The phones were mental busy that day. Should have got time and a half at least for that booking. Having to speak to the shark-like press. Nightmare. All the while, Barrymore's all-powerful, but seriously bonkers agent, Ann wots-her-name, was picking up the dry cleaning, having lunch at an exclusive restaurant, and taking one of her blessed pedigree cats to the Harley Street version of vets. Mad? You wanna know MAD when you have to work and deal with people like her. Cunt. Oops. There I go again ...

Game of Profanity Tourette's Syndrome Tennis anyone?

Oh, and I can touch-type at around 90 wpm. I don't swear when I'm employed as an Executive PA ... believe it or not.

Oops, you mean you're a relation / close friend of Ann wots-her-name? That's showbiz for ya - such a small world. Not the first time I put my foot in it - and probably not the last. Good luck to you all. It doesn't matter how bonkers, cruel or plonker-ish many of my media bosses have been to me in the past. Just believe me that I suffered more than a fair share of them. I recognise now that we are all human. And we all feel pain. What they meted out to me - was merely a reflection of their own pitiful suffering at the time - and my inability to tell 'em to fuck orff - in the nicest poth-thible way. End.

p.p.p.p.p.s. Yes, of course, I will be naming all-powerful names. Laters.

Addendum [4 April]
Um, regarding the appearance of the C-word - I actually used it on Day 5 of my blog - and not Day 38 as stated above. Still, 33 days of abstinence is pretty darn good for me ...

Cabin fever yesterday. Getting cash in a 'cheeky' way.

I have to conserve the few ringits I have. Doing well. Day 3 and I have MYR 44 left. I need to set aside 18 for the bus back to the airport. I've been working on getting the hotel to charge me MYR100 so I can get cashback. There is no way I am going to use an UK credit card and stick it in an ATM abroad to get cash out. I'll be paying back the interest till kingdom come. I did that once with Capital One and won't be making that mistake again. I had no idea what was going on with that - for months I seemed to be paying off interest on a tiny amount of cash I once took out on holiday somewhere in Europe. In the end, I phoned them up and asked them what the meaning of this was. I'm one of those people that pay off my credit cards in full every month. So I was getting a tad annoyed with this recurring month debt.

CapOne call centre operative: Are you sure you didn't withdraw cash while abroad, Miss Mo?
Me: Yes, I am.
CapOne call centre op: Oh, that's odd. That is the only reason why you are being charged this amount of interest every month. You must have withdrawn cash while abroad.
Methinks: Crikey. What a bunch of piss-takers. Think, Mo. Did I withdraw cash? Gawd, yes, about £20 pounds' worth in Augsburg.
Me: I think I may have done but it was such a small amount and I think I've paid enough interest now. Cancel it forthwith please, else I shall end my contract with CapOne. As you can see from my records, I pay in full every month. I'm afraid I won't be paying anymore interest. That is out of the question. I hope you don't mind me saying so, but CapOne are taking liberties - not you. You've been lovely. I mean the Company. I so appreciate your help, but I wonder it you would kindly put me onto your manager now - in England, that is. I am tired of speaking to a Delhi call centre. No disrespect to your good self. Yes, I insist on speaking to your counterparts in England, thank you.

After about 15 minutes of brow-beating, CapOne acquiesces.

It's the same when you're travelling. When in a sticky wicket - think laterally. I need cash. I don't want to withdraw cash on my AMEX or Mastercard, else I'll be paying interest into the next decade. Ask hotel receptionist firmly and charmingly that you'd like to get cashback on your card. Wait for one day inside hotel room and do girlie things like face packs, stare at horrific blackheads and wishing there wasn't a mirror in the bathroom, look out of the window a lot, pluck eyebrows. Look with dismay at fine facial hairs. A sure sign of ageing. Analyse the types of engines and motorbikes noises going past at F1 speed on the 6-laned Jalan Maharajelela road. Do some writing. Have a shower. Feel a bit disappointed when after shower, the heavens open up and it rains cats and dogs, and refuse to go out in case I catch a chill or something annoying. I think back to doing my packing on 19 February. I put my kagoul in suitcase. Looked at it and thought that's unnecessary, then took it out. Hmph. Look at cute sparrows on ledge opposite. Tiny compared with Mumbai airport spadgers.  A good 1.5" shorter in length, at a guess, and a lot slimmer. Aww. Other birds have no idea what they are. Black with bright coloured bits on head. Get sidetracked by something and don't realise rain stopped ages ago.

