One-track mind (India)

Was talking to my nephew on Messenger about accents.  

I said the Beijing accent with its “er” ending on words all over the place is like speaking with marbles in the mouth — cf. what Professor Higgins made Eliza Doolittle do in My Fair Lady.  

My nephew said it has been described by Chinese people as “speaking with fishballs in the mouth”.  (Fishballs are like meatballs but made with fish that’s not good enough for eating whole — steamed, deep-fried, or cooked in a sauce.)

I commented that it’s always a food-related approach with the Chinese.  He said, “Yes, always!”

This reminds me of something I’d heard about an Indian girl who’d gone out to China and spent a Year Abroad there, then returned to India.  When a Chinese delegation went over to India, she was asked to interpret and look after them on their rest day.  

One of the places she took them to was the aquarium.  Instead of admiring the beautiful exotic fishes, as most people would be doing, the Chinese were instead appreciating them from a different perspective: 

“Now, THAT one would be best steamed with ginger.”

“And THIS one would go well with a bean sauce.”

And so on throughout the whole visit.

The tropical fish in the tanks must’ve been going nervously “GULP”.

PS: For those who might need help with the significance of “GULP”:

Gulp: to swallow hard

From googling:  The hard swallow is a high stress or embarrassment indicator due to low saliva production as the fear response of a person is activated. ... In the right context, the hard swallow sometimes indicates that a lie is being told, but it is more reliably, a general signal of high stress.

(India, mid-1980s)

You know you’re getting ancient when… (Manchester, UK)

I was asked last minute to look after a 37-member tour group from Indonesia, a third of whom are about my age.  One of them asked me, “Do you have any grandchildren?”  Unlike Westerners who generally can’t place my age correctly, this lot is from my part of the world so they’d be able to gauge my age fairly accurately.  Still, it was a bit of a shock to be reminded I’ve moved from “Aunty” status (mentioned in blog series: You know you’re getting old when…) to “grandparent” status!  Not old now, but ANCIENT!

(Manchester, UK, 2013)

You know you’re old when… blog series:

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/12/you-know-youre-getting-old-when.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2015/09/you-know-youre-getting-old-when-02.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2015/10/you-know-youre-getting-old-when-3-london.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/11/you-know-youre-getting-old-when-3-london.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2020/02/you-know-youre-getting-old-when-4-london.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2021/02/you-know-youre-getting-old-when-03.html

The brain works in wondrous ways: 01 (Penny the ex-colleague) (London)

I was out food shopping on Seven Sisters Road one day in the 90s.  

Waiting at the bus stop, I saw an apple fall out of the rucksack of a woman who was standing with her back to me.  

I picked it up and said to the back of her head, “Your apple’s fallen out of your rucksack.”  

She said, even before she turned round to face me, “I know that voice!”  

It was Penny who’d worked at the telex agency, British Monomarks, when I worked there 1978–1981.  

She’d started working there a bit after me, and hadn’t stayed as long (I think) — therefore, we hadn’t known each other that long.

We hadn’t always been on the same shifts — therefore, not that much exposure to each other.  

When our shifts did overlap, we didn’t actually talk much because there was always so much to do — therefore, she hadn’t had that much sampling of my voice.  

That’s going back more than a decade, yet she recognised my voice from that one short sentence uttered behind her back!  

(London, 1978–1981, 1990s)

The brain works in wondrous ways: 02 (Chris the ex-student) (Kingston, London)

Chris Welch, a student on the evening programme (therefore mature), threw a party with a theme: guests were to come masked, in the spirit of Venice’s masked balls.

Hilary improvised by using an eye mask given out on long haul flights for sleeping: she cut out holes for the eyes, sewed some decoration on the edges (a pearl, I remember), and voilà, a masquerade ball mask was born!

Not being creative, and not particularly liking fuss, lazy me just put on the Peruvian balaclava I’d bought in an open market in Cusco.  So, I turned up at the party with my whole head totally shrouded, even my long black hair which would’ve given me away immediately.

As soon as we arrived, I said hello to the host through the balaclava.  Another student, also a Chris in the same class as the host Chris, turned round, saying, “I know that voice!”

(Kingston, London, 1996[?] / 1997[?])

The brain works in wondrous ways: 03 (Joseph the bus conductor) (London)

When I was living in Highbury (where Arsenal Stadium is), I used to take the No.19 or No.38 bus on the journey home. They both go via The Angel (an area not far from Kings Cross) where there is a big supermarket.  No.38 doesn’t go to my area, which meant changing to No.19 at The Angel, so I’d nip into the supermarket and do some shopping, then catch the No.19 home.

