Household art

Dog leashes, hanging out to dry after being washed ...

... became a Hockney piece from L's perspective.

That'll do

So I'm a coward when it comes to watching a dog movie with potentially sad moments. So instead of going to Marley and Me, I'm spending my money on another John Grogan book instead. Anyway, the movie still isn't here yet.

I follow Grogan's blog now and then and I know this isn't his latest book. But it's only just got here. His newest book is not about dogs but about growing up in a Catholic family. No familiar ground there for me, so I'll stick to the doggy things. I don't think this one will make me cry. Thank goD.

So many toys, only two dogs

I was sweeping the floor, and as I went along, I picked up all the dogs' toys and placed them on the couch. That was when I realised all their toys take up the whole couch. Great, now there's no place on the bed for the humans, thanks to two small dogs stretching crosswise, there's also no place on the couch.


Ours, all ours!


So many chewies, only one mouth!

Fortifications

The baby gate has rusted after two years of Rupert jumping and drooling on it when he's shut away for the brief minutes between when Queeni gets served lunch first and when his dish is set down.

Yesterday, we installed all-new plastic ones -- plastic so rust won't be a problem this time round. Let's see what sort of Rupert damage this lot will have to endure.

Watching the watcher

We met a new dog downstairs yesterday. Jacky, a black mixed breed that looks like he has some Schnauzer in him, is two years old but has only moved into the block opposite us a few months ago.

Rupert, friendly to both dogs and humans, went up to say hello to Jacky's owner after sniffing Jacky's butt.

"We've seen a dog just like you!" she exclaimed as she patted him. "On the second floor. We can see him through the window and he's always jumping around when we walk past."

"Err, that would be Rupert; that's us on the second floor," I admitted.

So for all the times we've been watching dogs from the window, they've been watching us too.

Weird neighbours

First, someone upstairs threw out of the window an electrical appliance that landed on the roof of the pavilion next to our block.

Then, someone in the next block left a fridge by the ground floor staircase landing. It sat out there for a couple of days before it just as mysteriously disappeared.

Maybe the rag and bone man took it away. He does take TV sets and small electricals, I know. Maybe I should tell him about the one on the pavilion roof.

I really tried to shop

Would you pay me $50 for these old jeans? Levi's would. They have a promotion now, part of their "wear only the original" campaign where they will give you $50 for a pair of old jeans, any brand, and you can use that amount towards the purchase of a new pair of Levi's -- provided that it's priced at $100 and above. That's at least a 50% discount, I thought at first, but further browsing at the Levi's store revealed that most of their jeans cost closer to $200.

But a bargain is a bargain and I only had one requirement of them. If they took my old jeans, they had to give me a similar pair -- ie, capri length, preferably with embroidery trimming. This no-name brand pair was bought at a discount store, probably for less than $50 -- which made the bargain an even better deal. It's comfy but the stretch material has stretched so much through years of washing that the waist is too loose for me now and I need a belt to hold it up.

Only thing was, Levi's didn't have anything like this. They had straight cut, boot leg, skinny jeans but no capris. And definitely nothing with an embroidery trim. I wanted girly jeans, they only had "jeans" jeans.

I guess I'll hang on to this pair for a while longer.

Marley and Me and me

I don't understand the movie distributors here. Milk opened today but Marley and Me still isn't here yet. I seriously doubt if the average Singaporean knows who Harvey Milk is. Maybe a gay rights activist would, but that's still doubtful, there's no local context.

But who doesn't love a dog movie? Actually, to be honest, I'm almost scared of watching Marley and Me, as I confessed to a colleague yesterday. She fully understood. You know, just in case we make a mess of ourselves with Old Yeller-like endings.

I should add that this colleague wept when the sabre-toothed tiger died in Ice Age and I wept when the Jack Rusell in Babe 2 momentarily died and found himself leaping at butterflies in Heaven.

Marley and Me the book had already reduced me to tears, and that was even before the first chapter, the preface had already left me a basket case.