Fall face down on bed when really tired and catnap for 15 minutes. As it's a brand new hotel - about a month old, I've been told by the receptionist - the mattress is to die for, and the bed linen is 100% fine quality cotton. Not that polycotton that almost makes my flesh crawl. The nice crisp cotton here instantly makes you feel heavenly. Switch on flatscreen telly and go "phwoarr" at Christian Bale. Switch it off immediately when you realise it's about boxing, and Bale has taken that Method Acting thing far too seriously and is all bony and totally unsexy. Turn off or "snooze" about 4 reminders to do sitting meditation and mindful yoga. Check almost obsessively for emails. But time difference in UK and people's busy lives means no emails yesterday, apart from lovely Lily in Dar, who amazingly has time to write one of the longest mails I've had from her. And it contains such wonderful anecdotes. Love it, Lily! 

Now it's dinner time already. Go to bar next door and order food on my AMEX card. When waiter arrives with fried rice noodles and mixed salad, he gives me a bill.

Me: What would you like me to do with this? Sign it?
Waiter with barely any English: Card.
Me: I don't understand, the manager knows I have a special arrangement. I will be paying at the end of my stay with one transaction (this save me money on multiple credit interest charges, no?)
Waiter: Card.
I roll my eyes, fly to the phone, dial 111 to speak to bar manager who has excellent English skills.
Me: I don't understand what I should do with this bill.
Bar Manager: You need to give him your credit card to pay.
Me: I already have made an arrangement with the hotel. I can only pay at the end of my stay on one final transaction.
Bar Manager: That's not how we run things here. We are separate from the hotel.
Me: Right! Let me get onto reception, and I shall get straight back to you.

I look at my food and toss up whether to eat it now, then sort this out. Else I'll be seriously peeved that such an 'expensive' meal - it is compared to street food, at MYR 25 - then goes stone cold. I decide to sit and chow down. Phone rings before I get to lift noodles to mouth.

Bar Manager: It's OK. I've spoken to the hotel.
Me: Thank you. You are too kind.

Back onto the subject of cashflow problem ... back in India?

How do you think I managed to pay the thousands of rupees for my hospital bills - in cash - at Koyili Hospital? Before I go ahead and pay the hospital, I have already asked the owner, Jeetu, the night I was admitted into hospital, if I could get cashback on my credit card. I knew that after paying for my hospital expenses, I wouldn't have enough money to continue my holiday in India. Amazingly, on the last day, he told me he wouldn't mind how much I wanted. I was just to give him a figure. I could barely believe my earholes. I could've asked for 10,000 rupees if I'd wanted, but I settled for 3,000 instead. In case I spunked a shed load of money in Mangalore somehow, and my last 1.5 days in Mumbai. And that wouldn't do - AT ALL.

I'm about to go downstairs to see if my charm and cheek offensive has worked here at Cosmic Hotel. It will have. As I like to keep reminding the venerable readership: Where there is a will, There is a Mo. Perhaps, more accurately, that ought to read: Where there is a Mo, There is a Way.

When I return to the UK, I shall, for the first time, do that credit card shuffle that Martin Lewis of Moneysavingexpert.com recommends doing. I really really really dislike being in debt. So, the expenses from this rather costly holiday will be paid off in double time - by hook or by crook.

Cheekiness runs in the family. Ask my lovely bruvver, Jimmy Mo. He's fab, he is.

Yikes. It's 12:45 already. If I'm not careful, it'll be sundown again. And today is a gorgeous sunny day for a change. Pity to waste it.

Tipping in India. Tim Wells, an Epistle to.

Poet extraordinaire. Humble and modest. And, more importantly, a damned fine Stamford Hill skinhead.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You're great.

In all the years since I've known you, when you first appeared, as if by magic on a bar stool at the end of the micro U-shaped Victorian counter at The George, D'Arblay Street, Soho, W1 - you have remained in many senses, a conundrum, to me. After a night's long shift, and your repeated appearances there - always in the same spot, or sat at the same stool - I eventually started to take notice of you. You weren't just one of the fly-by-nights. One time, you even made an appearance during the day. Dropping a heavy box of chapbooks. You had been lugging them around town. You were tired and probably needed a drink. Phil served you - even if the bar was closed. That was the least of his misdemeanours. Phil was a maverick and a bit of a nutjob*, and I guess he must've been a good mate of yours back then, looking back.

Today, the particular conundrum I would like to address has taken me a good 20 years to work out. Going to Chinatown and the Question of Leaving Tips.

Tim: "Francesca's mum told me tipping is a sign of weakness." You have repeated this on many occasions. It's good to repeat. I often don't hear the first time, or simply don't understand. In this instance, it was the latter.

No doubt during our sporadic meetings, over plates of rice and Cantonese roast meats, over the decades, I have probably come out with countless repetitive protestations over that pearl of wisdom. At the very beginning I may've taken issue that this was someone's mum I hadn't even met, so why bother even taking note in the first place? (That's how awkward and annoying I can be sometimes.) I would've kept that to myself, but I wouldn't be surprised if I'd let some underhand remark slip out instead.

I would probably sit there across the table from Tim and flash a narrowed-eyed look at him, then the empty saucer in front of us. Or at least frown at him. I have one of those moody faces that are very easy to read sometimes. Correct me if I'm wrong, Tim.

