This has nothing to do with parenting! I am so bad at that, I can't seem to deal with the guilt involved in writing anything meaningful on a regular basis. Although, one small snippet - I made Knicker Bocker Glory's for the kids the other night and was trying to get them to say the name of the 'dessert'. Charlie managed it, finally, albeit with a strong Belfast accent. Ben and Livvy eventually arrived at their own versions of it, too. Woody, Mr Minimum Effort, settled with Knicker Licker Morey, a far better name than the original and the name I shall give it from here on in!
Recently, I came across the final, unpublished entry of our 'Search for Bigadic' journal. I've been meaning to post it for a while now so, tonight, as Nicky and I were talking about travel - the fact that we can't afford to do it, along with the small matter that, even if we could, we now have four kids which makes it all the more unlikely - I'm finally in the mood to type it up. Anyway, enough of all that...here it is, typed up as it was written. It was intended to cover our journey from Singapore to Ao Nang in Thailand, but it seems I never actually finished it.
It also seems like a long, long time ago...
KHARMA KHAZI
Arriving at Singapore airport, we were disappointed to discover that no one had gone to the trouble of learning English in anticipation of our arrival. So, I quickly took control of the situation and, in typical male fashion, led us around the airport aimlessly until Nicky snapped. ''What are you doing?'', she asked, then kindly answered the question herself: ''You're just wandering around aimlessly!''. It was a fair cop and, if I hadn't been rumbled, I'd probably still be staring at that payphone trying to figure out where the coins went. Thankfully, Nicky sussed it, phoned The Hawaii Hostel, reserved a room, then led us to the taxi rank. Women, eh!
Lonely Planet said this about The Hawaii Hostel: ''Small, tidy, air-con rooms...''. We, on the other hand, said this: ''Oh Jesus, look at the stairs!''. They were surely the steepest that it's possible to construct and went onwards and upwards for as far as the eye could see. Thankfully, reception was only two flights up and, although unable to speak ourselves, once there we were greeted by a very chirpy Chinaman.
A ROOM WITH NO ROOM
''You wan see woom?''. We only half-nodded, petrified that this might entail climbing more stairs which, of course, it did. One more flight on the Stairway to Hell and we were outside Room 26. As the Chinaman prised open the door, something appeared to be blocking its path - I believe it was the back wall. ''Vay clean, air-con!'' he beamed. We peered in and thought: ''Vay small, you con!''. Then it was off to see the toilets. We presumed the spring in his step reflected his confidence that the facilities at the end of the hall would clinch the deal. As it turned out, he just didn't want his feet to touch the carpet for any longer than was absolutely necessary. The toilets were a violently ugly sight.
It was 10pm, we were hot, tired, stressed and hungry. With our sorry heads hung in shame, we paid for the night.
WHAT A SHITTER
Before I go any further: Asian toilets...
...For a start, there's no toilet, just a neat little hole in the floor. The idea is that you hovver elegantly in a squatting position and, despite every ounce of your inner dignity screaming ''don't-don't'', you drop your 'doo-doo' into the dug out. To use golfing parlance, a 'hole-in-one' is the shot to play for. Clearly, some residents of The Hawaii Hostel thought it was a Par 4 (and some of them had scored a Bogey!). To be fair, it's not as easy it sounds. There's definitely a gap in the market for a 'simulator' which might allow Western travellers to get in some much-needed target practice before arriving in this part of the world. At the very least, I'd advise enrolment in a yoga class, in order to achieve the required flexibility in the lower limbs.
Another glaring omission of the Singapore shitter is toilet paper and, instead, beside each hole in the ground you'll find a handy little water hose. It's 'out' with the Andrex Puppy and 'in' with Red Adair, which is particularly appropriate given that your first bowl of Singapore noodles is likely to leave your sphincter burning like an Iraqi oil well. However, a word of warning (from the voice of experience): before reaching for that hose in a bid to douse those flames, check the trigger on that baby first - unless you fancy a free session of colonic irrigation. Some of the hoses are so powerful they require a firm, two-handed grip. Furthermore, to avoid the stunning effects of a water cannon on the forehead, precision alignment is a must. As with the Singapore Squat, it's a tricky business and practice is prudent.
WET BEHIND THE EARS!