There was a bus conductor on that late (9pm / 10pm) No.19 bus — a black chap (not sure if African or West Indian) in his mid-/late-30s(??).  [I’m very bad with age: I see the soul, not the shell.]  

He always looked sad and tired: shoulders drooping, head lowered, eyes down, as he stood at the entrance/exit door.  

I don’t know what their wages were like (probably higher than my half salary as a half-post teacher), but it must be tiring working those shifts, moving up and down the bus — both decks — to collect the fares.  (Those were the days of the open back Routemaster buses, with a conductor.)

Being someone with a soft spot for the underdog (and old people), I offered him an apple from my shopping. His face lit up.  

The next time, I asked him for his name as I offered him another fruit.  People feel less invisible and more valued if they’re remembered, and addressed, by their name, I think.  (I always make a point of asking, wherever possible.  The result is always rewarding.)  As I got off the bus at Highbury, I was able to add “Joseph” to my usual “Good night, safe journey!”  Another smile.

Thereafter, I’d get on the bus with “Hello, Joseph, good to see you!” and get a smile.  I’d offer him a fruit, and get another smile.  Then, I’d get off at Highbury with “Good night, Joseph, safe journey!”, and get a smile AND a wave.  All for just one apple!

Gone were the tired slouch and the sad face.  He looked younger, less tired, more perky.  A bit of kindness goes a long way.

All this time, he’d only say “hello” or “bye”, so I didn’t get a lot of sampling of his voice — “slightly husky” was my most vivid impression.  There was really nothing that we could talk about, anyway.  

My upbringing as a Chinese girl also means that one doesn’t talk to strangers, and almost certainly not to male ones.  It’s not really proper and befitting of a young lady to be too talkative and too familiar.  It’s not very feminine.  (It’s a sure sign of old age that I’m more ready now to talk to strangers, haha…. See blog series You know you’re old when… .)

Then a gap of at least five years without seeing Joseph.  I can’t remember now why.  Maybe because I’d moved house and started to take another route.

One day, student Abigail and I were walking along Pentonville Road (of board game Monopoly fame) from The Angel to Kings Cross.  There was a small supermarket on the way, she said she wanted to get some mineral water, so I waited just outside the entrance.  Then I heard someone go up to the doorman standing inside the entrance (where I couldn’t see his face) and ask him about something.  When he replied, my brain went, “Joseph!!”  This was without seeing his face.  I only heard his voice.

Funny how the brain registers and remembers such things, even from minimal exposure.

Yes, of course I went in to say hello and shake his hand.  His face lit up when he heard his name called and turned round to find me there in front of him.  He remembered me, too, and gave me a smile, even though I didn’t have an apple for him this time.

(London, 2002)

You know you’re old when… blog series:

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/12/you-know-youre-getting-old-when.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2015/09/you-know-youre-getting-old-when-02.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2015/10/you-know-youre-getting-old-when-3-london.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/11/you-know-youre-getting-old-when-3-london.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2020/02/you-know-youre-getting-old-when-4-london.html

https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2021/02/you-know-youre-getting-old-when-03.html

The brain works in wondrous ways: 04 (Victor the Gambian) (London)

One of my students on the evening programme was a Gambian (also with a husky voice, like Joseph) called Victor.  

He’s featured in blog Stereo-typing: 3 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2019/02/stereo-typing-3-london.html).

Fast forward some 15(?) years.

I was visiting a friend whose family runs the Oriental bookshop (here Orient = Near, Middle, and Far East) diagonally opposite the British Museum.

The book shop has three sections: the main front section, a middle section, and a back section, all with book shelves.  The back section also functioned as their office (for admin work, processing overseas orders, etc.).

It was while I was in this back room that I heard a husky voice in the front room.  My brain immediately went, “Victor!”

And it was Victor, indeed.

(London, early 2000s?)

The brain works in wondrous ways: 05 (Hugh the ex-classmate) (London)

One of my three A-level subjects was Mandarin Chinese.  I’d only got up to O-level Chinese in Singapore, because I then went to do pre-Med(ical) for my A-levels at Raffles Institution (RI) — Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Economics, and English.  The day college in London wouldn’t let me do three A-level subjects in one year.  So, I went to do Chinese in the evening at the Polytechnic of Central London, having been advised to do three subjects instead of the minimal two for university entrance.

There were two English chaps in my class who were friends and very good to me: Steve and Hugh.  

