Small world or what?!? (London)

When I was at university, I went to where Laura (a year above me) usually sat, to drag her off to tea (she studied all hours and never ate lunch, nibbling carrots instead at her library space).  An Oriental chap was sitting with her so he was invited to join us.  

He’d spoken to Laura because he was surprised that a white girl was reading a Chinese classic (紅樓夢 / Dream of The Red Chamber / Story of The Stone, published 1792).  

He turned out to be from Singapore, so the focus switched to him and me.  

He said he was actually on study leave to Sussex University but came to my library (School of Oriental and African Studies, SOAS) because of its reputation for its collection of Japanese books.  So, he wasn’t even from SOAS, which is another small-world fact.  

He said he usually lived in Japan and had been there for a while.  Which university in Japan, I asked.  Tōhoku 東北, he said.  Ah, I said, my uncle went to Tōhoku in the 60s on a scholarship for a year — might he know him.  

I gave his name: Tay Mui Kwang.  Man said, “If Tay Mui Kwang is your uncle, then what is Chng Nguan Kim to you?”  I said, “Oh, Tay Mui Kwang is actually my mum’s cousin.  Chng Nguan Kim is my mother’s brother, therefore a more direct uncle.”  Man said, “Well, Chng Nguan Kim’s wife and my wife are sisters.”  I said, “Ah, so your wife is Aunty Hiang!  I’d heard about the two of you since a child: you and Aunty Hiang being perpetual students, going for one degree after another in Japan, staying on and on for years and years.”

Now, what are the odds of meeting someone I’d heard about since the late 50s, then meeting him in London in 1979, and through Laura too, therefore indirectly, therefore could’ve missed him if I’d not gone to get Laura to go for tea at that moment...  He wasn't even based at SOAS but Sussex, and only came up to London to use our library.

(London, 1979)

Thinking outside the box: 05 (London)

A student on the evening programme in the 90s had to go to Istanbul on business last minute so she was going to miss the exam.  Told me how much she wanted to do the exam as she’d put in so much work and didn’t want to wait until the re-sit in August — no tuition after end of school year in June so she’d get rusty.  Asked if I could find a solution. 

I suddenly came up with this idea: go and sit the exam at the British Embassy invigilated by a staff member. We’d just send the paper over, the embassy is a perfectly trustworthy authority for invigilating an exam. The only problem might be if she had a query about the contents but I could be on duty in London for that, i.e., be ready to take a phone call if she had one. So, all angles covered.

The embassy agreed to this, and it went smoothly.  And I was saved the hassle of having to set a re-sit just for one person.

(London, 1996?7?)

Why sit next to me?!?? (London)

 

Something that annoys me a bit is how people insist on sitting next to me on the bus, wherever I might be seated.  

The seat immediately behind the middle door is the most obvious: they want to be close to the door for getting off.

But I could be on the other side of the aisle (the far side from the door), and they’d still come and sit next to me, often making me move my bags of (food) shopping onto my lap.

Ditto if I were in the second seat behind the door.

Yesterday, I suddenly discovered the visual reason for this.

I was in the second seat behind the door, therefore not the most obvious one in terms of proximity to the door for disembarking.  A woman came and sat next to me in spite of there being only one woman in the seat behind the door, and only one man in the one the other side of the aisle.  

It was only then that I noticed how big the two Westerners are, taking up more than half the seat.  

It was something I’d only realised two months back, looking at a photo taken at a meal with my students.  I was shocked to see that, even standing up, I am barely taller than a student (from Malaysia, not a beefy Westerner) sitting down.  

Then, a classmate from RI (Raffles Institution) sent a compilation of photos from the last 40 years, and I saw that even against my Singaporean friends, I’m the smallest.

No wonder these people on the bus all want to sit with me: there’s a much bigger space next to this tiny Oriental.