So, let's assume your legs are as supple as a Soviet gymnast's, and the hours you've spent watching London's Burning are now bearing fruit. The final dilemma is this: by the end of it all, you're absolutely soaking wet. At the time of writing, we have absolutely no idea what you're supposed to do about this (squelch, squelch), but if we work it out you'll be the first to know - well, the third to know. (Hey, I know it's nasty, but you won't find this 'shit' in Lonely Planet!).
We only got to spend one full day in Singapore, a large portion of which was taken up trying to buy a ticket for the next day's train to Hat Yai in Southern Thailand. It was a complex process but we got there in the end, before boarding a bus back to Bencoolen Street and The Hawaii Hostel. An hour and a half later, we got off that bus and decided to get one that actually went to Bencoolen Street. Nicky was so proud of me that day!
OODLES OF NOODLES
Bencoolen Street has an abundance of eateries and, having worked up quite an appetite, we found a gem of a place not a minute's walk from the hostel. For about a pound, we had two drinks and two almighty plates of vegetable curry and rice. I decided to wash it all down with the obligatory cup of coffee, unaware that the local brew comes already sweetened. Dredging a canal would require less effort than stirring this concoction. Actually, drinking from a canal would be a far preferable experience. It was diabetes in a cup and should probably be drank with an insulin chaser.
JUST HOP ON THE BUS, GUS
Early next morning, Nicky woke me from my diabetic coma and, by 7.30, we were watching CNN on the bus, en-route to the railway station. Our final destination was to be Ao Nang, near Krabi, Thailand, and the journey to get there was fairly monumental. From Singapore, a six hour train ride would take us to Kuala Lumpur. We then had a six-hour wait before boarding the overnight sleeper train to Hat Yai, a short 16-hour jaunt, from where we would then get a coach to Krabi, four hours further north. And, after that, we had to find our own way to Ao Nang!
The train from Singapore left at 8.10am precisely and pulled into Kuala Lumpur's Sentral Station an uneventful, though equally precise, six hours later. With time on our hands we decided to take the Sky Train into the city and got off to discover - to my horror and Nicky's delight - that we'd been spat out onto the ground floor of a huge, six-storey shopping complex. We spent the next four hours watching very wealthy people buying very expensive goods. The only purchase we made, other than a bit of lunch, was nuts! Nicky had a pregnant craving for some walnuts and, sure enough, there was a small stall on the ground floor selling every nut known to man. Along with the walnuts, the woman also insisted we sample one of her new (and hopefully discontinued) lines - roasted almonds wrapped in figs. Believe it or not (and I don't) they were actually quite nice, so we bought a box to snack on during our onward journey.
HOW HIGH IS A CHINAMAN
Eventually, the time came to board the overnight sleeper train to Hat Yai. Finding carriage S1 was easy - getting into it wasn't. Our backpacks were marginally bigger than the people this train had been designed to carry, and getting them - and ourselves - onboard was no mean feat. Our top bunks were the first two in the carriage, just past the toilets and the automatic door and we were pleased with the handy location. Pleased, that is, until we pulled back the curtains behind which lay our bunks. We immediately sensed a small discrepancy. As we stood in the aisle with our brains screaming to our eyes: ''Are you sure?'', a guard nudged past us whistling: 'Hey ho, Hey ho, it's off to work we go...''.
There was not a lot of room.
Before I had even managed to squeeze my backpack into the space, Nicky had her bed sorted and was lying on her bunk looking like a semi-comfortable giant on a very small bed. I finally wedged my bags in, put one foot on the little steel step and hoisted myself up. One nanosecond later, I was back where I'd started, my head having crashed thunderously into the roof of the carriage, sending me, stunned, back into the aisle. I tried again, and precisely the same chain of events occurred. What was I supposed to do...levitate? It seemed a physical impossibility. Finally, I decided not to use the step and simply hauled myself up in the most unceremonious manner and slid myself onto the bed sideways.
Once I was up there, I lifted my head to see if there was any spare room for my legs and promptly reacquainted my skull with the ceiling. Becoming mildly frustrated, I decided to get down again and try to rearrange my bags from the aisle. Working blind, I managed to locate the little step with my outstretched foot and tried to turn my body so that my dismount would be slightly more elegant than my mount. There wasn't enough room to turn and, after headbutting the ceiling several more times, I just slid myself sideways and let my legs drop uncontrollably to the floor. In the process, my swinging left boot breezed millimetres past the face of an extremely old, extremely startled (and extremely small) Chinaman in the bunk below. When I finally came to rest in the aisle, I looked around the carriage half-expecting my fellow passengers to be holding up scorecards for my gymnastic dismount, but most of them were now happily ensconced in their miniscule bunks.
