Quick tallying up: 01 (Multiples of 5)

I first saw this happen as a 15-year-old in Singapore having a dim sum meal, which was a fairly new import at the time -- to my consciousness anyway.  

    For those interested, dim sum is a Cantonese cultural practice.  Its proper name is 飲茶 / yum cha [yǐn chá in Mandarin] / "drink tea", for the activity.  The original practice (started during the Qing era) was a social gathering of people (family, friends) over a few cups of tea, usually at the weekend or a festive day.  Because it's not good, health-wise, to have tea on an empty stomach, the tea drinkers would order "snacks" [點心 dim sum / diǎnxīn in Mandarin] in the form of dumplings and other small items of food that are not eaten at a main meal (e.g., spring rolls; steamed or pan-fried stuffed beancurd skin rolls).

    In time, this practice became popular for the eating rather than the tea drinking, and a new concept of dining out was born.  Now you know why Chinese restaurants stop serving dim sum at 5pm -- because it's not considered a proper / main meal.  No one eats those dumplings for dinner.  Not even for a proper meal, really, but acceptable in the day.

    The British equivalent would be eating peanuts, crisps and/or pork scratchings with the alcoholic drink in a pub, because it's not good to drink on an empty stomach -- or maybe it's boring to just drink.  Westerners might not have the same perspective on health issues as the Chinese. 

    At the restaurant I was taken to in Singapore as a teenager, the offerings came on trolleys that perambulated within the restaurant.  The dishes were the same price, which is how the system works so well.  Dishes with more expensive ingredients, e.g., prawn, would have fewer items.

    When you saw that the trolley that came round had what you wanted, you'd indicate your interest. The waiting staff would put it/them on your table, then, on the piece of paper left on your table, record the number of dishes you've taken in the form of a build up of strokes in the character 正 (zhèng / upright, but the reading and meaning are irrelevant here in this context).

    The 正 character is made up of five strokes.  There is a fixed order for writing characters, with the one for 正 being:

1st stroke:  top horizontal (full stroke), written left to right

2nd stroke:  middle vertical (full stroke), written top to bottom

3rd stroke:  middle horizontal (half stroke on the right of the middle vertical), written left to right

4th stroke:  left vertical (half stroke on the left of the middle vertical), written top to bottom

5th (and final) stroke:  bottom horizontal (full stroke), written left to right

    If your first lot is three dishes, the 正 character would be incomplete, with only three strokes written in.

    If your next lot is three dishes again, two of these three dishes would complete the first five-stroke 正 character, with the third dish being the first stroke of the next 正 character.

    The Western equivalent is the system of four vertical lines with the final line written as a horizontal line across.  This is most often seen in films on the wall of a prison cell with the captive person keeping track of how many days have passed.

    The problem with the Western version is that one might write five vertical lines (or three) and it might not be obvious, as they can/might be a bit close together.

    With the 正 character, if there's one stroke missing it'll show up immediately.  (One stroke too many will not happen unless the person is totally illiterate.)  Of course, the final toting up might not see the last 正 fully written out (with five strokes), as diners don't conveniently order/eat in multiples of five.

    So, when it comes to adding up, it'll be x number of fives, plus whatever number of strokes there are in the final incomplete 正, multiplied by unit price of dish.  Bob's your uncle.

White lies: 03 (London)

 

White lie:  a harmless or trivial lie, especially one told to avoid hurting someone's feelings.

I'm so rubbish at lying, even telling a white lie, and certainly without lots of time to prepare one.

    One of those occasions was when I was going to the pub with a student Jackie and ran into someone en route who decided to join us.

    This person had shown an interest in me before, which I was very keen to discourage.  Being fellow university academics (but different colleges), I was interested in his work (which is not languages), but it probably gave him the wrong idea.

    While drinking with Jackie and me, this chap kept saying that he and I should meet up again for a drink, as he hadn't seen me for such a long time, asking when I'd be able to go for that drink.

    In a panic, I blurted out the first thing that came to my head, "I don't usually make appointments beforehand.  I tend to just let things happen last minute."

    Jackie never let me forget it after that, ribbing me endlessly.

(London, early 2000s)

Fun with language: 01 (London)

Evening class students do not always last the course, for various reasons.  Chinese, being the difficult language that it is, has a higher casualty rate than most languages, I think.

I had initiated a post-lesson routine, however:  going to the pub after the class, where often the conversation continued on the theme of things Chinese — language, culture, travels.  

