Mister Macc and Miss Ming have been through a lot together ...
note the dust on everything
Hope the newly-weds have a long and happy marriage.
x
Friday, April 29, 2011
Not the Royal Wedding
True love ...
Mister Macc and Miss Ming have been through a lot together ...
note the dust on everything
Hope the newly-weds have a long and happy marriage.
x
Mister Macc and Miss Ming have been through a lot together ...
note the dust on everything
Hope the newly-weds have a long and happy marriage.
x
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Another Inconvenient Truth
It is a truth universally acknowledged that an event should never be awaited too eagerly as the reality will be unable to achieve the mythic anticipation; however Marius and I are escaping for a short break to London.
London I hear you shriek incredulously. Why not the Maldives, the Himalayas, Venice, Prague or Mumbai?
The answer is simple: breakfast.
We always stay (courtesy of the corporate rate, there have to be some compensations) at a large anonymous hotel close to the Tube, close-ish to central London, close to a couple of wonderful supermarkets and some interesting musea, where they serve 'breakfast'. A breakfast to die for and I probably will, of it. Never mind. After years of religiously-restricted breakfast choices, we are in for the full, er, hog ...
Huge and anonymous though it may be, the staff in the dining room always greet us by name. We come regularly, (two or three times a year) but not that often compared to the corporate travellers who must frequent the place monthly. Is it because we make such pigs of ourselves? How many sausages can a person eat for breakfast, along with toast, fried mushrooms, eggs, bacon, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, hash browns if you want them, fresh fruit, tea, juice and a small pastry if possible? Two, but I struggle. Marius starts with three on the first day or so but he too regulates himself with time.
It sounds so greedy and disgusting: my mouth is watering already.
To be fair, we don't often eat much else during the day, and not just because we are mean. Such an imperial breakfast sets you up not only for the morning and the day, but most of the week as well.
They greet us by name because we smile beatifically on them as we get our plates. We are such chums with the maitre d' that we get special requests like omelettes and kippers. On one trip we were transporting home a large and precious glass-faced picture and he supplied us with several cardboard boxes from the kitchen, darling man. He always asks after our offspring - by name - and finds time for a chat amongst his duties.
Even the concierge remembers us, and the doormen. We have never made a scene, been unpleasant or requested lewd or bizarre services, so I am at a bit of a loss to explain these kindnesses: you can always tell the difference between a professional welcome and true recognition, because something clears in the face when you are remembered. Something outside conscious control or awareness, probably. It is like a smile-within-a-smile.
We are quite boring. The first evening after we arrive, we go to the local Singaporean place and relive memories of Nonya food from our days in Malaysia. And we eat pork. We have a round of favourite pubs and little restaurants we visit, almost invariably ordering the same dishes as last time. People smile at us. We can order wine or beer and nobody cares.
It is wonderful.
I feel confident in allowing the anticipation to build as I am confident there will be breakfast, there will be Nonya food, there will be pepperoni on the pizzas and mushy peas with the fish and chips. All the other aspects of being in London are bonuses.
So, anticipation ... seven sleeps to go ...
x
London I hear you shriek incredulously. Why not the Maldives, the Himalayas, Venice, Prague or Mumbai?
The answer is simple: breakfast.
We always stay (courtesy of the corporate rate, there have to be some compensations) at a large anonymous hotel close to the Tube, close-ish to central London, close to a couple of wonderful supermarkets and some interesting musea, where they serve 'breakfast'. A breakfast to die for and I probably will, of it. Never mind. After years of religiously-restricted breakfast choices, we are in for the full, er, hog ...
Huge and anonymous though it may be, the staff in the dining room always greet us by name. We come regularly, (two or three times a year) but not that often compared to the corporate travellers who must frequent the place monthly. Is it because we make such pigs of ourselves? How many sausages can a person eat for breakfast, along with toast, fried mushrooms, eggs, bacon, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, hash browns if you want them, fresh fruit, tea, juice and a small pastry if possible? Two, but I struggle. Marius starts with three on the first day or so but he too regulates himself with time.
It sounds so greedy and disgusting: my mouth is watering already.
To be fair, we don't often eat much else during the day, and not just because we are mean. Such an imperial breakfast sets you up not only for the morning and the day, but most of the week as well.