-------------------------
And that's where the journal ended...sad really, as the overnight sleeper was definitely worth a more detailed description and the 4-hour coach journey to Krabi was truly hell on earth (Nicky spent most of the journey barfing undigested roasted almonds wrapped in figs into sick bags while, on the TV, an unhinged Thai comedian screamed at the top of his voice for the full four hours). Also, on stepping off the coach in Krabi - very queasy, very tired, very hot and very 'not in the mood for some local conman to insist we get in his taxi' - Nicky had a 'quiet word' with a local taxi driver! However, we found our way to Ao Nang in the end and it was definitely worth the journey. Perhaps, if I can muster the enthusiasm, I'll try to write the very, very last Bigadic journal mentioning, in more detail, the wonders of Ao Nang, the beautiful Wanderer's Inn in the Perhentian Islands, Malaysia and, of course, our very last port of call, New Dehli, where they wouldn't let us out of the world's coldest airport.
That's all folks...
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Wednesday, 22 October 2008
Ian's Weans . . . and their stains
Myself and my wife have four kids who, between them, cause us to love, laugh, cry and scream. I have decided to start this blog in order to help me decipher the days, to understand my kids and to give me the chance to reflect on my own behaviour with them. How I reacted to the spilt milk, why it bothers me so much that they don't always eat their dinner, the fights, the tears, the tantrums. I desperately want to be a great dad. Actually, to be more precise (and this might be part of the larger problem with me), I want their memories of me to be fond ones. If I died tomorrow, I'm not sure their recollections would all be as pleasant as I'd like them to be. That's what I want to change.
Today has been like many I've experienced as a parent. An 8am row with a four-year-old ensured I spent the day with a heavy burden of guilt sat firmly on my already haunched shoulders (will enlarge upon Dr S[t]oma's African Back diagnosis at a later date). I think it has been the catalyst for starting this blog - the day of guilt, not the African Back! I have to change. I want to change. I have to learn where the line is between 'Why Did I Do That?' and 'Why Did (insert name of child 1-4) Do That?'.
If I write an honest account of what happens in my dealings with the kids, it could be a therapeutic journey. Bumpy, but therapeutic. The aim being to better understand my kids and to better understand myself. To be a better dad.
Just killed a mozzie . . . not a great start on the Being A Better Dad front.
So, day one . . . September 22, 2008.
Today started well. Last night Nicky bought the boys hats and gloves. Spiderman hats and gloves no less . . . a guaranteed winner! Our youngest, Livvy, was spared the superhero garb and was treated instead to a hat/glove combo that wouldn't be out of place on a Swiss mountainside being worn by a girl called Heidi. Anyway, we left them beside their beds so they'd find them when they woke, which is precisely what happened. Our twins, Woody and Ben, arrived in our bedroom fully clad in Bob The Builder/Postman Pat pyjamas, topped off with Spiderman gloves and hats. A glorious ensemble. Breakfast went well . . . four orders of Golden Balls all went down the chute with only minimal spillage.
Then Charlie's mood soured. His Spiderman gloves were ''too tight''. (The hat was a complete non-starter . . . Charlie is not, and has never been, a hat wearer). A minor altercation ensued between him and I which culminated in me taking the gloves off! He was not amused. The moment passed, but the scene had been set. That was the moment which laid the groundwork for what was to follow. A quick blast of Dora the Explorer and, before we knew it, school time was upon us. Just one thing to do before I leave for the 15-minute walk with Charlie . . . give him his medicine.
He's recently had an ear infection for which Dr S(t)oma prescribed him some antibiotic. Bright yellow, dangerous-looking antibiotic. The colour alone is enough to frighten a child. Our first attempt at getting him to take it was a few days back and we ended up waterboarding a four year old, Guantanamo Bay style, in our kitchen. A soon-to-be bright yellow kitchen. He really wasn't keen. Since then, though, most likely in a bid to avoid any repeat of the aforementioned terror, he's been very compliant with the medicine. Until this morning, that is.