I went back to my archives to see what I wrote about it two years ago, and I can't believe that I actually blogged then that I bought the hardback because I didn't think a dog book would be popular enough here to make it to a paperback. (And that picture of the shelf of Prachett from that hardback post, well, that shelf is double-parked now.) And now, it's a movie. And not only did we have the paperback, we also had it in a promotional form where it came with a free leash -- a thin, nylon one that Marley would had for breakfast.

I also can't believe that I wrote I was ready to read Marley and Me because I had a prospective puppy coming. Maybe I should bring the not-quite-a-puppy anymore along with me to watch the movie version. Just so I have something to snuggle into, in case, god forbid, I should cry in public at a movie that's supposed to be generally feel good.

For what it's worth, the movie My Dog Skip never made it to the cinemas here. I bought the DVD but having got it, put it away in a drawer for almost six months before I could bring myself to watch it. Because I knew how the book ended.

I guess there's no way Marley and Me will bypass the local cinemas, not when there's Jennifer Anniston and Owen Wilson in it.

Work mate

Here's Roop doing his own silly thing -- sleeping on the bag that I carry to work, which I've discarded on the floor. It's hardly comfortable because there're poky things inside like a collapsible umbrella (it's monsoon season again), a wallet, diary and walkman, which must be jutting into his ribs. But then again, as L and I sigh when Roop does unexplainable things, "he's Rupert".



He's done this a few nights in a row, and now my bag is covered with fur. I don't mind it really. Sometimes at work, I'd look at the furry bits and smile when I think of my silly boyo.



And then, just for fun, L put round his neck the little cooler bag that I use to keep my packed dinner warm. I've got to say a fox terrier with a dinner bag looks more welcoming than a St Bernard with a brandy cask. But then I'm biased.

Sure wish I could take him to work with me though.

I'll be Crouching Schnauzer, you'll be Leaping Fox Terrier

I was enjoying an afternoon off on my deckchair by the window and the dogs and I were having fun watching two boys play at swordfighting downstairs.

Christmas is over

We hang the Christmas stockings at the window in lieu of a fireplace. Here's a pix of what our window looks like from the inside and outside before I take the Christmas decorations down.



My mother has always insisted that the Christmas decorations must come down by Epiphany or it'll be bad luck for the rest of the year. I think that's just a veiled threat to make sure that you don't have the tree up still in June. It's like how I think the custom of not sweeping the floor during Chinese New Year lest you sweep away the good luck was first started by a housewife who wanted a break.

But at least this year, the Chinese New Year decorations can go up as soon as the Christmas ones come down.

Things that go bump in the night

Late on Saturday night, at about 1.15am, there was an almighty crash outside that set the dogs off and got L out of bed. Nothing seemed amiss when we looked out.

The next morning, this was what we saw. I can't make out what it is, maybe a DVD player or a PlayStation or something. Certainly an electrical appliance of some sort. Somebody upstairs must have been incensed at a choice of DVD or at a teenager still up and playing games at that time of the night, and hurled the thing out of the window.

They're jolly lucky it didn't break anyone's head when it landed.

No one's claimed it after a day. I'm wondering if anyone will.

Dinner at home

This is specially posted for The Catswhiskers, L said to show you what we had for dinner last night. Beef stir fried with leeks, and bitter gourd with fish in black bean sauce.

it's not Chinese New Year food, I didn't break my promise to you of not posting CNY goodies.

You can get your back on L by posting pictures of real ale and Five County cheese.

I must be more Singaporean than I think -- I've started the year off by posting about food!

And now, the New Year food post

New Year's Eve is even quieter than Christmas Eve for us. Last year, we missed the countdown entirely because we were already in bed. Another year, we didn't even realise that it was midnight when we were out walking the dogs until we heard cries of "3,2,1, Happy New Year!" from the surrounding flats.

