Instinctive reaction from upbringing: 04 (Sharing food and drink)

On the Florence to Rome train in September 1981, I sat next to a dour Italian peasant woman who very kindly gave me her second salami roll (which later struck me might've been her dinner for the second leg of her Florence–Naples journey).  A touching encounter (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/firenze-roma-train.html), which turned into a guardian-angel story (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2026/05/the-guardian-angels-in-ones-life-15.html).

    She also tried to share her already-opened can of cola with me after the salami roll lunch, although she did wipe the opening with a tissue first before offering it to me.  I was politely adamant about not taking up her kind offer.

    My upbringing also drew the line at taking a bite out of a half-eaten apple offered to me by a good friend, even though we had, by then (in the 90s), known each other for around a decade and I love him dearly.

    My W.Australia-based nephew and his wife (from Malaysia) spent a few days in London after their tour of Europe.  Out on the bus one day, he drank from his bottle of water with the mouth of the bottle an inch or so above his lips.

    This seems to be quite a common, though not universal, practice among Chinese people that I've observed on a number of occasions.  It is so that they can share the water with other people.  A good habit, I must say.

Breaking the (attention) circuit (London)

A friend’s spouse is going through a psychotic phase.  I suggested that the spouse be given a blog of mine that she had read before and enjoyed when it first came out, as a distraction.

    It worked a bit, in the sense that the spouse remembered the episode featured in the blog, and laughed about it, which probably kept her happy for a little while, distracting her from her psychotic state.  Like my distraction therapy for myself (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2025/05/chinese-sayings-38.html).

    This suggestion of mine (that the friend should get the spouse to read my blog which she’d enjoyed the first time round) came from an episode one summer’s day on Highbury Fields in north London.

    A child was walking along, a part-eaten apple in hand, crying her heart out.  Maybe she’d seen the ice cream van but was told by the adults that she couldn't have one (ice cream, not van).

    She was bawling and bawling, then she noticed the part-eaten apple in her hand.  She stopped crying, took a bite out of the apple, chewed the mouthful of apple, swallowed it, then went back to bawling.

    It got me thinking at the time, “So, that heart-rending sound [the crying] was for effect then, to get what she wanted, or what?”

    Whatever, she was still distracted long enough by the apple to put her grief (whatever it was over) on hold until she’d had another bite at it.

(London, 1980s)

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

Students' versions are much more fun: 1 (London)

My style of teaching is to challenge the student as much as possible, e.g., make them work out the meaning of a compound or phrase by breaking it down into the individual components and arriving at the final meaning that way.

One of those phrases is 可有可無 / 可有可无 kě yǒu kě wú / “can have can not-have”, which the Mac dictionary gives as “be as well without it as with it” and another, online dictionary gives as “it doesn’t matter whether one has it or not”, i.e., one can take it or leave it, it’s dispensable.  An example would be: "Some people cannot do without coffee.  For me, it's 可有可無 / 可有可无."

When I asked David M what he thought it meant and when it might be used, he said, “Perhaps, say, used by a greengrocer, replying to your asking if they have any apples: ‘可有可無 / 可有可无。Maybe we do, maybe we don’t.’”  

I collapsed in fits of laughter.  What a perverse greengrocer, being so cagey about whether they might have apples or not!  

(David is a mature student, not a teenager whose general knowledge of life might be a bit more limited and whose imagination might run a bit wilder than adults’.)

(London, 2017)

Monkey training (Singapore)

We had just re-turfed our lawn with what we called “carpet grass”, a fine-blade variety that felt like a carpet to the eye and to the derrière.  This is presumably what the modern astro turf is based on.  

My uncle had a lawn planted with this grass, so we got a block of it from him, split it up into little strips, each about six inches long, and planted them at regular intervals.  The idea was to wait for them to grow sideways and eventually meet.  

In the meantime, however, weeds would colonise the gaps in between, so all hands were called to the deck to remove them.

After a few weeks of this back-breaking work, my father thought, “Monkeys can be trained to pick coconuts, so why not to weed the lawn?”  

He put Mietsy to the task:  led him to the lawn, pulled out a few weeds himself, and said to him, “This is how it’s done.  Now you do it.”

To his credit, Mietsy actually seemed to understand what was expected of him, and did gamely try to emulate and please his master.  Unfortunately, his horticultural knowledge didn’t extend to the finer distinctions between green bits that were weeds and green bits that were the much-prized carpet grass, so he pulled up the lot.  My father’s yelling and shouting could be heard from across the road.  The free labour project was abandoned.

The idea, however, wasn’t totally abandoned.  One of my brother’s Tiger Club mates, Michael, decided to save himself the trouble of having to climb up our rambutan* tree to get the fruit.  After all, like my father said, monkeys could be trained to pick coconuts, so why not rambutans?  So he took Mietsy to the tree, and following my father’s lead, pointed up the tree and said to Mietsy, “There you are, Mietsy.  Here’s the tree.  Up there are the rambutans.  Go and fetch them!”

Mietsy duly went up the tree, and Michael sat back down below, waiting to collect the fruits of Mietsy’s labour.  A few minutes went by and no Mietsy re-appeared.  Michael thought, “He must be busy with so many bunches of rambutan to collect, give him a few more minutes.” 

Then, rambutan skin started to rain down on Michael’s head.  Michael looked up to find Mietsy sitting comfortably up in the branches, stuffing his face (literally, into his cheek pouches) with rambutans.  To add insult to injury, he chucked the rambutan skin down at Michael – lucky for Michael that it wasn't a coconut tree.  That training programme also died an early death.


(Singapore 1960s)

See also Mietsy the Monkey:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/mietsy-monkey.html 

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*The rambutan tree is about the size of an apple tree.  The fruit is like a lychee in flesh and taste, but twice as big, with a red, hairy skin.