Me: "Well, I'm going to leave a tip." Even if you won't, I think to myself. I leave more than I intended to make up for what I perceive to be mere tightness from the Wells corner. More fool me, because I can't really afford to. I've been doing this for years. I even tip black cab drivers, when I've earned a pittance all my working life.

Also, knowing me, if Francesca's mum speaks Cantonese that would've sealed my bias. In other words, my prima donna snobbery feathers would have been seriously ruffled back then. Hmph, Cantonese? It sounds like they're arguing all the time the way they speak. They're always shouting. How bloody outrageous is that? That is so typically Chinese. Racist or dialect-ist, in my case.

Finally, it takes a virgin trip to India, for the 'char sui bao' ** to really drop. In my first few days in Mumbai, each moment, each step, each street vendor, each corner - I want to give away all my cash. How can people scrape a living and survive in Mumbai like this? I give away a pair of hand-stitched Mexican cowboy boots which I'd bought in La Camargue, less the lavender Provence we normally think of and more gaucho-culture. White horses and real cowboys. Where cowgirls still wear those naughty leather riding chaps.

I had arrived with a section of my suitcase full of things to give away, as part of a possession-stripping exercise. I had given my beloved boots to a watch-repairer, only a few doors away from my guesthouse in Marol. The further I walked, the more I realised that just when you thought human existence couldn't get more dire, out popped another legless wonder skating along on a piece of plywood and coasters, looking far thinner and pock-marked than the last. Oh bums, I gave the boots to the wrong man. At the very least I should've given them to a bony old cobbler. Look next, time Mo. Study them. Think if they are really poor and really need the brand new Diesel jeans to sell.

The time in India was partly spent developing the strength not to tip. At least 3 - 6 times a day of not tipping. A very hard thing for a Mo to do. To not indulge in my weakness for tipping willy-nilly. I had to remind myself that the annoying bell boys, dumb waiters and the like all had permanent jobs. I could only cope by reminding myself that it was more than what I have back in the UK. The guilt of a tourist, who once had money, and was kicking a Samsonite suitcase around India felt guilty about being a tourist who didn't tip. Surely they would all assume I was dripping with cash, just by mere fact of being a foreigner?

Get over it, Mo. All the lads who worked in hospitality were fed, watered and housed for free. Tipping on this trip would be, as it often has been in the past, very detrimental to my own purse. Besides, there are far more ways to give than merely leaving a few rupees.

I tip my now beaten up cricket sun-hat to Tim Wells ... a man of few words, and patient wisdom.

* I owe this word to SG. I inherited it from her when she used to use it a lot about three years ago. I can't claim to have invented it. I think being a young 'un, she has moved onto better and funnier words by now.

** NB - I have reformed now. I have taken a great leap forward, and I am even using the Cantonese pinyin for the delicious roast pork steamed dumpling. If you've never eaten one - do so. You're definitely missing out. And no, they don't do a vegan version. Get a life, will ya? Bloody vegans ... you all need a jolly good rare beef steak down ya.

GIMME: Ciggies, snouts, rollies, straights, baccy, the EVIL weed, tabs, cancer sticks, gaspers - even a prison fag will do - Gimme.

Ironically, the better I feel each day, the more I say to myself ...

"Fuck me, I could do with a snout!"

Breathe, one two three
Exhale, one two three
Inhale, one two three ...

Ah, ciggies. That ol' chestnut ...

As Prof Mark Williams in his guided 10 minute sitting meditation might say, The mind will wander, because that's what minds do ...Observe the mind, and where it has gone ... Words to that effect.

So Jon Kabatt-Zinn and Mark Williams encourage me to breathe and observe where my mind has gone?

Beats me. My mind goes seriously AWOL half the time ...



p.s. NHS SmokeFree tracker informs me it has been 26 days and nearly 12 hours of no smoking. Money saved = £97.44. I think this app is very out of date. I think it is quoting cigarette prices from the last millennium. If I had an app that calculated Indian cigarette prices, I would've saved myself about 675 rupees. That's £8.44.

p.p.s. Do you honestly think I'm going to put a cigarette in my gob? Don't be silly. I'd love to  of course, but I think this bout of viral infections since around 10 February, 10 days before I left for India ... um, I have a funny suspicion that my body may be trying to tell me sumfink.

p.p.p.s. My theory is. If you don't learn a lesson the first time round, Life will throw it in your face again and again until you decide to take on board the message. It may start with a gentle slapping of the wrist. Then it will get louder and harder until the blow feels like Amir Khan punching you in the left tit, then a knock-out blow to the right temple. So quick you have no flippin' idea where it came from. Hence the pneumonia in India. Am I being too hard on myself? WTH, who knows? Sounds good to me for now ...

p.p.p.s. The same is true of relationships, matters of the heart. 