This year, I worked on New Year's Eve and Day -- payback time for getting Christmas Eve and Day off. But working hours were much earlier on New Year's Eve, designed so that everyone can push off in time for a celebratory dinner, instead of working through the night as usual.

So we decided to make something a little different. We roasted a duck. And we did that "muffin potato" thing, this time with a little egg as a binding agent and they came out pretty and perfect.





Happy New Year, everyone. May your plates always be full of shiok things.

Pairing

No real reason for this post. I just happened to be drinking and reading South African.

Last week, when we were doing the Christmas food shopping, L saw some cider and asked if I wanted to get some. I didn't at first, cider not being a Christmassy sort of drink like eggnog or mulled wine. But in the end, I got some because I hadn't had any since summer, and it brought back memories of a British holiday where I drank freshly drawn cider by the pints like it was juice.

It wasn't until I tore into the six-pack that I realised that this was from South Africa. It was the only cider in the supermarket, they didn't have anything British or Australian though they used to. There was a particularly cleverly named one called SydneyCider. I should have realised that anything called Savanna wasn't going to be from pommie country.

On top of that, the small print that wasn't seen through the six-pack outer wrapper warned that it contains sulphites. Well, it hasn't given me a headache so far. It tastes faintly beery. Yeasty. Or is it hops. That distinctive taste in beer. It's not at all like the fruity ciders of this summer past.

Maybe pairing it with JM Coetzee might make it go down better. Oh wait, Coetzee lives in Australia now, doesn't he? Could be Australian already. That's not going to help my chip-on-the-shoulder cider.

"Tak shiok"

I was playing the new Freddie Mercury-less Queen album, and after that, I had to put on Queen's Greatest Hits I & II.

"Tak shoik, right?" said L. "You listen to Queen but there's no Freddie so you had to play the old albums just to hear his voice."

He's got his finger on it. A term quite untranslatable if you don't speak Singlish. Shoik is usually used to describe yummy tasty food. Tak shoik would literally be not yummy but translating it like that just doesn't cut it.

No reviewer, not even anyone in Rolling Stone can come close to such a neat little description for the album: Nice but just tak shoik.

A sweet Christmas

I guess my friends -- and even my neighbours -- know what I like. And this doesn't include a stash that a colleague brought back from Italy -- a box of Italian Lindt and a thin bar of dark Tuscan chocolate packaged simply in anonymous brown paper but was outstandingly good, was never brought home, it was my supply at work.

I guess all this could last me till well into the New Year. Thanks, guys.

The Christmas food post

The turkey turned out great. All these Christmasses, we've never done turkey because it seemed too much for just two people. For Christmas, it had always been steak, or prime rib, or duck.

This year, we found a small Butterball in the supermarket freezer and L said why not. It was the size of a big chicken and it can't be any harder to roast a turkey than a chicken.

The last time either one of us cooked turkey at Christmas, we were both students, and it was in our respective dorms where the fellow diners weren't fussy.

Well, this time round, the ones who were going to get most of the turkey -- after we were done with it -- weren't as fussy either. We froze a leg for the dogs and there's another good side of meat for them in another tupperware in the fridge to add to their kibble over the next few days.

They also had the giblets cooked up for them as we didn't use it for the gravy. We opted not to make gravy because I had some frozen cranberries in the freezer that I turned into a sauce. It turned out more jellylike than saucelike and I guess I now have cranberry jam for my toast the rest of the week!

On Christmas Eve, we had steak and L got the idea of doing the potatoes this way from Bill's Fare on TV. You slice them, mix in some cream and then put them into a muffin pan and into the oven for 30-40 minutes. They're supposed to come out muffin-like.


All the strips sticking out of the muffin pan is grease proof baking paper. You put two strips crosswise, then the potato slices on top of it, and the paper strips will serve as handles to help lift out the potato muffins later when they're done.