They were the ones who were instrumental in getting me into SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) — by nagging me almost every day, phoning and telling me to apply.  I’d originally been reluctant to, because the Polytechnic of Central London’s degree course was a Joint Honours [two languages] with a Year Abroad in Year 3.  My choice of Spanish and Chinese would take me to Mexico for six months and China for the other six, which both greatly appealed to me because I like being a member of the local society, even if only for half a year, rather than being a tourist who stays in hotel rooms and eats in restaurants.  I want to be a local, even if only for six months.

That was 1977–78.  I saw Hugh again occasionally at Steve’s when I went over to cook a Chinese meal a number of times up to the mid-80s.  (Steve, now deceased, had mobility problems — both hands and legs, having had polio when he was 16 — so eating out was not so convenient.  Hence my going over to his to cook — complete with my own wok and all.)

Fast forward to the early Noughties.  

Again, I happened to be in the back room at the Oriental bookshop when I heard someone’s voice in the front room.  “Hugh!”  

Yep, it was Hugh from some 30-odd years back.

(London, 1977–78 & early Noughties)

Why are Brussels sprouts so hated by so many?

I don’t remember children in my childhood days in Singapore being so fussy about eating their greens.  It seems to be a big and fairly universal problem here in Britain, if not the whole of the Western world.

The Brits are traditionally known for boiling their veg to death.  One reads stories about cabbage cooked until a pulp, leaving the house reeking of cabbage for weeks.  No wonder the Brits hate the cruciferous family of veg.  They are very nutritious, yet are avoided whenever possible, it seems.  

It is, therefore, the presentation that’s at fault — in this case, over-cooking it, not flavouring it except with water and salt.  (To be fair, the Brits have come a long way since with their attitude to cooking, to the point where Britain has built up quite a reputation for its gastronomy.)

It’s almost unheard of in Chinese cooking to just boil their veg, never mind boil it to death.

It’s so easy to be a vegetarian in Singapore — out East as a whole region, actually.  

One can just have three basic staple flavouring ingredients for a stir-fry: soya sauce, garlic, red chilli.  

There’s a wide range of green leafy veg in the market.  Just stir-fry any of those with the three ingredients, and each one will come out tasting delicious — and different, purely on the basis of their own flavour.  Hardly any work at all.

Just to name a few off the top of my head: 

* Indian spinach (the stalks are reddish at the base) 

* Chinese mustard leaves (commonly served in a Chinese restaurant) 

* amaranth

* sweet potato leaves 

* pak choi

* mange tout (/snow peas) 

* runner beans

They all taste different from each other, so there’s no need to wrack one’s brain for different — let alone elaborate — cooking methods (unless one likes to experiment).  Just use soya sauce, garlic, and red chilli.  Pak choi is very bland, so it doesn’t even need garlic or red chilli.

Brussels sprouts can be quartered and stir-fried the same way.  One can vary it by adding dried mushrooms — the dark brown of the mushroom in combination with the dark green of the sprouts makes a visually attractive dish without having to do little presentation tricks like drizzling some arty sauce around it on the plate or topping it with a carved vegetable rose.  Just stir-fry and serve.  

Oh yes, forgot about the contribution of the garlic and red chilli:  white/cream of the garlic, red of the chilli.  That’s four colours in one dish without needing to have a creative streak.  (That’s why I like it, as I’m not arty at all…)

Half full or half empty?

Further to my blog about comparing oneself to other people (keeping up with the Joneses in reverse) to feel less bad about one’s own lot, I find the daily reports about people being affected by Covid almost an antidote.

Thinking about the Syrians and the Myanmar Rohingyas makes me feel lucky to have a roof over my head, not to be persecuted at all — never mind to that extent, not to have to live through bombings, to be on the run, to have to shelter under a makeshift tarpaulin cover in the monsoon rain.

Similarly, hearing about people losing their jobs and therefore struggling to pay their rent makes me feel thankful that I can still get by — reduced income is better than zero income.  Being threatened with homelessness is even worse than not having the money to buy food because there are food banks and charities / church groups to help out.

I feel thankful indeed.

(2021)

Spontaneous fun with words: 05 (London)

Messaging with my nephew in Singapore about a shopping mall in Singapore near him.  It was featured in a BBC piece about vending machines taking off in Singapore, selling more than the usual kind of things (e.g., canned drinks).  The ones in this shopping mall sell frozen salmon, Singapore’s famous chilli crab, and cacti.

The BBC reporter called it “tired-looking”.  I thought it was another one near my sister’s flat that I used to walk through en route to the bus stop.  My nephew said the one I had in mind was THE mall of its time for the residents of that (suburban) area.

