No 2 baby
It was properly winter today. Cold, wet and windy. When the trees move outside, against the sodium glow of the street lights, and the blur of rain trickles down the window pane, i feel the distance between here and what used to be home.
I wrote three press releases and spoke to the BBC (twice), some local paper and had a meeting with the NIEA and Beyond Skin. I also had lunch with two lovely volunteers at Maxwell Brothers and had a pleasure of introducing these volunteers who have now become friends to this wonderful bistro restaurant.
In between all that i also cooked dinner, did some superficial cleaning, washed the dishes with Oisin, taught him two new piano pieces and put Ghin to bed. Then i woke at 11.30 and channel surfed. (I remember the times in Singapore when i thought about channel surfing with abject horror, but somehow i can't seem to find the willpower to stop myself when i get into the mood.)
I had to not go to the fundraiser for the Anarchists' Plot, despite having had it in my diary for weeks now, and the reason i thought i would skip it for - to do the laundry - i did not do. Although i did manage to finally wash the rug than Ghin threw up on about three weeks ago. It had been lying in the corner of the kitchen, untouched and all the meat from the ribs which had been spewed out on it had now dried to a jerky like toughness, enabling me to pick the pieces out - using a paper towel.
I also used a paper towel to pick up after the rabbits and totally cleared out their cage. The entire conservatory now smells of rabbit - which is a mixture of their wee and sawdust.
And the cot which we put the laundry in is now overflowing with clothes that need to be put away.
There are two household chores, regular ones which i clearly have mental blocks over - ok, three. Folding the clothes, hoovering and changing the sheets, which is related to the first chore i detest.
I have figured out that i hate hoovering because of the LOUD NOISE that comes from the cleaner's engine. It is very extremely stressful. I also remember my dad having this utter dislike for having the hoover out when he was around. It was a bit weird that.
With laundry i remember my mom interminably folding clothes in front of the TV. My mom could never sit still - well i suppose she wasn't able to. She'd teach in the day time and then come home, cook the meals, and do the laundry. In Singapore you have to wash everyday because people can't recycle their clothes do to the high humidity. And so she would sit on the floor of their bedroom, watching TV while folding the clothes. And i can still hear the sound of the cupboards being open and shut as she put away the clothes.
Sheets i detest because they result in more laundry.
And i remember thinking about laundry and housework, i am so not going to be doing that sort of thing when i grow up. I wonder who i imagined would be doing this for me. But there are many things i never imagined.
Oisin stayed with a friend last night and it has been such a long time since he's had a sleepover that i really missed him. It made me realise how quickly he is going up. One day i will be sitting here and he will be sitting on another side of the world. Sometimes i say to him, when you grow up... and he says back, he'll never leave us. I don't remember saying that to my parents, i'll never leave you. I remember i couldn't wait to leave Singapore.
At the end of this year, i would have spent a third of my life not being in Singapore. Is that right? I'll be 39 and i would have lived 12 years in Northern Ireland. This doesn't count the three years i spent in England.
November has a strange effect on me. The light disappearing makes me feel slightly trapped, and the cold rain doesn't help. It is partly the reason why i didn't leave the house after i came home. Peter lit the fire and later, by firelight i read a couple of ghost stories to Oisin. They weren't really Ghost Stories, or they aren't but stories about other places, other worlds, which often have moral tales attached to them. Delightfully they're written by an author who came from the Mournes, so there is a local connection. Part of my delight in reading them came from the layers of recognition that i now have even with things as simple as names. Francie Gorman, Mary Quinn, ... Ta Butter's Awa'... and the bog, hills and turf, i can smell them all.
For some reason i suddenly remembered the cafe in the newly renovated and converted Houses of Parliament in Singapore. I first went there when i was a Media Officer in what was then known as MITA. I sat in the Press Gallery and thought how small the place looked. It seemed so much larger on TV. It seemed as if i could stretch out and touch the Ministers and MPs.
The place has now been converted into an arts facility. The exhibition was on artistic tattoos. The cafe had expensive but indifferent food and drink. But it did have a bookshop with lots of locally published books. Quite a lot of it was about sex in Singapore. Confessions of a Singaporean Hooker part 1, 2 and 3. Notes from a Very Small Island. The walking guide to Singapore. Much of it was written by ang mos, foreign ang mos at that. There was some fiction. Mostly novellas printed by the local press, some of it quite good. Collections of poem, a couple of books edited by a friend whom i had known in a previous life. Loads of coffee table books about Singapore, photographs by foreigners again, talking over and over about the exotic nature of the place with the obligatory pictures of Chinese Wayang faces, Peranakan shophouses and the dizzying skyscrapers of Shenton Way.
Ah i hear Ghin crying, i must go now. Peter's overly loud sneezing has woken him.