(London)

Politics vs Friendship (Taiwan)

 

Lee Kuan Yew, then Prime Minister of Singapore, went on an official visit to Beijing in May 1976.  When I read about it in The China Post, Taiwan’s English language newspaper, I was green with envy, because it said his daughter, who was my year at RI (Raffles Institution), had gone along.

I went off to tell Mary, my colleague at Conoco Taiwan.  We were the youngest (aged 21) members of staff, with our birthdays three weeks apart, so we had a sort of special bond between us.

I said, “Look, Wei Ling gets to go to mainland China, when the rest of us can’t.”  

Singapore had no official diplomatic ties with mainland China at the time, so it was not easy, if well nigh impossible, for Singaporeans to go there.  I’d been intrigued, especially since I love travelling, by films and documentaries made by and about mainland China: the ones where they speed-skated on frozen rivers, where smiling young women picked apples the same colour as their rosy cheeks — all quite different from my tropical childhood.

“And,” I continued, “she got to go to New Zealand last year when her father went on an official visit.  She’s so lucky!”

Mary Fu’s face was like thunder, “I thought we were chums, yet here you are, envying her for being able to go over to the other side.  Don’t you know they are our arch-enemy? How could you!!??”

I was taken aback, “But what’s that got to do with our friendship?  I’m only envious that as the prime minister’s daughter, she gets to go to places the rest of us mere mortals can’t.  Didn’t I also say I was jealous of her for going to New Zealand as well?”

Mary refused to speak to me for three weeks.

Then, she rang my extension one day, “I’ve thought about it, and I can see that I shouldn’t have put our friendship and politics in the same category.  Can we be friends again?”

My reply, “So you’re ready to be friends again, are you?  Well, I’m not.”  And I left it for another three weeks.

Years later, she’d recount this incident as one of the biggest eye-openers for her.

(Taiwan, 1976)

Cockeyed (Singapore)

I was sitting with some people at one of the tables in the old RI main tuck shop (not the small one in the annexe next to Science E) when this chap came up and spoke to us.  

I looked up, and he seemed to be talking to me as one of his eyes was looking at me, but I didn’t know him. I looked at the other eye and it was looking at the other people at the table.  Yes, he was cockeyed!  

I ended up listening and nodding to the end out of politeness, even though I couldn’t understand anything of what he was saying, because I never found out who he was addressing.

*old RI = the old Raffles Institution site at Bras Basah Road before its move to Grange Road in 1972

(Singapore, 1971)

Students' witticism: 04 (London)

I texted a few people with this:

Quote

Haha, just heard on Radio 4.  There’s a town called Whynot in Mississippi.  A letter got returned, with the note:  “Not Whynot, try Why.”  

I’ve googled: there’s no Why in Mississippi.

Unquote

Ex-student Kevin texted back:  Yeah lots of ‘i’s no ‘y’ 🙂

Took me a while to work it out...

(London, 2021)

Simple folk remedies: 09 (hay fever) (London / Vermont)

 

I used to suffer very seriously from hay fever.  

Not only did my season start earlier and end later than most people’s, my symptoms were also quite severe.  

Apart from the usual sneezing, runny nose and itchy eyes (but constant in my case for all three), my scalp would itch (even right after a hair wash, so no, not dirty hair); my ear tunnels and the back of my throat would itch way inside, making me want to stick my hand right inside/down to scratch.

One November day, I discovered a greengrocer’s that sold bags of fruit cheaply — sort of bulk discount at £1 for a bag of 10 or 12, a new thing in the mid-80s.  I’d buy a bag of lemons every Saturday, and spend Sunday squeezing them for my week’s supply of lemon juice.  To sweeten it, I added honey.  Every morning, I’d pour out about 2 inches of this lemon-and-honey concoction into a litre bottle and add water.  (In the summer, ice cubes instead, for a cold drink as the ice melted through the day.)  

Come March, when my hay fever didn’t happen, I thought it was because the pollen count had been low, but a student said it’d actually been quite high.  

It then occurred to me that it must’ve been the lemon-and-honey concoction I’d been drinking the last few months.  (Hay fever jabs are meant to be done in November or December, way before the season starts, or it’ll be too late to be effective.)