Safely at Cosmic Hotel, 21 Jalan Maharajalela, 50150 Kuala Lumpur, Wilayah Persekutuan

Am knackered after a delayed flight from Mumbai. And hours of research via wi-fi at Kuala Lumpur International Airport this morning for appropriate and affordable accommodation.

Of course there's a bit of a story as to why I couldn't complete my hotel booking back in Mumbai yesterday. Sadly, my last 12 hours in Mumbai left a slightly sour taste in my mouth, after having such fond memories of it the first time round.. Guest house owner tried to pull a number on me. My favourite chai shop actually pulled a number on me - involving just a few rupees. But it's the principle of it. It made me think that Mumbai is essentially dog eat dog, and once the Bombay businessmen beguile you at the beginning with their friendliness and Bombay-stylee blarney, they then go for the final plunge into the rib at the end. Stupid, small-minded money grabbing idiots. I am not going back to Marol Residency. No wonder Anil Deshmukh has an altar of a Goddess that encourages money to come into his guesthouse. With that kind of petty money-pinching attitude, he'll need all the Hindu Goddesses he can get.

Ta-ta, that corner of Marol. I still like it, but I've already looked into a brand new hotel further up the road, and discovered a treasure trove of a restaurant. That is the magic of Mumbai. So much crammed into one crossroad that it almost hurts the brain.

Oh, and another thing. I was told at Mumbai airport that wi-fi was not permitted because it was a security risk. You know, terrorists opening up their laptops, liaising with each other and setting off bombs remotely. The airport official outside actually said that to me.

What a load of bombay bollocks. They just can't be arsed. The largest airport in India, and one of the most technologically connected up places on the planet - and I get that old crap.

Hello, Malaysia. The immediate impressions of efficiency and friendliness, after the bollocks of Bombay was bliss. Astoundingly blissful.

Let's see how I get on in the next four days here. On 80 ringetts. Hardly enough to keep me in Cokie-Colas of a day ... But never mind, I clearly like a challenge ... Actually, I don't. This trip has just been one of those trips.


p.s. One heart-warming experiences was when I bought a secondhand watch from the horologist. He only charged me 400 rupees (£5) for the watch. He put in a new movement and a pair of new hands. I don't much care if it stops working after a short while. I partly bought it for it's beautifully blue-gemmed bracelet strap. And for it to remind me of watch-repairers gentle, honest soul.

p.p.s. Remind me that there have been wonderfully smooth days too in India. I must tell you of the magically-timed day in Mangalore on 20 March - just a transitional point before flying back to Mumbai. Everything about it was meant to be. It was one of those days. Just perfect.

Khan News Correction. Human Roadkill: 3 Dead.

Briggy, this post is for you.

Mr Pamma Bhatt is sat in Reception watching a bit of TV News and chatting to his good friend Mr Anil Deshmukh, veritable owner of Marol Residency, Guesthouse, Marol, Andheri East, opposite to Seven Hills Hospital, near to Marol Bus Depot.

Pamma has just confirmed Constance's story. Salman Khan the famous Bollywood actor was drunk while driving. He careered into a group of Bakers who were sleeping in the street. He injured 8 of them, killing 3.

I think Khan deserves to spend the rest of his living days in Hellfire. Forever. On this occasion, I will use the word FOREVER. I hope that on the Day of Judgment, his Maker will not spare him. I understand that there is no Islamic equivalent of the medieval Western concept of Purgatory as such. But I am no scholar on these matters, so I could well be wrong.

I'd like to think that wrong 'uns who buy their way out of incarceration and punishment on one occasion will be punished 10-fold in other areas of their life. On earth, in this mortal life. Not some made-up Organised Religion's version of 'Life'. They are just deluded. The Christians, Muslims, the Mafia, The KKK, The Neo-God's Marines. WhatEver. More on religion another day. And lots of days thereafter.

Wouldn't you agree that Salman might possibly benefit from changing the vowel in his surname from an 'A' to an 'U'? I would also insist on a very sharp accented version of the letter 'T' right at the very end. As in 'Tut!". All in CAPITALS too. 

You don't want me to actually spell it out, do you? I'm sweary enough as it is ...

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Dramalogue: Vehicle Show Room for the Upper Echelons of Society.

The Rich and Powerful will be driving Panzers IV next! Err, darn it. They already did back in the 1940s ... doh.

For some Bollywood stars and other egomaniacal doughnuts, might I suggest the Leopard 2A4 model series, 2010, with turret snorkel?