Only I think L must have forgotten something in the ingredients, something that will bind the potato slices together. Because when we lifted the potato muffins out, they didn't stay in shape but collapsed onto the plate into what seemed like scalloped potatoes. They taste nice and creamy though, just like scalloped potatoes, only with more crunchy edges.



Perhaps next time we'll put in some egg maybe, or a little Bisquik mix with the cream as a binding agent. Some grated cheese would be good too. I can see we're going to do this again, with a whole lot of different variations.

And there was no room on the couch

Because They (and their toys) have taken it over.

And what are they getting this Christmas? More toys.

Christmas reading

My Christmas pressies to myself. You can tell, I was on a theme.

Our very own droid

Is it just L and me or do the battle droids in the animated Star Wars instalment The Clone Wars bear an uncanny resemblance to a fox terrier? The gangly limbs right down to the elongated shape of its head? Years from now, some animation historian (look, you have art historians now who study the Old Masters; stands to reason in the next generation you'll have animation historians who study Star Wars) is going to discover that some graphic artist probably had a fox terrier when he was a boy or something.

The battle droids are the enemy but they're silly and hence, likable. They're comic relief and they're not that smart -- that part is definitely foxie.

Roop's kinda like them too, ready to respond to anything you want. Only thing is, his interpretation of what you want could be something else. And he's always the crack first response team whenever HRH not so much growls but clears her throat while staring out the window.

The battle droids respond to their orders with a nasal "roger, roger". And that's why L has been going round saying "roger, roger" to Roop, who leaps up, ready and game for anything.

That poor brainless blighter probably now thinks his name is Roger.

OK, now we're truly ready for Christmas

Because we have an angel in place.



And what's Christmas without a reindeer?



With many thanks to Catswhiskers

How far along did you say she was?

This is part of the Christmas tableaux display that stretches down the Orchard Road pedestrian mall. This one is the 'No Room at the Inn' scene. Mary doesn't look terribly preggers, does she?

Ready for Christmas

We couldn't put up Christmas decorations until Sunday past -- the 49th day of my father-in-law's passing and the day that the rites and stuff were all over. Seeing that it was just 10 days till Christmas, it didn't seem worth the bother to put the tree up.

But that's not to say that we haven't got a tree of sorts. This tree-like thing started life as a Christmas hamper filled with goodies that was delivered to my office a few years ago. Probably a gift from a PR or contact, and as is company policy with gifts and hampers, it was auctioned off at the office Christmas party with the proceeds going to charity. Whoever bought the hamper then shared out the goodies and I got to take the "tree" home.

I strung up some Christmas lights on it, and most years, stood it in a corner of the room, well away from the real -- well, plastic -- real as in de facto Christmas tree. Because of the dogs, we don't leave the presents under the tree -- in fact, the tree has to elevated on an end table. And the tree-hamper became the repository for the presents. This year, it'll also be *the* tree.

Now, it's time to fill it. And I haven't done my Christmas shopping yet. I've been bad.

Little bitch

Queeni went for her quarterly post-cancer checkup on Saturday. It's all good. Instead of the usual three-month window for the next checkup, the vet says the next one can be in four to five months.

And just when HRH thought it was all over and she could stop shaking, Evil Dad left her in the groomer's next door. He went back to collect her two hours later and reported that he received the shrillest scolding of his life.

But that wasn't as devious as what she did to me. When they came in the door, she came straight at me, jumped on my lap and covered my face with licks.

"Don't kiss her," L said as he stepped in.

"Too late, she's kissed me. Why?"

"She sniffed poop downstairs when I peed her."

You gotta admit, that's a royal revenge.

Satisfying a craving

I've been hankering for Mongolian beef ever since a friend blogged about her midnight snack and included a really yummy picture of it. A few nights ago, when L asked if he could fetch me a snack as he headed to the kitchen, I asked him for Mongolian beef. And he thought he was going to be fetching me yogurt or fruit or something more easy.

So it stood to reason that when we went grocery shopping yesterday, I bought the ingredients of Mongolian beef. And that I fixed that for dinner last night. Her picture looks yummier than my version, though. But I did enjoy mine thoroughly.