Then I came across a little book written by a doctor in Vermont in the 1950s.  He said he noticed the farmhands didn’t suffer from hay fever, then observed that they chewed a piece of honeycomb throughout the day.  

He went on to make a concoction that’s marketed as honegar.  (It’s just honey and cider vinegar, so it’d be much cheaper to buy the separate ingredients and make your own.)  My own concoction is honey and lemon, so it must be the honey that’s the active ingredient.  

I came up with this theory: if bees spend all their time sticking their noses into pollen and yet don’t sneeze themselves to death, they must’ve built up some resistance, which then gets transferred to the honey they produce.

(London, 1980s; Vermont, 1950s)

Almost-simultaneous teaching (London)

 

It was my suggestion to assign two teachers to each grade, so that the students would benefit during their two-hour lesson from two different teaching styles, accents, etc., that they wouldn’t have got if they had only one teacher for the whole lesson.  So, the time-tabling of two adjacent grades on the same evening meant that the teachers would switch over after the break.

One evening, ten minutes into my teaching Grade 2, one of the Grade 1 students came to my classroom, saying that their teacher still hadn’t turned up.

Those were the pre-mobile phone days, so I couldn’t try to get in touch with the teacher and find out.  The only thing to do was to keep the Grade 1 students occupied until their teacher arrived — if he did at all, which was an unknown.

Luckily, the two grades were on the same floor, but at opposite ends.

I set a few sentences for the Grade 2 students to translate, testing grammar and vocabulary.  

While they were doing that, I ran down the corridor to the Grade 1 class, and set some Q&A sentences for them to do: What’s your surname, What’s your personal name, Where are you from, Where do you live, Are you married, How old are you?

While the Grade 1 students were doing that, I ran back to the Grade 2 class, went over the translation sentences with them (analysing why / why not use a particular structure or word), set them more sentences, and ran back to the Grade 1 students.

In this fashion, I ran back and forth down the corridor for another 20 minutes until the Grade 1 teacher arrived.

I swore my students to secrecy over this.  Mustn’t let the university know I could teach two classes (almost) simultaneously, or they’d try to save money by getting me to do it.

(London, 1994) 

The unconscious state (UK, Kuwait)

Just heard a BBC World Service programme about some serious Covid patients (and their doctors, nurses, and chaplain) up in Leeds, Yorkshire, northern England.

The doctor interviewed said they still spoke to the comatose patients as if they could hear.  One of the family members would even read out recipes for want of something to say, just so that the patient could hear their voice.

I have heard quite a few stories about people who are in an unconscious state being able to hear.

A football-mad boy started to respond when the family played him some football match commentary.

When Michael Rosen* caught Covid and was in a 40-day induced coma, one of the nurses one day mentioned the name of the football team that was the main local rival of the team Rosen supports.  The nurse reported Rosen rolling over in his bed and keeping his back to her (presumably in disgust or protest).

When I was interpreting in Kuwait in May 1986, the six of us interpreters had come back to our hotel from a half day’s tour of Kuwait City, and were walking up the main staircase when one of the team twisted her ankle on the stairs.  So sharp was the pain that she fainted.

She was carried up the rest of the stairs and placed on one of the sofas in the foyer.  I knelt down beside her, held her hand, stroked it and said soothingly, “It’s all right, Mary [not her real name], it’s all right, everything’s all right, everything’s all right, don’t worry, don’t worry.”  She opened her eyes at that point.

Later, when she got back from the hospital, she told me that when she was in the unconscious state, she felt she was falling down a very long and dark shaft.  She said she felt quite frightened as she was falling down, down, down.  Then she heard a voice saying, “It’s all right, Mary, it’s all right, everything’s all right, everything’s all right, don’t worry, don’t worry.”  She suddenly thought, “I know that voice!  It’s xx!!” and immediately calmed down.  That was when she then woke up, to find me holding her hand, stroking it, and soothing her with those words.