This did play a small role in reducing the drop-out rate, as students felt that they were part of a group, rather than an individual turning up just for the lesson:  going into the classroom, not speaking to anyone, then leaving at the end of the lesson, feeling isolated.

Not everyone liked going to the pub, so some would keep in touch by going for dinner, usually around Christmas.

One particular student decided to form a group just for dining out regularly (in Chinatown, of course), although everyone in that group was a drop-out (with the exception of Frazer Gleig [now deceased, bless his soul]).

I came up with a name for the group for the round robin emailing: the DODGers.  DODG = Drop Out Dining Group.

For those for whom English is not the first language, one of the meanings of “dodger” is (from the MacBook Pro dictionary):

dodger

 [in combination] British humorous 

a person who dislikes or avoids a specified thing: a greasy-haired soap-dodger. 

(London, the early 2000s)

Late-night bus journey home (London)

My old friend and the most avid reader of my blogs, Valerio, said after hearing about my “Food from heaven” adventure (blog of the same name):  “Here’s another good point of your job: your commuting to and from the pub seems to provide a lot of material for stories…”

Indeed.

When I first transferred to the Wood Green branch of the pub chain, I’d just pull my jumper over my work top after the closing shift, and jump on the night bus — first the N29 to Manor House, then the N253 for the last two stops to my house in Stamford Hill.

On one of the N253 journeys, I noticed the driver looking fairly intently at me as I was getting on, even turning round in his seat and craning his neck at the next stop when I went and stood just out of his direct line of vision.  This freaked me out a bit, thinking he probably fancied me.  

You see, I’d been approached before by men on buses and at bus stops, striking up a casual conversation, starting with asking if I was going home from work, then moving on to whether I wanted to go for a cup of coffee or a walk in the park, but they’d all been earlier: around 9/10pm, a sunny late afternoon for the-walk-in-the-park one.

This level of interest at 3am by the bus driver was a bit too intense for my comfort.  After I disembarked, I dawdled around the bus stop, waiting for the bus to move off, as my house is by the main road, only ten yards from the bus stop, so I didn’t want the driver to see where I lived.  He, on his part, wouldn’t drive off immediately either.  And so, there we were:  each idling at the bus stop, in a kind of a stalemate for a while.  This only confirmed my initial judgement of him.  He’s persistent, I thought, and making his interest very obvious.

The next time, it was a different driver.  This one actually asked, also turning round in his seat and craning his neck, “Where are you going?”  What a strange question!  Why did he want to know?  What’s the matter with all these male drivers, I thought.

Another post-shift night, as I was waiting for the night bus at 3am, I happened to look down and noticed that because I hadn’t taken off my work apron — which had a big pocket in front and into which I often stuffed spare paper napkins for wiping up greasy spills — I looked about eight months pregnant under my jumper.

Penny dropped:  those bus drivers were probably wondering what this heavily pregnant woman was doing, being out and about at 3am.  And an Oriental woman at that too, which is unusual, as Oriental women don’t go gadding about at 3am, even less when eight months pregnant.  

Also, because it was a different driver the second time, he didn’t get to see that I was still eight months pregnant three months later.

I now make sure to remove my work apron when I finish my closing shift.  No more staring from the drivers after that.

(London, 2016)

Update 031218:  Another penny's just dropped (yes, the brain has arrived on the slow bus).  The drivers might've been worried that I might end up giving birth on their bus, hence the level of interest!

* See also "Catching the last Tube train" and "How to expedite matters"

Sanity-challenging conversations: 10 (London)

Six pub customers, who’ve been coming now and again, turned up tonight: three are the social workers for the other three.  

The female social worker said, as I walked past their table, “Can you take orders for our food.”  It was not a question — she was asking me to take their food orders.  

I said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to go to the bar, or order through the app on your phone.  I don't take orders for food.”  

She said, “Oh no, I don’t do the phone app thing.”  

I said, “Then you’ll have to do it at the bar.  I only deliver food, we don’t take orders at the table.”  She said, “I know.”  Huh?!?

. . . . . .

I delivered two dishes to Table 43.  The five occupants said, no, not for them.  The elderly couple next to them said it was for them.  As I put the dishes down, I said, “You’re Table 44, not 43.”  The man said, “No, it’s 43.”  I said, “It’s 44.  Have a look at the disc at the corner of the table.”  He said, “It’s 43.”  I pointed at the disc, he moved his face closer, and said, “It’s 43.”  His wife shook her head.  When I next went back to that area, the man said, “It looks like 77!”  I was quite tempted to say he should get his eyes tested.