Nicky was already on the case, knelt beside him in the kitchen, spoon filled. The tight-lipped Charlie was having none of it. After a couple of ''Please Charlie'''s, ''Your Ear Will Fall Off If You Don't'''s and one last hurrah of ''Open Your Mouth Right Now!'', time was getting on so I decided to intervene. Why did I do that? Had I left it to Nicky, Charlie would most likely have taken the medicine. It might have taken a while but she's patient and clever and lovely. She would have won him round. Instead, I waded in with all the panache of a sledge hammer and got sprayed with luminous yellow antibiotic for my trouble. Nicky, to her credit, stayed relatively calm but the look on her face was one of hopelessness. And it was all for me. It was a look of ''I have no words to express what a useless twat you are sometimes''. I turned away to get our coats, shrouded in the uneasy knowledge that she was, of course, quite right.
He finally took the medicine, just as he finally put on his coat and we were finally ready to leave, Charlie with a big yellow phospherous stain on the collar of his nice white polo shirt and me with my yellow-speckled Levis. As I stood outside the front door, hand outstretched in invitation to my beautiful, red haired, brown eyed, yellow-collared boy it became apparent he was going nowhere with me. This was no more than I deserved. In the end, after much begging and pleading, I simply picked him up and started walking. A passerby would have been forgiven for thinking I was kidnapping a child, his blood curdling screams echoing all around the otherwise tranquil DA9 postal district.
In the end, the walk to school was, quite literally, a drag! We didn't talk much. I tried to make conversation a couple of times, but was met with stoney silence and a bottom lip so disfigured by sulk it was practically blinding him, curled, as it was, somewhere between his nose and his forehead. I stopped a couple of times, kneeling down to his level in futile attempts at reconciliation, but he's made of sterner stuff. We finally arrived at school with only a minute or two to spare before the bell rang and then the little purple people formed eager, ragged lines to greet their teachers and a brand new day at Big School.
By now my guilt was on a drip with the valve set to 'open'. I knew I had ruined our morning but was hopeful of one last fond kiss, a smile, a ''love you, dad''. Instead, he joined the end of the dwindling queue of classmates, gave his teacher a shy, quiet smile and made his way towards the classroom entrance. Usually, he looks back and gives a final, excited, proud wave and shouts ''love you, dad!'' or ''bye, dad!''. I was thinking ''this will make everything okay . . . he'll turn and wave and we'll be back on speaking terms.'' Instead, I watched his little forlorn, golden head disappear through the doorway and his book-bag and Dalek lunch box wobbled out of sight. There was to be no wave today. No ''love you, dad'', no smiling, pink-cheeked, red-haired ''bye dad!''. And the real tragedy was that I had raised my hand in anticipation of his farewell. I was left standing in the playground alone, embarrassed and ashamed at the damage I had done to his day.
I had a knot in my stomach as I walked off towards the station to catch my train to work. Thoughts of my own childhood came flooding back, snippets, moments, incidents. I know how he must be feeling. And I know it isn't nice. What I don't know is why I would then inflict those feelings on a four year old. Our four year old. Our first born. Our beautiful, bright, loving, caring, four-year-old, who just happens not to like tight Spiderman gloves and luminous yellow antibiotic.
Today has been like many I've experienced as a parent. An 8am row with a four-year-old ensured I spent the day with a heavy burden of guilt sat firmly on my already haunched shoulders (will enlarge upon Dr S[t]oma's African Back diagnosis at a later date). I think it has been the catalyst for starting this blog - the day of guilt, not the African Back! I have to change. I want to change. I have to learn where the line is between 'Why Did I Do That?' and 'Why Did (insert name of child 1-4) Do That?'.
If I write an honest account of what happens in my dealings with the kids, it could be a therapeutic journey. Bumpy, but therapeutic. The aim being to better understand my kids and to better understand myself. To be a better dad.
Just killed a mozzie . . . not a great start on the Being A Better Dad front.
So, day one . . . September 22, 2008.
Today started well. Last night Nicky bought the boys hats and gloves. Spiderman hats and gloves no less . . . a guaranteed winner! Our youngest, Livvy, was spared the superhero garb and was treated instead to a hat/glove combo that wouldn't be out of place on a Swiss mountainside being worn by a girl called Heidi. Anyway, we left them beside their beds so they'd find them when they woke, which is precisely what happened. Our twins, Woody and Ben, arrived in our bedroom fully clad in Bob The Builder/Postman Pat pyjamas, topped off with Spiderman gloves and hats. A glorious ensemble. Breakfast went well . . . four orders of Golden Balls all went down the chute with only minimal spillage.
