Spoonerism: Shandy the dog (London)

My beloved and inspirational tutor and supervisor at SOAS (School of Oriental and African Studies), Dr. Paul Mulligan Thompson*, had a Japanese academic come to stay for a few weeks.  One day he came home to find the visitor issuing the following command to the family dog Shandy:  “Sandy, shit!  Sandy, shit!”

(London, mid-1980s)

*https://www.theguardian.com/news/2007/jun/27/guardianobituaries.obituaries

The card and the bookmark in the post (London / Taiwan)

I’d come across a twee card in London that I then bought and sent off to 胡老大 Hú lăo dà, my good friend in Taiwan. 

The front of the card had a Victorian setting:  a little girl in floral smocks and pigtails, wearing a mop cap, sitting on a high stool with her back to the reader, writing at a Queen Anne bureau with a large quill.  At the foot of the high stool is a kitten playing with a ball of wool that had become a bit unravelled.

Hú lăo dà was at the time (1978) doing part of his national service on the island of 金门 Jīnmén ("gold gate”, also rendered as Quemoy / Kinmen), Taiwan’s (/ Republic of China’s) front-line military base just off the coast of Fujian province, S.E. China.  Any foreign post to him would have to go first to Taipei’s GPO before being re-routed to Jīnmén, 116 miles (187 km) from Taiwan across Taiwan Strait.  It took five to seven days for post to get from London to Taipei, so to Jīnmén it’d be another three days.

The very day after I sent off my Victorian girl card to Hú lăo dà, I received in the post in London a bookmark from him, sent from Jīnmén, with exactly the same Victorian picture. 

He could not possibly have received my card already and then spotted its replica in the shops, which would then prompt him to buy it for me.  

Besides, the Victorian scene would be an alien concept to Chinese card producers at the time, and therefore not likely to be a common find even in Taipei, never mind in Jīnmén, an outback military outpost of all places.  

And even if it was available in Jīnmén, by some strange odds, why did Hú lăo dà pick out that bookmark of all items to send to me??  Very spooky indeed.

(London / Taiwan, 1978)

The spooky ashtrays (Taipei, Taiwan)

Hú lăo dà and I had instant rapport the first time we met, up in Líshān ([Chinese] Pear Mountain) in July 1975 in the hills of central Taiwan.  We didn’t have to communicate aloud most of the time, as we’d be thinking the same thoughts, so we just needed to make eye contact to confirm we were on the same wavelength about something.

When I went back for a visit in 1979, he and I had arranged to meet up one evening, having our own things to do during the day.  As soon as we saw each other in the evening, we both said, simultaneously, “I have a present for you!”  

Since we couldn’t decide who should be presenting to whom first, we thought we’d do it at the same time.  So, one two three, we whipped out our respective presents for each other.

I’d bought him a brass ashtray, which was in the shape of a foot, with the toes dipping down as grooves for resting the cigarettes.  What had made me buy it for him was the fact that it was extra large (he wore size 12 shoes, being 6’ 3”), and it had an extra long second toe, a feature he and his siblings shared, taking after their mother.  I’m the opposite, being the only one in my family with the extra long second toe.

What he had bought for me was also a brass ashtray, the exact replica of the one I’d bought for him, except that it was extra small (I wear size 3 shoes, being 5’ 1”) — one of the two deciding factors in his purchasing it, the other being it had an extra long second toe.

So we’d both gone our own ways during the day, but come across the same design brass ashtray, albeit in different shops in different parts of Taipei, and immediately thought of each other.  

And bought them for each other for exactly the same reasons.

(Taipei, 1979)

British brainteasers (UK)

When I first arrived in Britain 34 years ago, one of the things that caught my eye were the words “Free House” over the pub.  Wow, I thought, that’s very generous of them, letting people drink free.  It turned out to mean “not tied to a particular brewery”.

These days banks have signs over their ATMs, announcing “free cash withdrawals”.  This does not mean you can withdraw cash for free as in you’re given the money, but that it is free of a handling fee—which used to be imposed on people who didn’t have an account with that particular bank, but is now waived so that one can withdraw cash from any bank in addition to one’s own without paying the handling fee.  Herein lies an issue of parsing: is it free cash or is it free withdrawals?

Sandy, a Chinese academic over on a British Council grant, went on a hike with the university’s rambling club, and during the lunch break, as often at a pub as it is possible to arrange on such walks through the countryside, she saw a sign outside the door saying:  “No travellers allowed.”  Being a visitor to the British shores, she felt that she could perhaps be called a traveller and was therefore rather concerned that she was being barred from English pubs.  More importantly, why?  I had to explain to her that it is a term used for referring to gypsies.

Another thing I'd see, when I first arrived in 1977, was the sign at petrol stations for what was available. Under TOILETS I'd see TWO STROKES, which rather alarmed me, bringing back memories of the diminutive deputy headmaster, Mr Wee, at the school where I did three months of temporary teaching in early 1973 while waiting for my 'A' level results from Cambridge. It was Mr Wee who sorted out the problematic students -- he might've stood at 4'10" but he had a big cane. My English friend told me TWO STROKES referred to the type of diesel.

A series of snakes (France)

In the course of trying to help a student’s cousin from Hong Kong find work teaching Chinese in 2006, I’d stumbled across an online advertisement for unpaid work in France:  “Help needed with gardening and general work.  Mornings only.  Afternoons free for exploring the French countryside.  Bicycle provided.  Sorry, no remuneration.  Food and board only.”  