To snuggle in beside Ghin, is the quiet highlight of my day. Hi mom, he'll say when i collect him at the nursery. You come and get me. You are my number 2 baby. You are my best friend. I love you.
I wrote three press releases and spoke to the BBC (twice), some local paper and had a meeting with the NIEA and Beyond Skin. I also had lunch with two lovely volunteers at Maxwell Brothers and had a pleasure of introducing these volunteers who have now become friends to this wonderful bistro restaurant.
In between all that i also cooked dinner, did some superficial cleaning, washed the dishes with Oisin, taught him two new piano pieces and put Ghin to bed. Then i woke at 11.30 and channel surfed. (I remember the times in Singapore when i thought about channel surfing with abject horror, but somehow i can't seem to find the willpower to stop myself when i get into the mood.)
I had to not go to the fundraiser for the Anarchists' Plot, despite having had it in my diary for weeks now, and the reason i thought i would skip it for - to do the laundry - i did not do. Although i did manage to finally wash the rug than Ghin threw up on about three weeks ago. It had been lying in the corner of the kitchen, untouched and all the meat from the ribs which had been spewed out on it had now dried to a jerky like toughness, enabling me to pick the pieces out - using a paper towel.
I also used a paper towel to pick up after the rabbits and totally cleared out their cage. The entire conservatory now smells of rabbit - which is a mixture of their wee and sawdust.
And the cot which we put the laundry in is now overflowing with clothes that need to be put away.
There are two household chores, regular ones which i clearly have mental blocks over - ok, three. Folding the clothes, hoovering and changing the sheets, which is related to the first chore i detest.
I have figured out that i hate hoovering because of the LOUD NOISE that comes from the cleaner's engine. It is very extremely stressful. I also remember my dad having this utter dislike for having the hoover out when he was around. It was a bit weird that.
With laundry i remember my mom interminably folding clothes in front of the TV. My mom could never sit still - well i suppose she wasn't able to. She'd teach in the day time and then come home, cook the meals, and do the laundry. In Singapore you have to wash everyday because people can't recycle their clothes do to the high humidity. And so she would sit on the floor of their bedroom, watching TV while folding the clothes. And i can still hear the sound of the cupboards being open and shut as she put away the clothes.
Sheets i detest because they result in more laundry.
And i remember thinking about laundry and housework, i am so not going to be doing that sort of thing when i grow up. I wonder who i imagined would be doing this for me. But there are many things i never imagined.
Oisin stayed with a friend last night and it has been such a long time since he's had a sleepover that i really missed him. It made me realise how quickly he is going up. One day i will be sitting here and he will be sitting on another side of the world. Sometimes i say to him, when you grow up... and he says back, he'll never leave us. I don't remember saying that to my parents, i'll never leave you. I remember i couldn't wait to leave Singapore.
At the end of this year, i would have spent a third of my life not being in Singapore. Is that right? I'll be 39 and i would have lived 12 years in Northern Ireland. This doesn't count the three years i spent in England.
November has a strange effect on me. The light disappearing makes me feel slightly trapped, and the cold rain doesn't help. It is partly the reason why i didn't leave the house after i came home. Peter lit the fire and later, by firelight i read a couple of ghost stories to Oisin. They weren't really Ghost Stories, or they aren't but stories about other places, other worlds, which often have moral tales attached to them. Delightfully they're written by an author who came from the Mournes, so there is a local connection. Part of my delight in reading them came from the layers of recognition that i now have even with things as simple as names. Francie Gorman, Mary Quinn, ... Ta Butter's Awa'... and the bog, hills and turf, i can smell them all.
For some reason i suddenly remembered the cafe in the newly renovated and converted Houses of Parliament in Singapore. I first went there when i was a Media Officer in what was then known as MITA. I sat in the Press Gallery and thought how small the place looked. It seemed so much larger on TV. It seemed as if i could stretch out and touch the Ministers and MPs.
The place has now been converted into an arts facility. The exhibition was on artistic tattoos. The cafe had expensive but indifferent food and drink. But it did have a bookshop with lots of locally published books. Quite a lot of it was about sex in Singapore. Confessions of a Singaporean Hooker part 1, 2 and 3. Notes from a Very Small Island. The walking guide to Singapore. Much of it was written by ang mos, foreign ang mos at that. There was some fiction. Mostly novellas printed by the local press, some of it quite good. Collections of poem, a couple of books edited by a friend whom i had known in a previous life. Loads of coffee table books about Singapore, photographs by foreigners again, talking over and over about the exotic nature of the place with the obligatory pictures of Chinese Wayang faces, Peranakan shophouses and the dizzying skyscrapers of Shenton Way.
Ah i hear Ghin crying, i must go now. Peter's overly loud sneezing has woken him.
To snuggle in beside Ghin, is the quiet highlight of my day. Hi mom, he'll say when i collect him at the nursery. You come and get me. You are my number 2 baby. You are my best friend. I love you.
Comments