I said, “I’m not a materialistic person, and I don’t like shopping, so I don’t tend to notice things like that.  I only notice bling for the OTT (over the top) element — 'notice' in a negative light.  As I always say to people: I see the soul, not the shell.”  

Then I realised I’d done a pun: “bling” and “light”. 

(London, 2021)

bling:  (informal) expensive, ostentatious clothing and jewellery.

Origin: 1990s: perhaps imitative of light reflecting off jewellery, or of jewellery clashing together.

You must remember your roots (Taiwan)

When I was working in Taiwan, they used to have a go at me for calling myself 新加坡人 (Xīnjiāpōrén / Singaporean) rather than 中國人 / 中国人 (Zhōngguórén / Chinese). 

A doctor in a Taipei hospital even said, in English, when he found out I was from Singapore, 

“Ah, Singapore!  Your prime minister Lee Kuan Yew calls himself a huárén (華人), not a Zhōngguórén (中國人),” 

adding sneeringly, “VERY FUNNY!”

After a few more times of being told off for not calling myself a Zhōngguórén, i.e., for being a traitor, I’d turn round and ask them, “Why are you happy to call Americans ‘Měiguórén’ (美國人) and Australians ‘Àozhōurén (澳洲人), even though they’re really Europeans apart from the indigenous Red Indians and aborigines?” My landlord — a retired soldier from Jiāngsū province who’d gone over to Taiwan with Chiang Kai-shek — said, “They are barbarians, they don’t know their roots. You are Chinese, you have to remember your roots.”

I then said, “OK, then why do Chinese people present their names in the Western order of personal name first, then surname, e.g., Mei Ling Wang, rather than the proper Chinese version of Wang Mei Ling? What’s happened to being true to your roots?” 

The answer:   “These barbarians are so stupid they need to have Chinese names presented to them their way.” 

(Taiwan, 1975–1976)

For those who need an explanation, a very rough one: 

—> 華 / 华 huá is an alternative name for China and the Chinese civilisation and culture, so it goes back to antiquity.  

—> 中國 / 中国 / Zhōngguó = “middle nation”, which is more political (because of the “nation” in the name), which is why Singapore doesn’t use this for labelling Singaporeans who are Chinese by blood (but not citizens of China the political entity).

How to maximise investment of time (London)

I’m not very good at sitting still.  If I have to read anything (book, newspaper, textbook) for more than a few minutes, I’ll nod off.

The other thing I’d discovered from when I was still in primary school, maybe aged 10, is that late afternoon is my sleepy time of day.  I later learned that this is related to one’s biorhythm.  Late afternoon is definitely my biorhythm trough.

During my first year in London, I had to cover two years’ worth of A-level work for three subjects in one year.  

One of the three subjects had the official label of English Language and Literature.  The English Language part of the subject was easy enough: Reading Comprehension (Q&A), Précis writing, Essay writing.  The Literature part was a killer: nine texts — HG Wells (more than one story), Duchess of Malfi, Vanity Fair (very thick), The Ancient Mariner (very long), King Lear, To The Lighthouse (Virginia Woolf), just to name six that I can remember 43 years on.  All this to read, and remember chunks of to quote in the answers.  All in one year.

My English friend had given some good advice about the strategy: “Make sure you pass your A-level exams.  Once you get into university, you’ll be all right for four years until your final exams.  If you don’t pass your A-levels, you’ll be stuck on that rung.  So don’t go and work part-time, just focus on studying and passing the exams.”

I came up with a routine to beat my biorhythm trough and my being distracted by temptations (watch TV, cook some food):  change my sleep pattern around.

I’d get home around 5pm from classes, eat dinner, set the alarm for midnight, and get into bed.

There were only two television stations at the time, going off air at 11pm, so there were no telly programmes to watch after that.  It was too late (and quiet) in the night for me to go and cook in the kitchen, so I couldn’t sneak off for that either.

There was nothing for it but to sit at the table and knuckle down to those literature texts — and the other two subjects.

Because it was so quiet at that time of the night, I’d be totally focused, and achieve two hours’ worth of work in one hour, so between midnight and 4am, I’d get eight hours of work done.  I’d get back into bed at 4am, sleep until 8am, then go to college for my classes. If I was on a roll and didn’t feel sleepy at 4am, I’d carry on until 8am, then get dressed and go for my classes, which means 16 hours’ worth of work in effect (midnight to 8am = 8 hours, at double the rate = 16 hours).