[The mega-rich love to buy hardware that have extra accessories that are entirely superfluous to their needs. For example, Mountain bikes when they first came out in the 1980s in London. How many mountains do you know of in that city? Land Cruisers and Hunter Wellies for the bourgeois mothers of Battersea. They're the kind of neurotics that would squeal at the thought of dirtying their Range Rover Evoques if driving over a micro-puddle on the Kings Road. Oh, Jamie, mummy's going to have to take the car to get a valet service for the fifth time this week. It's endless. And Thomas Pink haven't got the shirts that daddy love to wear. I'd better made an appointment with Dr Carrington. Mummy's not coping again. Time for more of those lovely little benzos ... Mum! That was a wheelchair user at the zebra crossing, and you just missed her by an inch. Mm, Did you just say something, darling? Where's that Isobel Marant shop gone? Crash. New Range Rover mounts kerb and hits a 44 year old father of three. After 3 days in the Intensive Care Unit, Chelsea & Westminster Hospital, all monitors begin flatlining. While his soul leaves his carcass, his 38 year wife is left holding their 2 year old baby girl, and 4 year old identical twin boys. Such is life, eh?]

So terribly sorry. Back to the vehicle showroom.

Sir, The Leopard 2A4 is far better for charging about the Mumbai and its suburbs. Mowing down a bit of forest and large predators in the Greenbelt near Marol while you're about it can be very exciting. I rather think that if you come a cropper, while under the influence of alcohol - and a mixture of cocaine, heroine. If you happen to miss the Baker's shop, and mistakenly ram your vehicle into the adjacent stinking-stagnant-open sewage-death river instead, the Turret Snorkel might come in handy, no?

M'Lord, I hasten to point out that there are bun trays of Bakers and Bakeries on en route too. Though if you haven't had your fill of killing Bakers, then might I be so bold as to suggest a slight detour via Military Road, Marol, Andheri East? Right by the corner of the New Saziss Diary. (Ah, excellent Cutting, Full and Goldens Teas are served there. Not that your Highness, nor minions for that matter, even consider looking through the hi-tech panoramic periscope sight. I do beg your Royal Highness' pardon.)

You can squish to your heart's content - all night long, any night of the week - Mr Khan. It would be no hassle at all for the servants to hose down the human organic mess off the tank treads. A discount Sir? Oh, we're loaning it to you for 12 months. As long as you will become the Face of the Leopard 2A4 till Judgment Day. Do we take American Express? Of course, we take all kinds of bribes from the Western and Indian military powers too. Yes, of course, Sir, Your Wish is My Command. That is our Company motto. Thank you so much, Sir. Have a Bloody Nice Day, and mind how you go, won't you? you jammy doughnut.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

NB

I just looked up the Salman Khan story myself. Perhaps Mr Bhatt might not be the most reliable news source in Mumbai. Not wishing to diminish Mr Bhatt's fine reputation - I hasten to add that this Bollywood balls-up happened back in 2002. According to The Indian Express, four were injured and one person was killed.

I love the way the paper announced as a 'hit and run mishap'. Wouldn't that imply that Bakers were 'mishaps' - maybe because they have the effrontery to sleep rough on the street? And that Khan was just a tad naughty for killing and maiming? Oo, slapped wristies, Salman!

http://www.indianexpress.com/news/salman-was-drunk-during-hitandrun-mishap-court/622333

Have I over-egged the pudding yet? I hope so.

I'd also like to think Khan and others who have not justly 'done their time' or atoned for their reckless actions will be filling their Calvin Kleins with piles of Pain aux Chocolat for the rest of their living days.

Leopards Tigers Cadbury Cups Samsonite Flying.

India is bonkers. I just discovered that 2km away from Marol Residency, there is the Aarey Colony. The Greenbelt of Mumbai. There are tigers there. And Mr Pamma Bhatt saw four leopards on his jog from Marol, Andheri and Aarey Colony about one and a half months ago. He gets up at 4am every day and does this jog. Now I find out on my last day here. Amazing. Both the wildlife story, and the fact that Mr Bhatt is so goddam fit. You wouldn't know to look at him as he has a roundish belly. But it's probably pure muscle, gulp. He is also Mr Ayurvedic, and sells products on a Mumbai version of a costermonger's barrow, parked in front of his house. You can see his house directly opposite from my guesthouse. You should see his beautiful wife. I nearly melted into his forecourt when I first clapped eyes on her. A real beaut, you might say in South London.

Me: Weren't you scared they'd eat you?
Pamma: No, they eat dogs.
Me: Oh, dogs? (Poor doggies, I thought.)
Pamma: Dogs are like Cadbury's chocolate to leopards.

Before I could even guffaw and hold my right bra cup to buffer the slight pain of exercising my lungs from laughing, Pamma had already started a conversation with Kausel on the adjacent sofa to us in the reception of Marol Residency Guesthouse. I love this place. It's like a small chai gathering of middle-aged male friends of Anil the owner, and me, sporadically. When I decide to surface from my room, or am summoned. I hardly went out today. Too hot. Too dusty. 

I was laughing my shrunken tits off typing that conversation. That has to be one of the most classic lines anyone has come out with in ages. Pamma, you are a genius.