They greet us by name because we smile beatifically on them as we get our plates. We are such chums with the maitre d' that we get special requests like omelettes and kippers. On one trip we were transporting home a large and precious glass-faced picture and he supplied us with several cardboard boxes from the kitchen, darling man. He always asks after our offspring - by name - and finds time for a chat amongst his duties.
Even the concierge remembers us, and the doormen. We have never made a scene, been unpleasant or requested lewd or bizarre services, so I am at a bit of a loss to explain these kindnesses: you can always tell the difference between a professional welcome and true recognition, because something clears in the face when you are remembered. Something outside conscious control or awareness, probably. It is like a smile-within-a-smile.
We are quite boring. The first evening after we arrive, we go to the local Singaporean place and relive memories of Nonya food from our days in Malaysia. And we eat pork. We have a round of favourite pubs and little restaurants we visit, almost invariably ordering the same dishes as last time. People smile at us. We can order wine or beer and nobody cares.
It is wonderful.
I feel confident in allowing the anticipation to build as I am confident there will be breakfast, there will be Nonya food, there will be pepperoni on the pizzas and mushy peas with the fish and chips. All the other aspects of being in London are bonuses.
So, anticipation ... seven sleeps to go ...
x
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
The Battle Within
I am absolutely determined this 'adjunct blog' (nice phrase courtesy of Susan T...) is not going to become a record of my hospital life; however, I feel a little guilty as not much will get posted this week (has been posted) because this is the regular week from hell.
My fairly quiet and restricted life consists of: get up at 5 am, wash what I can, eat, be driven to the hospital, get stabbed and infused for five hours, get driven home, drink several cups of tea and sleep for the afternoon. And then do it all again ...
I took some surreptitious pictures from my bed with my phone:
Thursday is day 5 and I won't have to go for three weeks!
x
My fairly quiet and restricted life consists of: get up at 5 am, wash what I can, eat, be driven to the hospital, get stabbed and infused for five hours, get driven home, drink several cups of tea and sleep for the afternoon. And then do it all again ...
I took some surreptitious pictures from my bed with my phone:
Thursday is day 5 and I won't have to go for three weeks!
x
Monday, April 25, 2011
ANZAC DAY - 96th Anniversary
We got up at 4 am this morning to attend the memorial observations of ANZAC Day. A few devoted people organise this event every year, inviting representatives from the Australian, New Zealand, British and Turkish governments. Despite the hour - the ceremony begins at 4.45 to meet the dawn, and to mark the time of the landings - there is always a good crowd. I think, more than anything else, observing ANZAC Day makes us feel part of Australia, regardless of where we are.
A brief history - in 1915, the Turks held the Dardanelles, preventing the British and her allies from entering the Black Sea. Churchill, then First Lord of the Admiralty, authorised an assault at Gallipoli. Intelligence was poor, navigation worse, and strategy seemingly non-existent: some 11,000 British, Australian and New Zealand officers and men were killed or wounded on the first day of the campaign.
It was also a dreadful day for the Ottoman Empire, who lost around 14,000 men on 25th April, 1915.
The ceremony here follows the same pattern each year, including a reading by a Turkish official, of words by Mustapha Kemal Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey and a commander of Ottoman troops at Gallipoli himself, at an ANZAC Day service held at Gallipoli in 1934 :
Those heroes that shed their blood
and lost their lives...
you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore rest in peace.
There is no difference between the Johnnies
and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side
here in this country of ours.
You the mothers
who sent their sons from far away countries
wipe away your tears.
Your sons are now living in our bosom
and are in peace.
Having lost their lives on this land they have
become our sons as well.
There are the traditional laying of wreaths, the Last Post, and the minute's silence, followed by breakfast. As most of the attendees are headed for work, we do not observe the other traditions of two-up and beer, sadly.
A brief history - in 1915, the Turks held the Dardanelles, preventing the British and her allies from entering the Black Sea. Churchill, then First Lord of the Admiralty, authorised an assault at Gallipoli. Intelligence was poor, navigation worse, and strategy seemingly non-existent: some 11,000 British, Australian and New Zealand officers and men were killed or wounded on the first day of the campaign.
It was also a dreadful day for the Ottoman Empire, who lost around 14,000 men on 25th April, 1915.