Then Charlie's mood soured. His Spiderman gloves were ''too tight''. (The hat was a complete non-starter . . . Charlie is not, and has never been, a hat wearer). A minor altercation ensued between him and I which culminated in me taking the gloves off! He was not amused. The moment passed, but the scene had been set. That was the moment which laid the groundwork for what was to follow. A quick blast of Dora the Explorer and, before we knew it, school time was upon us. Just one thing to do before I leave for the 15-minute walk with Charlie . . . give him his medicine.
He's recently had an ear infection for which Dr S(t)oma prescribed him some antibiotic. Bright yellow, dangerous-looking antibiotic. The colour alone is enough to frighten a child. Our first attempt at getting him to take it was a few days back and we ended up waterboarding a four year old, Guantanamo Bay style, in our kitchen. A soon-to-be bright yellow kitchen. He really wasn't keen. Since then, though, most likely in a bid to avoid any repeat of the aforementioned terror, he's been very compliant with the medicine. Until this morning, that is.
Nicky was already on the case, knelt beside him in the kitchen, spoon filled. The tight-lipped Charlie was having none of it. After a couple of ''Please Charlie'''s, ''Your Ear Will Fall Off If You Don't'''s and one last hurrah of ''Open Your Mouth Right Now!'', time was getting on so I decided to intervene. Why did I do that? Had I left it to Nicky, Charlie would most likely have taken the medicine. It might have taken a while but she's patient and clever and lovely. She would have won him round. Instead, I waded in with all the panache of a sledge hammer and got sprayed with luminous yellow antibiotic for my trouble. Nicky, to her credit, stayed relatively calm but the look on her face was one of hopelessness. And it was all for me. It was a look of ''I have no words to express what a useless twat you are sometimes''. I turned away to get our coats, shrouded in the uneasy knowledge that she was, of course, quite right.
He finally took the medicine, just as he finally put on his coat and we were finally ready to leave, Charlie with a big yellow phospherous stain on the collar of his nice white polo shirt and me with my yellow-speckled Levis. As I stood outside the front door, hand outstretched in invitation to my beautiful, red haired, brown eyed, yellow-collared boy it became apparent he was going nowhere with me. This was no more than I deserved. In the end, after much begging and pleading, I simply picked him up and started walking. A passerby would have been forgiven for thinking I was kidnapping a child, his blood curdling screams echoing all around the otherwise tranquil DA9 postal district.
In the end, the walk to school was, quite literally, a drag! We didn't talk much. I tried to make conversation a couple of times, but was met with stoney silence and a bottom lip so disfigured by sulk it was practically blinding him, curled, as it was, somewhere between his nose and his forehead. I stopped a couple of times, kneeling down to his level in futile attempts at reconciliation, but he's made of sterner stuff. We finally arrived at school with only a minute or two to spare before the bell rang and then the little purple people formed eager, ragged lines to greet their teachers and a brand new day at Big School.
By now my guilt was on a drip with the valve set to 'open'. I knew I had ruined our morning but was hopeful of one last fond kiss, a smile, a ''love you, dad''. Instead, he joined the end of the dwindling queue of classmates, gave his teacher a shy, quiet smile and made his way towards the classroom entrance. Usually, he looks back and gives a final, excited, proud wave and shouts ''love you, dad!'' or ''bye, dad!''. I was thinking ''this will make everything okay . . . he'll turn and wave and we'll be back on speaking terms.'' Instead, I watched his little forlorn, golden head disappear through the doorway and his book-bag and Dalek lunch box wobbled out of sight. There was to be no wave today. No ''love you, dad'', no smiling, pink-cheeked, red-haired ''bye dad!''. And the real tragedy was that I had raised my hand in anticipation of his farewell. I was left standing in the playground alone, embarrassed and ashamed at the damage I had done to his day.
I had a knot in my stomach as I walked off towards the station to catch my train to work. Thoughts of my own childhood came flooding back, snippets, moments, incidents. I know how he must be feeling. And I know it isn't nice. What I don't know is why I would then inflict those feelings on a four year old. Our four year old. Our first born. Our beautiful, bright, loving, caring, four-year-old, who just happens not to like tight Spiderman gloves and luminous yellow antibiotic.
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