Yes, sadly boobies are now more like a 27D-ish, as opposed to the normal 28F. Small back and largish bosom, believe it or not. How the flippin' heck did I leap from leopards to bra cup sizes. Must've been 'cause I one of my earliest poshest memories were a Cadbury's Easter Egg with an Egg Cup given by some kindly church folk in West Ealing. Even things like wrapping paper, packaging, and rustly things were dead exciting as a child.

Gosh, aren't you glad you don't have a messy brain like mine? It's mental up there ... Maybe the Giant Cadbury's Egg was from Mrs Pringle herself, the Scottish Presbyterian vicar's wife. She was lovely she was. They both were. And their wonderful portly poodle.

Less than 24 hours left on proper land. This time tomorrow night I will be in horrid No-Man's Land. Mumbai Airport. Long haul to Kuala Lumpur.

I don't believe in luck, but do wish me some, please. It's just a phrase. Pray for me, if that's your bag. Or in my case, it's Samsonite. I'm trying to wreck this suitcase of mine, without alarming too many Indians. Despite their love of noise, they find it somewhat outrageous to see a woman shove her suitcase with force and hooliganism onto a train platform. I wonder why that is? I know. Woman are meant to behave in certain ways, and I don't always fit that bill. Not here, not within my immediate family, not anywhere, not within the social UK norms, and all that boring guff. I'm just me, and proud of it.

With no knowledge of Malayalam, or Hindi, it's been impossible to get a rickshaw driver to throw the suitcase over the edge of their vehicle when I'm alighting. Boo. Ah, just had a brainwave. I could practise trampolining on it back in Waterloo, in the backyard by the communal bins. Great idea.

Can't wait to kick it about Kuala Lumpur. I've got 7 more years to wreck the Samsonite. I want a new one after the 10 year guarantee runs out in 2020. I would like to celebrate the breakdown of capitalism by making sure in 2019 that this suitcase of mine goes under as many 10 ton trucks as possible around the globe. I do not believe that anything is indestructible. I mean, Samsonite is hardly Krytonite, is it?

See what I mean? Me and handbags again, and now suitcases. Do I have a lot of baggage, or what?

Long haul flights simply don't suit me. At least I'm flying with Malaysia Airlines. Top drawer. Beautiful air hostesses to look after me. Nice and smiley, not like some of the BA sour pusses. And the most awful Orange cult-like Easyjet crew, or worse still Ryanair nut-jobs. Phew. The Orient. Here I come.

Flight departs Mumbai at 2350, arrives Kuala Lumpur at 0725. Only cost me £60. Fuselage-tastic!

If India is bonkers, what am I? Same same, I reckon. We suit each other. In that case, we are each suit-cases ...Not basket-cases. Look, can someone please tell me what the feck I'm on about now please?

I blame it on long haul flights. I don't like them and they don't suit me. They make me nervous after what happened during the last one.

Time for bed, purr-leaze!

NEWS FLASH: Human road kill: India, UK & TZ.

There is a famous Bollywood actor, Salman Khan, who by rights should be banged up. Life is liberating, isn't it, when you have Loadsamoney!? as Alexei Sayle would've hollered in the 1980s. Yes, loads of filthy lucre.

Salman Khan, such an ego, no doubt with so much to lose, ran over some people in India somewhere. Unsure how many people were killed? Maybe one? A passing British  journalist and writer called Constance told me this. We were both resident at the same hotel in Cannon Shed Road, Ernakulum for a few days. You know, the one where the hordes of cockroaches in my bathroom door posts would whine incessantly at night. Until I kicked the door, Jackie Chan-style - hard, like. Well 'ard.

Constance was there with her mousy husband who I barely noticed. He probably would've been eaten alive by the rat I saw on the 3rd floor where I spent my last two nights at SAAS Tower. She was interesting as she spends half of her life living in India and the other half being a nomadic writer elsewhere. To be perfectly honest, whether she has her husband in tow or not, I suspect that even she barely notices the difference between having him around or not ... Constance told me that she didn't spend that much time in her northern hometown. I don't blame her with a hubby like that. Dread to think what the in-laws are like. Forgive me if I have the details wrong, Constance. I know you would, as you have far bigger things on your mind, and fat ugly issues to expose. Like how Indian politicians and multi-nationals alike are looting the hell out of the small people here. Plundering the natural resources and funnelling the proceeds into Swiss bank accounts. Dirty feckers. Just like the hordes of cockroaches in Room 230. And don't get me started on the Swiss.

Happens in the UK all the time too. Someone I once knew, a working class Jewish boy whose family had worked hard in the East End had run over an old boy while walking his dog at night. I asked how on earth he had killed him. I simply didn't see him it was so dark, came the reply. How did you avoid gaol. He made that filthy lucre sign with his hands. Great lawyer. Unbelievable. I was shocked. He had only been a young lad. Dead straight. Really into working out, training, and treating his body like a temple. A bit of a Jack the 'Schmutter' Lad. Quite literally, 'schmatte rag' in Yiddish means cloth, clothing - and the family riches did come from the East End rag trade. 