The ceremony here follows the same pattern each year, including a reading by a Turkish official, of words by Mustapha Kemal Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey and a commander of Ottoman troops at Gallipoli himself, at an ANZAC Day service held at Gallipoli in 1934 :
Those heroes that shed their blood
and lost their lives...
you are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore rest in peace.
There is no difference between the Johnnies
and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side
here in this country of ours.
You the mothers
who sent their sons from far away countries
wipe away your tears.
Your sons are now living in our bosom
and are in peace.
Having lost their lives on this land they have
become our sons as well.
There are the traditional laying of wreaths, the Last Post, and the minute's silence, followed by breakfast. As most of the attendees are headed for work, we do not observe the other traditions of two-up and beer, sadly.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
Laurence Binyon 'For the Fallen'
x
Saturday, April 23, 2011
The Pink Floyd Story
I think it is very quiet in the blogsphere this weekend, so it is safe to post another cat story without alienating my myriad followers and secret readers, eh?
In Exile-land it is usually best to do things early in the day, before the heat builds up or the traffic. As Saturday is the only day the shops are open and Marius is home, there is always a bit of a scramble to decide what we will do.
There is the temptation to stay in bed and do nothing but drink tea and snooze, but usually we resist that impulse. Marius almost always gets up at about 5.30 on the weekends - which is 'sleeping in' for him, while I lollop in bed for oooh, a good hour longer. As promised, this morning I went for a swim - my second this year.
We like to swim early before the sun is on the pool and before it is full of er, young persons. It is a huge, crescent-shaped pool, probably visible from space if you happen to be up there, but very awkward to swim laps in. If there are young persons playing, there is no clear area for them away from the serious swimmers, and they do seem to lack courtesy.
I like to have the pool to myself and this morning we were lucky, it was empty when we arrived just before 7, and empty when we left just before 8. Well, empty of other humans. Pink Floyd, the uninvited lodger, followed us to the pool and stayed to life-guard while we swam. He mooched off to explore the gardens for a bit, and followed a pigeon who came for a drink, but otherwise, he sat under one of the sun loungers close to the side of the pool and meowed to me as I splashed about.
Sweet.
We first met Floyd last October, as a young-ish kitten. He was waiting in our car port one evening when we had been to the shops. He was very friendly, thin, and talkative. I thought the other orphan cats must have told him we were a good touch because he was quite sure it was our house he'd been sent to occupy. I took him up to the corner of the street to feed him some crunchies, which he wolfed into with great enthusiasm, but when I started to walk home, he abandoned the food to follow me and weave himself around my ankles. I went back and stood over him and his food so that he would eat it. He was far too thin to be leaving food for Mr Manners.
Floyd stayed around for a couple of weeks, accompanying us on walks, enjoying our largesse and sleeping on our door mat. He stood up to passing dogs and held his ground against the local tomcat bullies: plucky for such a small chap. He was pleasant to everybody. And persistent in his attempts to sneak into our house and meet our cats.
He disappeared as suddenly as he'd appeared. Marius was sure that being such a sweet friendly cat, someone had given him a home - or he'd found his way back to the place he'd arrived from. Gradually we stopped looking for him, and forgot about him as we were quite occupied with other dramas.
About a month or so ago, we took a different route for our evening stroll, and walked in an area we hadn't been to for ages. As we turned to come home, a ginger cat came streaking past us, then stopped and meowed. Marius said, I think that's Pink Floyd. He looked well, not too thin, no injuries or wounds, nice and clean . He was more wary than he used to be, and quite a bit bigger. We were pleased that Marius seemed to have been right - he'd found a home.
Well, he may have found a home, but having been reunited with us, he promptly forgot where that home was, and has taken up residence on our door step again.
Some people on the compound have been known to adopt cats - or bring cats with them - and when it is time for them to leave, have decided that finding new homes for their pets or taking them back home is just too much trouble. Some of the 'orphans' we've fed have definitely been some body's pet, once upon a time.
We don't know if that is what has happened to Floyd. We don't know if he has wandered too far and got lost, got tired of his new home or if it got tired of him. We've taken him for walks back to the area he re-joined us in, hoping to jog his memory about home, or that someone would recognise him and claim him, to no avail.