Perfect timing

Not.

It's the long year-end school holidays here and the neighbourhood kids are restless. And the town council chooses now to ringfence the playground for works. Someone there is a planning genius, I tell you.

Went to the library

Look, Catswhiskers, I'm a non-discriminatory equal opportunity reader.

Yin and Yang

When the world is spinning and stupid things are happening at work, there's nothing like coming home and watching the furkids sleep.

It's home

One of my colleagues found my missing cookie jar today. It was on a counter at the side of the room, almost hidden by a pile of newspapers, and far away from the food table where it was placed.

I'm so relieved. Now I can call off my crack SWAT team of Queeni and Rupert, whom I wishfully wanted to take with me to work today to sniff out the perpetrator and take a good bite out of him/her.

The jar's cute isn't it, the little guy dangling from the lid. An Alessi design. But what made me more upset at having thought it was swiped wasn't just that I would have lost a piece of designer homeware but that it has sentimental value, having been given to me by a friend. Who has gone on to give me several more unique designer homeware, including two pottery cups she made herself.

I don't think anyone meant to steal it, or at least I hope not. Perhaps someone was walking about with it, helping himself/herself to the cookies and then set it down in a corner and forgot about it. But as another colleague pointed out, that person had no right to do that since the cookies were communal food. Which made him/her still no less a dickhead.

Somebody just stole the Christmas spirit from me

Since I had more Christmas cookies than L and I could possibly eat, I decided to take some in to work today.

The big conference table in the middle of the newsroom doubles up as a food table, and people usually send out a message on the system when there's communal food left on it. I had included in my message that I want the cookie jar back. This is because, sometimes, people also take the food containers, especially if they're in pretty hampers given by hotels and PRs at this time of the year. For good measure, I also stuck a note on the jar: "Please return me to A when I'm empty."

You guessed it. Some prickhead took my cookie jar along with the last cookie. Yes, I just said a rude word. I called him/her even ruder names. You do something nice and somebody comes and broadside you with a nasty. I'm particularly upset because the cookie jar, an Alessi jar with a pink cover of a little cartoon guy hanging on the underside, was a present from a friend.

To be fair, most of my colleagues were aghast that the jar was taken, despite pleading messages asking for its return. Some walked around the room, helping me look for it. They're mostly nice people. Except for the one dick in the room.

Christmas is coming

Only the Christmas cookies are in existence. The tree and decorations and the furkids' stockings aren't up yet. We're not supposed to celebrate anything until 49 days after my father-in-law's death. It's not exactly a mourning period, it was explained to me. The 49 days is the time he's taking on his last journey. That won't be till next weekend. I'm not quite sure.

So I probably won't put up the tree at all this year because it'll only be a week till Christmas by the time I'm "allowed" to put it up. But the furkids' stockings will certainly be up. Their stocking stuffers have already been bought. I've done all their Christmas shopping already but haven't started on the husband's. Typical.

It's Neil Gaiman's fault that I was late for work today

I was reading on the train, and when it reached my station, I was at the cliffhanger finale near the end of the book. So I got off the train and sat on a bench at the platform and carried on reading until I finished the book.

I must have sat there 20, 30 minutes. At least transit security didn't think that I was loitering or behaving suspiciously. Whatever that means these days. Lugging or leaving behind a heavy bag.

Luckily, reading is light activity.

Furry help

Nothing like a little help with holding a book when you've got a pile to read.

Books now

“When I get a little money, I buy books. And if any is left, I buy food and clothes.” -- Erasmus



Because it takes me two months to finish a suitcase of books.

Even more music

I've heard Julian Bream perform John Dowland before (the joys of a regional Arts Centre in a provincial university) so Sting's Songs From the Labyrinth didn't really pique my interest. But then, it's Sting. Rock star plays lute and does Elizabethan ballads. So I caved in and bought it.