This was definitely not a case of drink driving. Awful. Could happen to anyone. But someone like me would be sent straight to Holloway. Do not pass Go. Do not pick up a Get Out of Jail Free card either. And quite rightly so. Or, what? I think in my case, I would be paying in guilt tokens till the next karmic revolution. So, on second thoughts - perhaps Holloway Prison would be a tad harsh ... Though if this imaginary road accident victim had remaining family and friends - wouldn't they feel they'd been cheated if I was let off scot -free? Gaol it is then, Mo. Deal with it.

I'm sure you, dear reader, can think of many examples in the British press - or your own country's press, where there have been injustices. The rich, powerful and greedy get away with murder, quite literally. I'm still on the subject of road accidents, mind you. Don't get carried away like I just did, thinking immediately about the crooked UK politicians, brown-nosing with the Murdochs. James. You are a dirty fecker. I watched you lie live on TV.

So what's new? I mean, what's new about the greedy, powerful and downright evil getting away with murder or manslaughter? Nothing. There is nothing new under this sun. That applies to everything. Surely, the Big People have been filleting and shafting the small people since organised religion and so-called civilisation began?

Third but by no means least, ex-pats and other privileged Tanzanians run over blacks and don't bother stopping, all day long, every day. Human road kill? So common in Africa. Perpetrators included Warwick Bailey, Headteacher, Braeburn Arusha.

I repeat: the overall Head of Braeburn Arusha - the executive principal, if you like, has allegedly run over two blacks. The school also owes me at least one month's salary, and other benefits which had been deducted from my meagre salary at source. This, of course, has been officially smudged to look bona fide on paper. The missing month's salary and non-payment of benefits are just 2 small facts of how I felt "shafted" by Braeburn. Bailey was the Head. Therefore he was responsible, as my ultimate Line Manager, to do the dirty work of the Board of Governors. Both he and Alison Rogers, the Head of Secondary, are desperate people. Remote school in the middle of nowhere, 14km from Arusha city centre, require desperate measures to recruit well-qualified teachers. They made my life, and SG's lives hell, by reneging on the car loan that was stipulated our contracts. Bailey's propaganda was that the school had run out of money. We would have to wait. One day, I'll explain exactly why such a successful school as Braeburn might have, inconveniently, "run of money" at that juncture. Great euphemism that. You have to understand that Braeburn was essentially a hard-nosed business. Profit is paramount. They just happened to be in the business of education. From my perspective as a newly-arrived UK teacher, they couldn't really give a damn about real education. They were in it for the money.

Braeburn, like any East African corporate business, are also consummate professionals in smudging over inconvenient truths. Or smudging the books especially for my eyes to demonstrate that actually, the school owed me nothing ... At least when it comes to corruption - Africans are honest about it. Whereas in the UK, it would appear that you have to dig a lot more. Corruption exists for sure, though it exists in a more insidious form. Perhaps the Africans among my pals in London might leave a comment and correct me if I'm wrong? For instance, it was funny how Arusha, the capital of East Africa, had only two tarmacked roads. The rest of the thoroughfares were dusty, pot-holed affairs. I'm talking potholes that were almost crater-like, maybe a foot deep and 3 feet wide.

Back to Human Roadkill Tz-stylee. Back to Warwick Bailey.

I discovered about a week before I have to leave Tanzania in a hurry, that Warwick had inadvertently killed two blacks in his Landrover. He didn't stop. Hit and run. Allegedly a well-known fact in Arusha. Officially covered up by the then School Office Manager - who looked like a black juju witch to me - if there ever was one. At least, that's what I was told by a trustworthy source. A Tanzanian parent of one of the pupils I taught.

Go on. Google Braeburn Arusha and have a butcher's at the face of Warwick Bailey. You won't find mention of the School Manager, nor her little team, as she has been sadly demoted to a smaller Arusha concern in central Arusha now. A place for smaller children - and smaller people in general. It would appear that even her ill-founded loyalties didn't save her sorry ass. Corporate life is a fickle thing indeed. Having known the dirty tricks that Warwick played on me, I feel I am allowed to call him the 'warped walking dead'. He looks so normal and smiley, doesn't he? But you need to look into his eyes. Without his glasses on. I never got the chance to really look into his eyes with his specs off thankfully. His wife gets that pleasure. I didn't want to, nor needed look into his wishy-washy nondescript irises. I was having to suffer the dirty dealings at first hand from him and his like at the time. January - May 2010.