*Michael Wayne Rosen (born 7 May 1946) is a British children's author and poet who has written 140 books. He served as Children's Laureate from 2007 to 2009, and has also been a TV presenter and political columnist.

Kafkaesque logic (China, London/New Orleans)

 

Old friend Valerio says he’d not received an email I’d copied him into on 31 October.  Searched in his spam, did a global search — no joy.  Said he’s now worried there might be other messages that’ve just got lost out there in cyberspace.

My reply to him: yes, it’s worrying indeed.  You can’t fix what you don’t know is a problem.

This calls to mind something that happened on the 1988 film shoot in China.

The film director had gone out prior to the shoot itself, to do some recce’ing (reconnaissance).

It was a travelogue, following this multi-millionaire motorcyclist throughout his ride from Shanghai to Pakistan.  

As anyone who’s worked in documentary film projects would know, especially in the earlier days, there was really no such thing as spontaneity.  You didn’t just turn up and follow the subject with your camera crew throughout his journey.  

Especially if it was China, where you’d need all sorts of things like permission — that is, after you’ve found the right people and places for him to “run into” on his long ride across China on the Silk Route.  It would’ve been a waste of time and money unless everything was already in place for the camera to roll.

The motorcyclist was originally going to just get up in the morning, have breakfast, get on his bike, stop for lunch, get on his bike, stop for the night, eat dinner, go to bed.  Repeat the next day, and the next, and the next — for 37 days all the way from Shanghai to the border with Pakistan.

With a film to be made out of it, an idea suggested by one of his PBS (America’s Public Broadcasting Service) friends, it’d have made sleep-inducing viewing in this format.  So, the film company commissioned for the travelogue decided to weave a trail of “chance encounters” into his 37-day journey across China.  All for a bird’s-eye-view of China in that era (the late 80s):  a private entrepreneur parvenu in officially-socialist China; a divorced woman — just to name two examples.

On her recce, the film director had been assigned a guide/interpreter woman, to whom the director entrusted with the task of unearthing these interesting encounters and obtaining the relevant permission.

After the first day of filming around Shanghai, the director sat down with the guide/interpreter to go through the list of people the latter should’ve rooted out for the motorcyclist to “run into” and chat with.

The guide/interpreter had displayed blatant dereliction of duty right from Day One of the recce — which was why I was taken on last minute, as her English and work ethics were so appalling.

On the drive out of Shanghai, the director decided to have a meeting on the mini-bus with the guide, asking her, “Have you tracked down the people on my list that I’d asked you to sound out? Have you found me other likely subjects of interest?”

The guide said, “No.”  (Surprise, surprise.)

The director: “Why not? The recce was a few weeks ago, you’ve had all this time to do it!  We can’t afford to lose time, having come all the way from the other side of the world!  You’re the local, you know where to find these people and how to get permission.  That’s why we’ve employed you.”  (Well, we had no choice actually, as she was assigned by the government body.)

The guide’s self-defence: “I couldn’t do it, because I don’t know how much you know about China.  You have to tell me what you know about China, and you have to tell me what you don’t know about China.”

(China, 1988; London/New Orleans, 2021)

See also blog At the Lost Property Office

Dead but not gone (London)

We were suddenly informed, at lunch on Thursday 23 September, of the sudden death the night before of a kitchen volunteer at the community centre where I was teaching Mandarin and English.  

    Tee (from Malaysia) was in her 80s who’d been a volunteer there for over 25 years and much loved.

    Her fellow kitchen hand colleague, Filipino Anita, told the story of what happened the night before (when she hadn’t found out about Tee’s death).  Anita heard knocking on her window.  Her window had a wide and full view of the outside, and there was no one there.  When Anita came in the next morning to work, she learned that Tee had died.

    A student on the Mandarin course, Sui (also from Malaysia), came in for the pre-lesson lunch.  As she approached the building, she saw Tee in the reception area.  When she got there, however, Tee was gone.  Sui thought Tee must’ve gone back to the kitchen.  When Sui went to the kitchen, however, Tee was nowhere to be found.  