And it wasn't bad. I think I was subconsciously holding my breath with this rock superstar goes classical thing ever since Liverpool Oratorio (again, the education of the abovementioned Arts Centre) put me off Paul McCartney even though I like the Beatles like anyone else. Sting's tenor rather suits Elizabethan ballads. I guess he could have been a rock star four centuries ago too.

But I don't think I will cave in so easily to buy a ticket for his coming tour in early December (whaddaya know, Sting in Singapore twice in a year). $25 for a CD is one thing, $100-$500 for a concert ticket is something else. Even if I paid $350 x 2 for the Police reunion tour in February. And there's no Stewart Copeland this time.

More music

This must the week that pigs finally flew. If The Cosmos Rocks was three years in the making, then it's nothing compared to Chinese Democracy -- which was on again, off again, and took 15 years.

The Guns 'n' Roses album was released this week, hot on the heels of the Queen album, and it's quite interesting to listen to one after the other. There's one rock group that carried on without a vocalist while the other is the vocalist carrying on without the rest of the band.

Long live the Queen

This album was a long time coming. In early August, I got wind on the Internet and in rock magazines that it was scheduled for a September release. It still wasn't out by the time I left the UK in mid-September although a copy of Mojo that I picked up then had already reviewed it. It should be out in the stores any day now.

Any day now dragged on till November. In between, everytime I walked past a record shop, I'd pop in to ask. I got a whole range of negative responses from salespeople ranging from the clueless (how can anyone who works in a music shop not know who Queen is) to the argumentative (who wanted to know how could Queen possibly have a new album when they have no lead singer).

Then last Thursday, one of my colleagues, also a Queen fan, said it had to be in the stores now because Amazon had finally started selling it. I happened to be going downtown that day, so I hit almost all the music shops in the shopping district. And got the same range of clueless answers from the salespeople.

And then I walked into Borders. And found it -- just the one copy buried among the old Queen stuff. You'd expect stacks of it to be piled high on the new releases shelf but no, there was just the one sole copy hidden away. Like they'd only brought in one copy because they weren't sure that it would sell.

I pounced on it like it was gold and when I went back to the office, waved it triumphantly at my colleague. He thinks I probably have the only copy in Singapore.

That was exactly a week ago. It should be properly in the stores now. Even if I'd ordered it from Amazon in the first instance, it would have arrived.

I only waited till now to blog about it because I was persuaded to write a review. I did it because someone suggested it; because there was no review filed for this week, the regular music guy being on reservist training; and it was one of those easy-peasy things that wrote itself in 10 minutes.

The practice is that inhouse reviewers don't get paid, even if they do it on top of their normal duties. The kickback is that they get to keep the review copy. However, this was moot to me since I already have my own copy. So I did it for fun, basically. But then somebody else took the fun out of it so I don't think I'll do this again.

Winter is coming

I live one degree north of the equator but I can tell -- because the cranes are back. These elegant, tall, white long-legged birds winter here from North Asia and can usually be found in feeding in the large grassy fields outside the development where I live and watering at the monsoon canals.

They used to be a welcome seasonal sight but in the past years, have been regarded as potential bird flu carriers. Times have changed.

Hot seat

I was on the train to work yesterday when an elderly gentleman got on, just one station before where I was going to get off. By then, there were no more seats left. So I stood up and gave him my seat. Osteo-arthritis notwithstanding. This guy was clearly waaaay older than me.

He didn't want to take the seat initially, until I told him that I was getting off at the next stop anyway. And then he smiled one of those sweet smiles only old folks have and shuffled towards the seat.

By then, a kid about 10 years old was inching his way towards the vacated seat and about to set his bum down on it.

"Oi! I didn't give up my seat for you!"

He leapt up like the seat was hot.

One day, young punks will have osteo-arthritis too.