The gardening bit rang all my bells and whistles.  I immediately emailed them to find out what they meant by ‘general work’ and where they were located in France.  The couple turned out to be British, and their "small B&B" only a two-hour hop from the French farm, so I arranged to go and visit them afterwards.

The "small B&B" was a huge manor house—the 'chateau' in the house name gives you an indication—which Ann and Don had bought practically in ruins and converted, by their own hands and taste, into a sumptuous pile.  They just loved such projects, being DIYers long before it became a daytime TV fashion.  Each of the four rooms upstairs was a self-contained unit of sleeping area (twin beds or double bed), a lounge area, and an en suite bathroom.  Rather like a studio flat without the cooking facilities.  Each one with a special style of its own—whether rustic or regal.

The grounds were extensive and starting to get colonised by weeds and fast-growing plants (like lilac), hence the need for some help with the gardening.  It was a gardenholic's paradise!  I was out of the house by 6am—pruning, hacking, weeding.  By 11am, the temperature in the shade would reach 38C, so I'd be forced to retreat indoors to read and write my journal.  After lunch, an enforced siesta, then out of the house again at 5pm for more slash and burn until 830pm for dinner, followed by massage for Ann (and three days later, a converted Don) before bedtime at 930pm.  Half an hour of reading, then lights out—both in the room and in my head.

I'd never been able to get to grips with meditation—this emptying of the mind stuff—but for those ten days, I was in a constant and continual state of spontaneous TM (Transcendental Meditation), with the gardening replacing the mantra.  Ten days of sheer bliss. With a capital B.

At some point in casual conversation, I found out that Ann is 12 years older than I, and therefore born in the Year of the Snake as well.  Being 12 years older than she, her husband Don was also a Snake.  At 36 years younger than his mother, their son Ross is one, too.  So we are four Snakes in a row.

Colette of the French farm is 12 years younger than I (and 12 older than Ross).  Her mother Jeanette is 24 years older than she, and 12 older than I, so she's the same age as Ann.  (This is beginning to read like a maths homework exercise, isn’t it?)

That makes us six Snakes in a row.  What are the odds of that??

Note:  B&B = Bed and Breakfast.

Wrong footed (UK)

A flatmate in the early 80s was a stammerer as a younger boy.  In the school canteen, he’d be trying to order sausages and mash: “S-s-s-s-sausages and m-m-m-m-m-mash,” and a long queue would build up behind him, with people getting cross with him for holding them up.

His speech therapist taught him a technique—which was to start every word with a nasal ‘n’ (not ‘en’, just the ‘n’ version of ‘mm’).  This would stop the stuttering.  So he practised all night on sausages and mash:  “n-sausages and n-mash”.

The following day, full of confidence, he stood in the food queue, ready to order his sausages and mash in half a second.  When he got up to the food display area, he found that sausages and mash were off the menu for that day, replaced by fish and chips.  So the poor boy had to start all over again, “F-f-f-f-f….”

The disappearing passenger (Czech Republic)

I’d met Hana, a Czech teacher of English, on the London–Prague coach last year.  When she heard I was going to Hutĕ, she invited me to go and visit her in Moravský Krumlov, near Brno.  Hutĕ is about halfway between Prague and Brno.

Vláda said he’d go and pick me up at the nearest big town, Pelhřimov, ten minutes’ drive away from Hutĕ, on the day of my return from Moravský Krumlov.  

I decided, however, to take the Pelhřimov—Počátky bus, which stops at Ostrovec, and walk back to Hutĕ, only 1.3km away.  (Ostrovec is the official name of this stop nearest to Hutĕ, but Vláda had nicknamed it The Blueberry Junction — see blog The unconventional passenger.)  Apart from saving Vláda the time and effort, this is more ecological and economical.  More fun too, as I like to try and find my own way around as much as possible, even though I cannot speak the language.

It was a hot August day, and the 3pm sun was beating down hard.  I saw, as I got on the bus, that everyone was seated on the driver’s side (the sunny side), with the right-hand side (in the shade) all empty.  I took the first seat in the shade, just behind the front door.  This meant that I could see the road ahead clearly:  for the views (which are wonderful everywhere you look), and for the sighting of The Blueberry Junction as we approached. 

I soon discovered why my fellow passengers were all clustered on the other side.  When the bus turned out of the bus terminus, my side was now in the sun and baking.

The driver was all too conscious of this foreigner in their midst, for I stand out for miles with my non-White looks.  He was able to see me diagonally through his rear view mirror, and kept me within his sight as he drove on, looking up frequently, although he knew I was not getting off until Ostrovec, which was still 20 minutes away.  I thought it was sweet of him to be so conscientious about looking after the poor ignorant foreigner who couldn’t speak a word of his language.

After another five minutes of roasting in the sun, I moved over when someone in the seat behind the driver got off.  This was not registered by the driver as his eyes were on the road at the time.  

The next time he looked in his rear view mirror, there was no Oriental face to greet him back in the reflection.  The recollection of the look of panic in his eyes makes me laugh even now.  Where had the Oriental passenger gone?!?  He didn’t remember her getting off.

Refusing to believe his mirror, he turned his head round and looked across directly at the seat just behind the door.  Empty.  How did he manage to lose her??!!  Panic.

Then he found her: sitting right behind him.  The look of relief was another one to behold.  I still remember it vividly, chuckling every time at the memory.  Poor man. 

He must’ve felt an even greater relief when we finally arrived at The Blueberry Junction and I got off — a burden off his hands (and eyes) at last.  He could now drive without constantly checking in his rear view mirror to make sure he didn’t lose his foreign passenger again.

(Czech Republic, 2011)