    

    Then, Sui (and the rest of us) learned that Tee had died the night before.

Spooky or what?!

(London, 2021)

Simple folk remedies: 08 (tickly cough) (London)

A tickly cough cannot be suffered in silence, unlike a sore throat, so there’s the added element of feeling bad about invading people’s air space with your noise.  Such was my upbringing: always be considerate of other people, even when you’re not deliberately being selfish creating the noise.

So, the tickly cough remedy was a most fortuitous discovery.  A sub-continental Indian technician at the university where I used to work heard me coughing and complaining to the porters about it, and told me about this South American Indian (Amazonian) remedy.  For someone like me who’s very keen on natural remedies, it’s an extra bonus that it should be a non-chemical solution.

Sip some chilli water whenever the tickly cough threatens to erupt.  Just enough to line the walls of your throat. The chilli water will quell that tickly sensation.

Recipe: soak any form of chilli (powder, flakes, whole, dried, fresh) in some water — strength to suit.  That’s it, as simple as that.

I’d carry this chilli water around in a mineral water bottle (light and convenient), and sip it every time the tickly cough threatened to erupt.  Bus journeys became much less embarrassing after I discovered this remedy.

Chilli is a common cooking ingredient, so even if it doesn’t quite zap that cough, I’m not pumping my system up with chemicals.  Can’t lose.

(London, 2011)

Simple folk remedies: 07 (sore throat) (Singapore, London)

Sarsaparilla was a common commercial drink in Singapore during my childhood.  We called it sarsi for short.  It’s similar in flavour to root beer and coke.

Whenever we were developing a sore throat, we’d chill some sarsi, then add salt, and drink it.  I suspect it’s the salt bit that works for the sore throat, and the sarsi is there to make it more palatable.  (Ditto other Chinese herbal remedies using supporting ingredients to make the main ingredient more drinkable — to be covered in another blog.)

In the UK, I haven’t been able to track down sarsi, so I’d use coke as an alternative.  If I think I might be going down with a sore throat, I’d get the largest bottle of coke I can find, then drink a portion, with salt, every few hours.  

Some might say it’s not healthy to be pumping one’s system up with so much salt, but this formula is only for zapping a sore throat quickly when one is threatening to erupt, which is not that often — in my case, once every few years, if not decade.  You can actually feel the bubbles of the fizzy liquid attacking the inflamed walls of your throat as it goes down your gullet.  It also works even when the sore throat has taken hold.

(Singapore / London, 1960s / 1977 onwards)

Students’ witticism: 03 (London)

 

As mentioned in Students’ witticism: 02, I teach Functional/Survival phrases to students right from the first lesson, so that they can start putting them to use in a real-life situation.

Two of those phrases are:

• 你說什麼 / 你说什么 / nǐ shuō shénme / “you say what” = What do you say?
• 對不起，我來晚了 / 对不起，我来晚了 / duìbùqǐ, wǒ lái-wǎn le / Sorry I’m late.

When I was teaching the evening programme students, I’d put the question to late arrivals, even if they were only late by a minute — just for the practice.  (Not that I minded their being late.  Chinese was just a hobby for them, after all, and most of them had to come from work, so I was always grateful that they bothered to turn up at all.)

To go with the question, I’d do the hands-on-hips gesture for visual effect.

A few months into the course, I was late.  Arrived to find the whole class, hands on hips, asking in gleeful unison: 你說什麼! / 你说什么! / nǐ shuō shénme!

(London, 1985)

Students' witticism: 02 (London)

It’s such fun teaching older mature students, I find.  They have the life experience and assertiveness that comes with age to engage in on-the-spot repartee.

(I say “older mature students”, because a student in her 70s said to me yesterday that anyone over the age of 21 is “mature”.)