It's confirmed, I'm old

I've been a bit creaky here and there lately but didn't think much of it as I popped glucosamine. Last week, I had the odd feeling that sometimes my right knee downwards wasn't connected to the rest of my body. I'd turn but the lower leg wouldn't turn with me, giving my knee cap a sharp twinge.

The GP thought it could be wear and tear problems, given my age, but insisted that I take an X-ray, just to rule out that I didn't break anything. I couldn't have, I haven't fallen or anything.

So I had an X-ray done last week and popped back into the GP clinic today for the results.

"The good new is," he said, "you haven't broken anything."

"The bad news, hmmm," he hesitated.

So I filled in the blanks for him. "The bad news is that I'm an old lady, right?"

I have the beginning of bone spurs in the joint and am one step along the way to osteo-arthritis. You know, Old People Stuff.

I am now Officially Old.

Aint it the truth

I got this from my dog e-list yesterday with the subject: Some things are so beautiful, you HAVE to share them.
And so here it is.

TODAY I RESCUED A HUMAN
 
I rescued a human today.

Her eyes met mine as she walked down the corridor peering apprehensively into the kennels. I felt her need instantly and knew I had to help her.

I wagged my tail, not too exuberantly, so she wouldn't be afraid. As she stopped at my kennel I blocked her view from a little accident I had in the back of my cage. I didn't want her to know that I hadn't been walked today. Sometimes the shelter keepers get too busy and I didn't want her to think poorly of them.

As she read my kennel card, I hoped that she wouldn't feel sad about my past. I only have the future to look forward to and my only desire is to make a difference in some loving human's life.

She got down on her knees and made little kissy sounds to me. I shoved my shoulder and the side of my head up against the bars to comfort her. Gentle fingertips caressed my neck; she was desperate for companionship. A tear fell down her cheek and I raised my paw to assure her that all would be well.

Soon my kennel door opened and her smile was so bright that I instantly jumped into her arms. I promised to keep her safe. I promised to always be by her side. I promised to do everything I could to see that radiant smile and sparkle in her eyes everyday!

I was so fortunate that she came down my corridor. So many more are out there who haven't walked the corridors. So many more to be saved. At least I could save one.

I rescued a human today.

Relatively speaking

It's a small world as they say, and on top of that, Singapore is a small country. Everybody knows everybody else, or at least knows of everybody else.

But never in my wildest dreams did I think that a friend of mine would turn out to be a distant relative.

I have known R since junior college and she also went on to the same university as I did. She now lives in London and we spent many happy hours together when L and I holidayed in London in August/September.

We had talked about our families and she had remarked that her mother's maiden surname is the same as L's, and that her name was remarkably similar to L's father's name. We never really thought much about it until this week, she found out from a conversation with her mother that her mother and my father-in-law are cousins.

Which makes her and L cousins first removed, I think. Is that how you count "removed" cousins?
And her furkids -- two lovely Maine Coons and an independent-spirited Bengal whom I fell instantly in love with when I finally was able to meet them a few months ago -- and mine would be cousins second removed. Queeni grew up with a kitten and so has cat-like habits and loves cats. Now, she's actually related to cats!

Hi Cuz! *waves*

Hanoi

One of the reasons why I didn't blog about my recent trip to Hanoi was that I came home to a rather surreal time because of a death in the family. The other reason was that I had to write about it, and also supply pictures that I had taken. Now that the article has been published, I can finally put here the pictures that weren't used and the text that had been cut. This blog has no advertisers and therefore, I don't have to be as judicious as the lifestyle editor.

Thirty years after the Viet Cong saw off the Americans, the Vietnamese are still reducing them -- albeit tourists -- to a quivering mass. Charlie has returned as the cyclo driver. The cyclo is pretty much like a trishaw, only the driver is behind the passenger -- which is good from Charlie's standpoint since the passenger gets hit first in the event of collision. Charlie's modus operandi pretty much consists of heading straight towards what seems to be oncoming traffic and challenging bus drivers to cut into his lane. The bus driver wins. They always do. It's the same everywhere.

