Hoarding (Singapore)

My father used to stash broken bits (stones, concrete, flower pots) under the rambutan tree, saying it’s good for the tree.  Don’t know how — maybe moisture retention but he didn’t say.  My mother would nag him on a regular basis.  

Years later, when we children were a bit older (therefore brave enough to take matters into our own hands), we waited until he was at work and loaded a pick-up truck with all the bits and drove off to the tip.  Fait accompli.

As Laura said (see blog Other people’s things), it’s much easier to throw out other people’s stuff.

I blame my father for passing on his hoarding genes to me.

(Singapore, 1960s)

See also blogs It will never rust and Other people’s things

You know you're getting old when... : 05 (London)

...an old lady offers you HER seat!

I was travelling home last night from teaching. Jumped onto a Piccadilly line train at Kings Cross, and stood by the door, minding my own business.

After three stops, an Oriental lady came up to me from behind and offered me her seat. I hadn't even noticed her when I got on. I declined politely, but she insisted, saying she was getting off in two stops anyway (but ended up getting off at my stop, one more stop on from where she said she was disembarking).

Being Oriental, she'd be better able to judge my age than Westerners. Her hair was completely grey; mine is nearly completely black (if you don't look carefully), yet she offered me her seat. I am indeed getting old...

(London, 2020)