Update a week later (241118):  Can you believe it!?!  Customer at Table 77 tonight said the food wasn’t for him.  Eventually tracked down the rightful owner — at Table 44.  He’s a man about 30 years younger than the elderly gentleman above.  Maybe the elderly gentleman from last week sent him to shore up his case?

(London, 2018)

Marital bliss: 3 (London)

One of my evening class students, whom I shall call John Smith, used to come to the pub with the class after the lesson, and to the annual meal outings at Christmas and Chinese New Year.

He’d been corresponding with a woman in China, as a pen friend, for years until his wife died, after which he married this pen pal.  She then got her son over.

Within no time at all, he stopped turning up for these gatherings.  Each time he was invited, he said his new wife didn’t approve.

Perhaps his work pension didn’t stretch to feeding him, her and her family as well as allowing him little treats outside.

(London, 1980s/1990s)

See also:

Marital bliss:  1 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/02/marital-bliss-01-london.html)

Marital bliss:  2 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/02/marital-bliss-02-london.html)

Marital bliss:  4 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/02/marital-bliss-04-london.html)

Marital bliss:  5 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/02/marital-bliss-05-london.html)

Marital bliss:  6 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/03/marital-bliss-06-london.html)

Advice from a man:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2019/09/advice-from-man-london.html

Marital bliss: 2 (London)

The pub customer with the Japanese wife reminds me of an engineer who came to repair the photocopying machine at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London) in the 80s when I was working there.

I was in the equipment room at the time, using the only Mac computer around at the time.  

He started asking me where I was from, then proceeded to tell me his wife was from Thailand, adding that as soon as they got married, he was not allowed to go out with his mates to the pub or the restaurants.

(London, late 1980s)

See also:

Marital bliss:  1 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/02/marital-bliss-01-london.html)

Marital bliss:  3 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/02/marital-bliss-03-london.html)

Marital bliss:  4 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/02/marital-bliss-04-london.html)

Marital bliss:  5 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/02/marital-bliss-05-london.html)

Marital bliss:  6 (https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2018/03/marital-bliss-06-london.html)

Advice from a man:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2019/09/advice-from-man-london.html 

Oops 1 (London)

I’d completely forgotten it was Remembrance Day.

As I was finishing my Skype lesson at 11am, using the wifi at the pub where I do one shift a week, one of my bar colleagues rang the wall bell behind the bar.  

For those for whom the significance might not be clear, pubs in Britain ring the bell twice towards closing time, with the second bell signalling the end of orders and the punters then have about ten minutes to finish their drinks and leave the premises.  On a Saturday night, when closing time is a bit later than the rest of the week, the first bell is at 11.15pm, and the second and last at 11.30pm.

I laughed out loud and said to my student in Australia, “Haha!  It’s 11am and they’re ringing the bell!”  There were about 30 customers scattered around the tables, and some of them turned round and looked at me.  I thought perhaps I was speaking too loudly because of my headphones, and being perched at the high table in the corner, my voice was bouncing off the walls more than it would’ve at the floor level and amongst all the tables.

It wasn’t until a day later that it suddenly dawned on me the bell was rung to call for the minute’s silence that we observe at 11am on 11 November…

(London, 2014)

Long time no see (London)

An ex-student Geoff (a computer programmer), who’d inspired one of my teaching practices, dropped out of my Chinese classes when he moved to Cambridge to work on the gnome project there, but remained in touch over the years, arranging to meet up in a pub for a few jars whenever he came down to London.  

For one of these visits, he’d appointed The Lamb in Lamb’s Conduit as the venue as they had good beer and not far from where he was attending a conference, and gave me plenty of notice.  

That, in fact, became the problem as, come the day, I completely forgot about it -- I always get sucked into the computer once I start working on it.  

The next day, I received an email from him, with the simple message: “好久没见 hǎo jiǔ méi jiàn / long time no see!”  

He’d sat in the pub over three pints of beer, waiting for me to put in an appearance.  

He might’ve dropped out of Chinese classes but he certainly still knew how to use whatever he’d learned to good effect, even in irony!

(UK, late 1990s)

PS:  Geoff had actually moved to Cambridge because he was involved in a gnome project there.