One student (in his 70s?) is often late for his lessons.  (No criticism, just an observation.  I’m just pleased and touched that they come to class at all, especially when they’re in their 70s and live a long way away.)  

This gives the whole class the opportunity to ask him one of the Functional/Survival phrases I’ve taught them: “你說什麼 / 你说什么 / nǐ shuō shénme / “you say what” = What do you say?” — something they take great delight in doing.  (Yes, it’s a wicked-humour class, this lot.)  

The answer is another Functional/Survival phrase I’ve taught them: 對不起，我來晚了 / 对不起，我来晚了 / duìbùqǐ, wǒ lái-wǎn le / Sorry I’m late.

On-site students pay at the door.

This student was late again for last Thursday’s lesson.  As he was paying in the reception area (next to my classroom), I went out and said to the person processing his payment: “Don’t let him in until he’s paid!”  (I only dare do this with students who are “safe”, i.e., they know my sense of humour.)

When he came in a minute later, I said, “Have you paid?”

His reply: “No need.  Personality is enough!”

PS:  Yes, it was a lady processing his payment.

(London, 2021)

Unconscious trend-following? (London)

Summer last year, I picked up a pair of ankle boots that were thrown out (left outside a house, on the pavement, which is what people do these days with things they’re happy for people to take — something the Swiss in Zürich were already doing back in 1987).  

I was going to see if Sienna, the girl I’ve been delivering to, and collecting from, school (along with her younger brother), would like them.  However, at age 10, her feet are already a little too big for the size 3 boots, so I thought I’d take them to the charity shop.

Then, it rained one day, so I wore them on the school run, as they’re waterproof.  (I have to wear two pairs of socks to stop my feet from sliding around inside…)

It was raining this morning, so I donned them again for the school run.  On the way to Sienna’s house, I suddenly noticed that her area’s council (= local government) rubbish bins are exactly the same shade of purple as my ankle boots.  For the rest of the journey to school, I started to spot more council rubbish bins with that shade of purple.

I’ve never been one to follow trends, hating to join the crowd.  (I used to sport a topknot, but when it became trendy some 15 years ago, I stopped doing it altogether.  Wouldn’t be seen following everyone.) But now, with these purple boots, it looks like I’m being trendy — joining the ranks of the council’s rubbish bins!

(London, 2021)

Registering for evening classes (London)

 

After ten years as a teacher on the evening programme, I was made the co-ordinator for the evening Chinese section. 

The students on the evening programme were all mature students (no student under 18 was eligible to join), with a lot of them easily above 40, if not 50.  Some even had PhDs.  Some were high-flyers in their professions (an intellectual property rights expert, e.g.).

September is when registration for evening classes starts.  There’d be just two evenings set aside for it, one each in two consecutive weeks, although people could still turn up late, after term had started.  

Those who were not absolute beginners had to be assessed for placing in the right grade.  You had to ask them how much Chinese they knew, whether they knew any characters, and how many if they did.  You also had to give them a quick diagnostic test on the spot to help you place them, e.g., give them something to read out loud for character recognition, etc.

Because of the small time window, the queue could start to build up.  Waiting times could be as long as half an hour, if not more.

In my first year as co-ordinator, someone in the queue got a bit fed up of the long wait, and said, “Oh, why are we doing this?!”

A continuing student (who therefore knew me well) quipped, “Because the co-ordinator knows where we live!”

(London, 1995)

How to shorten queues: 01 (London)

  

As mentioned in the other blog on the subject (Registering for evening classes), the queue could get quite long, with waiting times being as long as — if not more than — half an hour.

When I became Co-ordinator, I decided to do something about it.

Continuing students (therefore known to me / the system) only needed to fill in the form without any need for us to speak to them (to assess their level).  They just had to hand in the completed form for me to sign my approval.  So, I decided to pull them out of the queue to shorten it: give them a form, let them go to one side of the room to fill in the form, bring it back to me, and leave.

This reduced the queue rather rapidly.