There are a few I would say that are part of the Christian fraternity at Braeburn Arusha who have been away from the UK for too long. Or maybe they were born like that? No matter, it would appear they had lost their marbles, bearings, moral compasses - that's if they had any such thing in the first place. Who knows, maybe they have changed now? Seen the light hopefully? 

I had unwittingly walked into a vipers' nest of corruption. And, a sad bunch of ill-qualified or unqualified teachers when I was there. Judging them by the strict standards set by the British state school system - some of these teachers wouldn't even be allowed to teach.

One such example was the art teacher who, in my opinion, can't even draw for toffee. Her portrait of Francis - drawn in his memory after he had been tragically shot dead in a local bar in Arusha - was just embarrassing. I have seen work by Year 10 students at St Ursula's Convent School, Greenwich that were technically more accomplished than the work of this teacher's. I was partly galled by the drawing because,

it looked nothing like Francis;
it in no way represented any essence of the exemplary human being and teacher that he was. Not even in an abstract way.

I'm not just being bitchy. I know for sure I wasn't the only teacher that felt that way ... 

Anyway, the artless art teacher has a huge gash on her arm. (She still works at Braeburn so is easy to look up on the Secondary school website.) I was horrified by the extent of the scarring and couldn't bring myself to say anything for some time. Eventually, I plucked up the courage to ask her: what happened there?

She said that she had been in a car crash. After some gently probing, she explained that she had been drinking, and lost control of her car. Horrendous. Lucky to be alive, by the sound of it. Miss G was present during that conversation, I seem to recall. Drinking and driving is a national pastime for many of the ex-pat community in Tanzania - and I gather from the Du P's that Tanzania is by no means the only place. Lovely Miss G was naively oblivious to the fact - even years later - that drinking and driving is a criminal offence. Of course, at the time I didn't say anything. I was genuinely compassionate and shocked that a woman as young as the baby-blonde art teacher had suffered a life-threatening car accident - self-induced or not. I really didn't wish to know if anyone else had been involved ...

Post-Braeburn, back in the UK, I asked happened to ask Miss G: Why do you think C is teaching in Tanzania in the first place? You do realise she'd never be able to work again in the UK, don't you? No, came the reply. Oh, crumbs, I thought. Young Miss G didn't even realise that?

If my memory serves me correctly on this little anecdote of the art teacher's drinking and driving back in the UK, it makes me wonder what she declared on her application form about criminal offences ... Still, anything goes in Africa, and she's small fry anyway.
A teacher with a criminal record who will have undoubtedly been denied her right to teach in the UK for good. But she's small fry, so let's forget about it. I'm sure she makes some pupils there very happy there ... and fair play to her.

Back to the Board of Governors, Braeburn and the Headteacher Warwick "Walking Dead" Bailey.

Money and power talk, don't they? Let's wheel out that lovely Catherine Tate Gran character out again to finish up today's news bulletin:

WHAT A FECKIN' LIBERTY.

All together now: What a liberty indeed.

Addendum
I am by no means implying that Warwick Bailey, the overall Head of the Braeburn School was driving under the influence. Far from it. He is a clean-living Christian from what I could gather. I'm sure he has his reasons for behaving the way he did towards me. I guess he was just a corporate puppet. If you think his behaviour was weird, his wife is even weirder. I didn't much trust her. She had her husband right under her thumb from what I could see. I have a feeling she wears the trousers, so to speak. Cold fish she was ... It's not difficult to look her up either. She is one of the primary school teachers. I taught both their sons. Nice boys. I especially liked the eldest because he had cute freckles, and was a good egg.

Anyway, fair play to 'em all.

Believe you me, Fate will deal them a blow they couldn't ever have imagined ... Pole sana.

Njema safari, Braeburn.

In walks a stroppy half-Tanzanian Catherine Tate teenage schoolgirl character: Uso, bovvered?

All together now, children: USO, BOVVERED?


~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Dramalogue

What: "Mad dogs and Englishmen all out in the midday sun"

When: "Fin de siecle - the one before last. (Not the present one, silly).

Where: Kenya

How: British Empire.

Carrington Menzies-Featherstonehough: That's just not quite cricket, eh what, Hoggers? Shot any natives today?

Montagu-Hogg: Yes, as it happens, ol' chap, I had some Great Game. Four lions, a rhino or three, can't quite remember, and two hippopotamuses. Oh, nearly forgot. I picked off about 2000, or was it 5 thousand, Massai last week. What fun, eh? Beats being back in Charleston and pretending to work for a living in the City. G & T, ol' chap?
Cause for a snifter, before luncheon, don't you think?

Carrington Minging-Fannyshaw: Raather! Any news of Hetty and the children?

Montagu-Hogg: No, thank God. She's developed this dreadful habit of whining on about the domestics. Besides, she's rather gone South after the fourth sprog, Fansy-shaw. Ha. I'd much rather bugger a Massai these days. They're such good sports. Lots of rhythm, and all that. Good for a poke, and all that, what what.