I got two distinctions for my exams.

on a roll:  

(informal) experiencing a prolonged spell of success or good luck

(London, 1977–8)

Stress management: keeping up with the Joneses in reverse (London)

Writing the blog Distraction therapy: comparing yourself to others has just reminded me of what used to happen when students came to see me, all stressed out about their struggles with their course — the learning difficulties they were experiencing, their lack of progression (especially when writing essays or dissertations).

I’d run through a checklist with them:

What’s the problem: 

—> Material (or lack of) from research? 

—> Ideas? 

—> Language (don’t know how to express things in Chinese/English)? 

—> Time management (can’t fit everything into the time given)? 

—> Concentration problems (nodding off, can’t focus)?

—> etc

Then, I’d add the story of my own experience(s), mainly featuring my struggles and failures.  

It always works wonders — ooh, three final “s” in a row!  And three “w” in a row [almost]!  

They are so pleased not to be the only one who’s struggling, not to be the only “stupid” one.

They always left my office with tensed-up body all loosened up, a smile on their faces, saying, “I wish I’d come to you earlier!”

(London, 1980s–2011)

Distraction therapy: comparing yourself to others (London)

When I’m stressed out and depressed about my life (“haven’t done this”, “badly managed that”), I apply the reverse spirit of the English saying:  “keeping up with the Joneses”.

I remind myself about people like the Syrians and the Myanmar Rohingyas, just to name two off the top of my head, as they’ve been prominent in the news.  Their physical living conditions (as refugees or in their own country) and the mental anguish they’ve been put through make my own problems pale in comparison.

Racism: I don’t suffer racism — not overt anyway, just the occasional hint of it, which is not bad for 43 years of living here — so I also remind myself about all those poor people who’ve been abused verbally (and that’s just the milder form, from the stories I’ve heard on Radio 4 reports).  I’d be traumatised for life.  

Covid: Since Covid started, I’ve been feeling so terribly sorry for those affected — mainly on the financial side of it — especially those in the hospitality sector.  I’d worked in the gig economy myself for six years, on minimal pay, so my immediate thought when the first lockdown happened March last year (2020) was: “My poor ex-colleagues at the pub!  They were already on minimal pay.  A lot of them are not British, so they don’t even have family in this country to move back to, to save on rent while they’re out of work.”  (Luckily, it turned out that the government had agreed to help out, so they were being furloughed, on 80% of their regular earnings, which is still better than nothing.)  I can at least do some teaching from home via the internet (I say “some”, because not everyone wants to learn online), whereas people who work in the hospitality and retail sectors can’t do anything if their work places are shut down.

So, every day, I think of these groups (only three are mentioned above because the list would be too long for this blog space) and think how lucky I am to be relatively unscathed from all the things they are each suffering.

The reverse “keeping up with the Joneses”* strategy may sound a bit schadenfreude (deriving pleasure from other people’s misfortune), but it’s really a “half full or half empty” perspective, isn’t it?  

Counting one’s blessings does help to put things into perspective a bit.

*keeping up with the Joneses (informal, often disapproving): 

trying to match / be as good as other people, usually in wealth and material lifestyle

(London, pre-Covid and in-Covid times)

Being brave (London)

Part of the way through our lesson, Paris student Hélène’s side of the googledocs document stagnated at the last amendment, so nothing I’d added by way of notes and explanations was loaded up on her screen.

After a few very crude attempts at trying to rectify this — e.g., moving the additions to a new page, in case the movement activated something on her side — I suggested we both quit the document and go back in.

She was very wary of doing this:  she’s nine years older than I (sorry to mention age!), even less tech-savvy than I, and has often made things disappear.  (Ah, she should go and be a magician!)

As the Gentle Giant Swiss used to say in his quaint German-speaker English: “We’ve come out of the same hospital.”  

That’s Hélène and me all right: we’d more than once ended up dialling people’s numbers on our WhatsApp (didn’t remember touching anything); she cannot call up multiple tabs on her computer screen; she closes a document, then it disappears into the ether / cyberspace; etc.

During the lesson earlier today, she said she didn’t dare quit googledocs.  She’d already failed to get in before, and now that she’d got in, she wanted to stay put.

Somehow, I managed to persuade her to quit and log in again.

It worked.  Not only was she able to get back in, her screen was unfrozen, and she was able to see the new additions/amendments.  Phew!

She was full of praise, “Bravo!  It worked.  You’re so brave.”

I said, “I’m brave only because it’s someone else’s (computer) life I’m playing with!”  

Haha, rather like gambling with someone else’s money.  (See also blog Other people's things.)

(London, 2021)