(The continuing students would still hang around for me to finish, so that we could go to the pub.  The regular pubbing ones would even turn up towards the end of the registration time window to do their registration, so that we could all leave together for the pub.  Yes, my students knew how to get their priorities right...  I’d trained them well.)

(London, 1995 onwards)

How to shorten queues: 02 (London)

 

I had built up a strong post-lesson pubbing tradition among my students, so those who came to the pub would get to know me (especially my perverse sense of humour) better than just as a teacher in the classroom.  

Students also knew that they could come and talk to me in my office whenever they liked — a lot of them would come in early for their lesson, so that they could have a chat with me.  These chats could be social, or about their studies.  They were always welcomed.  I’d always make time for them.

I had a perpetual store of food (fruit and nuts, mainly) in my office for snacking throughout the day.  When students came to my office, they’d always get offered something to eat.

One year, a queue had started to build up outside my office on a non-registration day.  This meant people were there for something other than registration, so each one might take even longer to process than straightforward registering for the course.  

I saw a few familiar faces — continuing students who could always come back another time, as they knew my office door was always open to students, or even discuss the matter in the pub after the lesson.  So, I handed each one a fruit, and said, “Take one and go away.”  They understood my sense of humour, but the faces of those people in the queue who didn’t know me were a right picture!

(London, 1995 onwards)

Oops 3 (London)

I’ve always loved the bits of food that most other people don’t like or don’t eat.  

Bones would be sucked dry, if not crunched down (if soft enough) — I always say I must’ve been a dog in my previous life.  

There’s a street-food dish in Singapore called kway chap: mainly pig offal and skin cooked in a dark soya sauce, eaten with rice-lasagne triangles — I’d quite happily just have the skin.  I actually do make a version of it at home, now that such things as chicken wings and pork skin are available in multi-cultural London — they weren’t in the 70s when I first arrived, as white British people didn’t eat such things, it seems.  (Another great thing about multiculturalism.)

Eating a cooked English breakfast, I’d notice my British friends cutting off the bacon rind.  (Nowadays, the rind is already cut off before the bacon gets to the shelves, or the restaurant kitchen, it seems.)  I’d ask them if I could have their rind, getting strange looks in return.

Ex-student Jo had invited me over to hers for Christmas Dinner a few times.  Unfortunately, her daughter loves skin as well, so I’d be fighting her for the turkey skin.

Christmas last year, the planned Christmas Dinner at Nigel and Graeme’s got cancelled because of the Covid lockdown.  Jo, who had been tasked with providing the turkey, put aside some of it (meat, skin, bones) for me, in three boxes.  With Jo’s daughter away studying in Australia, I had no competition at all.  Hmm, all the skin and bones to myself!!  Yum!!

Collected the three boxes on Boxing Day.  Got home, picked up one of the boxes at random to eat the contents.  Only meat.  No skin, no bones.  I thought, I’ll have to text Jo and “complain”: “What, no skin, no bones!? I’m being short-changed!!”

Ate the first box, took the other two round to Brazilian friend, to whom I’d been publicising the gift of Christmas turkey, all cooked and ready to eat.  (Like me, she has no work pension, and can only start claiming a small state pension next year, so I try and share my food and other things with her.)

In her kitchen, I started to open one of the boxes to show her what I’d brought, looking forward to her gleeful reaction.  It was full of skin and bones!!  Oh no, Jo had packed the food separately: meat in one box, skin and bones in another!!  And I’d eaten all the skinless, boneless meat!

Luckily, the third box had more skinless, boneless meat.  Phew.

PS:  The Brazilian friend cannot eat fatty food because of her health condition, so I couldn’t even leave her the skin and bones.

(London, 2020)

For those who might need help with the English, I give below my Mac dictionary’s definition for “oops”:

oops | uːps, ʊps |

exclamation informal

used to show recognition of a mistake or minor accident, often as part of an apology: Oops! I'm sorry. I just made you miss your bus!

ORIGIN

natural exclamation: first recorded in English in the 1930s.