I don't feed him a lot. I hope he'll get hungry or frustrated with the short rations and go home. In the mornings when I walk Marius to the bus, Floyd is on the door step, trying to get it. He starts meowing through the door when he hears us getting ready. He's waiting when Marius returns, 12 hours later.
Sometimes he jumps on to the kitchen window sill and talks to our two cats through the window:
Sometimes he simply sits and looks lonely. Do you know anyone who would like a nice ginger boy?
x
In Exile-land it is usually best to do things early in the day, before the heat builds up or the traffic. As Saturday is the only day the shops are open and Marius is home, there is always a bit of a scramble to decide what we will do.
There is the temptation to stay in bed and do nothing but drink tea and snooze, but usually we resist that impulse. Marius almost always gets up at about 5.30 on the weekends - which is 'sleeping in' for him, while I lollop in bed for oooh, a good hour longer. As promised, this morning I went for a swim - my second this year.
We like to swim early before the sun is on the pool and before it is full of er, young persons. It is a huge, crescent-shaped pool, probably visible from space if you happen to be up there, but very awkward to swim laps in. If there are young persons playing, there is no clear area for them away from the serious swimmers, and they do seem to lack courtesy.
I like to have the pool to myself and this morning we were lucky, it was empty when we arrived just before 7, and empty when we left just before 8. Well, empty of other humans. Pink Floyd, the uninvited lodger, followed us to the pool and stayed to life-guard while we swam. He mooched off to explore the gardens for a bit, and followed a pigeon who came for a drink, but otherwise, he sat under one of the sun loungers close to the side of the pool and meowed to me as I splashed about.
Sweet.
 |
| Pink Floyd yesterday at the pool |
We first met Floyd last October, as a young-ish kitten. He was waiting in our car port one evening when we had been to the shops. He was very friendly, thin, and talkative. I thought the other orphan cats must have told him we were a good touch because he was quite sure it was our house he'd been sent to occupy. I took him up to the corner of the street to feed him some crunchies, which he wolfed into with great enthusiasm, but when I started to walk home, he abandoned the food to follow me and weave himself around my ankles. I went back and stood over him and his food so that he would eat it. He was far too thin to be leaving food for Mr Manners.
 |
| Pink Floyd October 2010 |
Floyd stayed around for a couple of weeks, accompanying us on walks, enjoying our largesse and sleeping on our door mat. He stood up to passing dogs and held his ground against the local tomcat bullies: plucky for such a small chap. He was pleasant to everybody. And persistent in his attempts to sneak into our house and meet our cats.
He disappeared as suddenly as he'd appeared. Marius was sure that being such a sweet friendly cat, someone had given him a home - or he'd found his way back to the place he'd arrived from. Gradually we stopped looking for him, and forgot about him as we were quite occupied with other dramas.
About a month or so ago, we took a different route for our evening stroll, and walked in an area we hadn't been to for ages. As we turned to come home, a ginger cat came streaking past us, then stopped and meowed. Marius said, I think that's Pink Floyd. He looked well, not too thin, no injuries or wounds, nice and clean . He was more wary than he used to be, and quite a bit bigger. We were pleased that Marius seemed to have been right - he'd found a home.
Well, he may have found a home, but having been reunited with us, he promptly forgot where that home was, and has taken up residence on our door step again.
Some people on the compound have been known to adopt cats - or bring cats with them - and when it is time for them to leave, have decided that finding new homes for their pets or taking them back home is just too much trouble. Some of the 'orphans' we've fed have definitely been some body's pet, once upon a time.
We don't know if that is what has happened to Floyd. We don't know if he has wandered too far and got lost, got tired of his new home or if it got tired of him. We've taken him for walks back to the area he re-joined us in, hoping to jog his memory about home, or that someone would recognise him and claim him, to no avail.
I don't feed him a lot. I hope he'll get hungry or frustrated with the short rations and go home. In the mornings when I walk Marius to the bus, Floyd is on the door step, trying to get it. He starts meowing through the door when he hears us getting ready. He's waiting when Marius returns, 12 hours later.
Sometimes he jumps on to the kitchen window sill and talks to our two cats through the window:
Sometimes he simply sits and looks lonely. Do you know anyone who would like a nice ginger boy?
x
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