That the Vietnamese love their motorbikes is obvious, not just by the sheer numbers on the road but also by the case of one (parked) bike spotted -- its seat was upholstered in that unmistakable LV logo and motif more commonly stamped on handbags. Bike by Louis Vitton.

Most retailers will accept US dollars, and conveniently so, especially in the company of fellow travellers who can read double entrendres in "How many dongs have you got on you?"


Vietnamese organisation is written on the walls. While most places have graffiti spray painted in free hand, Vietnamese graffiti is stenciled. These, I was told, are phone numbers for contractors. They come along, identify a unit that is likely to be refurbished, and leave their phone numbers so as to save the owner from looking up the number in the Yellow Pages.


This is a view of the city from a local coffeeshop that is four floors up on a rooftop. There is no visible frontage of the coffeeshop at street level. You walk in through an art gallery (apparently almost every Vietnamese owns a motorbike and paints in oils) down an alley way, into an open courtyard that looks like someone's house and up a winding staircase. The rooms that you pass on your way up really are part of someone's house. If the guide didn't lead us, we would have never found it. As it was, we were the only foreigners on the rooftop. No Starbucks would have a view like this, since passing pedestrian traffic is everything in their business plan. And in anycase, there was no Starbucks in Hanoi, despite its coffee culture. There are small mercies in developing countries.

Heir and heiress

Mother-in-law, in tying up father-in-law's estate matters, has instructed their family lawyer to give $500 each to Queeni and Rupert from the estate. It's not exactly a bequest but a gift.

So the lawyer calls L and demands to know: "Do you have two children that I'm not aware of?"

"Err, yes, I have two kids."

"What are their names? Can you spell it out?"

"Queeni. And Rupert."
Lawyer was obviously writing everything down.

"Boy or girl?"

"Queeni's the girl, Rupert's the boy."

"How old?"

"She's seven, he's two."

"Can I have their IC?"

"Err, you can have their licences."

And now, hot shot lawyer -- who has an ongoing trial at High Court -- is completely stumped and needs to consult his partners on how to give money to dogs.

Under Singapore law, pets are not considered entities (like corporations are, although I know more animals with heart than some corporations). Instead, pets are considered possessions and you cannot give or bequeath money to chattel. If you want to do something like that, you're usually advised to start a trust fund and name an executor, that sort of thing. I don't think we're going into all that for $500.

Still, that's probably a lot in dog money. Or bones. Or chewies.

My furkids are gazillionaires.

Going bananas for a purpose

Back to mundane everyday-living posts. The only reason why I bought a bunch when grocery shopping the other day was so that I could use the new lacquer plate I got from Vietnam.

Friends in high places

A friend of mine emailed me to say that the wife of the new president of the Maldives is someone we knew at university.

The University of Warwick has a reputation for being a hot spot for student activism. Which is one of the reasons why it changed its mind about opening a campus in Singapore.

But I never imagined that my friend's former housemate would turn out to be the First Lady of the Maldives.

She is in illustrious company -- another housemate, a Jordanian, married into the royal family and is now a princess.

I feel like I've achieved nothing with my life!

Life is transient

I left for Hanoi on Monday. Sometime late Sunday night if not Monday morning, my father-in-law died in his sleep.

I came home on Thursday. My father-in-law was already cremated.

And all this while, L never wanted to tell me, didn't want me to cut short my trip. He even told my mother and our friends not to tell me. But then I got one rather odd text message late on Monday by the time I finally turned on my cellphone. L was uncontactable all day, so I called a friend. And that was how I found out.

Everyone, even my mother-in-law, said not to cut short the trip, seeing that it was already a short one. L didn't see the point of my getting off the plane only to turn round and get back on it.

So I went through the motions of Hanoi.

It was a weird trip. When I left home, this old guy was doing his own thing. A few days later when I got home, there was nothing left of his existence on earth. It was like he had never been, especially as I don't see him often. Life is odd.