The Chinese perspective on “fat vs thin” (Singapore)

One of my mother’s two brothers was very particular about hygiene, even to the point of insisting we use communal chopsticks and spoons for shared dishes placed in the middle of the table for everyone — what Westerners would call “serving spoons” — so that we wouldn’t dip our own implements into those shared dishes, even though we were family.  He was thin, which — from the Chinese perspective — means he must be unwell or undernourished, or just not particularly healthy.

My mother had a cousin, Uncle Lóng (“dragon”), who was very easy-going.  He was fairly big — not flabby fat, but not thin.  He was very laid-back about hygiene: if he dropped any (dry) food on the floor, he’d just pick it up, wipe/blow off the dust, and eat it.  

People used to say, “Look at the thin one: he is so fussy about hygiene, yet he’s still so thin!  The fat one’s not bothered about such things, yet he’s so robust!”

See also my blog: One way of putting on weight (or not).

(Singapore, 1960s)

Going round and round in circles: 01 (London)

Because of the Covid-19 lockdown, I’ve had to use Skype for teaching the students who normally have face-to-face lessons with me.  One of them is an elderly lady, Hélène, who is even less tech-savvy than I, and is by nature a bit timid in certain things as well.

The most recent Skype lesson, her second, was yesterday.  We were going to start off with feedback on her homework.  I’d set her more than one batch of homework over the last few weeks.

Lesson started.

Hélène: Can you see it?

Me: See what?

My practice during Skype lessons is to send over to students notes and provide prompts, as well as definitions of new vocabulary, in the dialogue box at the bottom of the Skype screen.  

In our last Skype lesson a fortnight ago, Hélène had trouble seeing the sentences I was sending through in the dialogue box.  I had to guide her: “Look at the bottom of your screen.  There should be a speech bubble that you see in comic strips.  Click on it — that’s the dialogue box.”

So, when she said “Can you see it?”, I thought it might’ve been something she’d sent over to me.  It turned out to be the first sentence in one of the batches I’d sent her.

A bit later on in the lesson, I went back to that sentence.  This time, it was Hélène who asked, “See what?”, thinking it was something I’d sent over in the dialogue box.  This went on for a few more times, each time one of us misunderstanding the reference to “Can you see it?”.

(London, 2020)

It never rains but it pours (London)

I was cycling home after work one Friday evening.  

The office had lots of surplus milk, so I was given two pints to take home.  I’d also just bought a bottle of dark soya sauce earlier that day, so I put them in a plastic bag, and strapped them to the rear rack.  

It started to drizzle.  

Came to a halt at a set of traffic lights.  Heard glass shattering behind me.  Thought, “Oh dear, some driver’s run into the back of someone’s car.”  

For some reason, I decided to turn round and look.  What I saw, in the glare of the headlights of the car behind me, was my plastic bag sitting on the road, with a trail of white liquid and a trail of black liquid oozing out of it, running on the road.  

No time to do anything as the lights were about to change to green, so I just picked up the bag and re-strapped it onto the rear rack.  Cycled off when the lights turned green.

Came to another halt at the next set of lights.  Another shattering of glass behind me.  Yes, that plastic bag had come off again.  

By now, the rain had become a heavy drizzle.  

Grabbed the bag, re-strapped it a second time, and cycled off, with a trail of white liquid and a trail of black liquid dripping off the rear rack.  

At the next set of lights, the bicycle chain came off.  The heavy drizzle had now turned into a steady downpour.  I just wanted to sit down on the pavement and cry.

I finally arrived home, drenched from head to toe, with a plastic bag with lots of holes and three broken bottles inside, by now sans contents, and a pair of hands all black and greasy from putting the chain back on — in the pouring rain.

(London, 1983)

Hoarding (Singapore)

My father used to stash broken bits (stones, concrete, flower pots) under the rambutan tree, saying it’s good for the tree.  Don’t know how — maybe moisture retention but he didn’t say.  My mother would nag him on a regular basis.  

Years later, when we children were a bit older (therefore brave enough to take matters into our own hands), we waited until he was at work and loaded a pick-up truck with all the bits and drove off to the tip.  Fait accompli.

As Laura said (in blog Other people’s things), it’s much easier to throw out other people’s stuff.

I blame my father for passing on his hoarding genes to me.

(Singapore, 1960s)

See also blogs 

It will never rust: https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/it-will-never-rust.html 

and 

Other people’s things: https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2011/07/other-peoples-things.html 

You know you're getting old when... : 05 (London)

...an old lady offers you HER seat!

I was travelling home last night from teaching. Jumped onto a Piccadilly line train at Kings Cross, and stood by the door, minding my own business.

After three stops, an Oriental lady came up to me from behind and offered me her seat. I hadn't even noticed her when I got on. I declined politely, but she insisted, saying she was getting off in two stops anyway (but ended up getting off at my stop, one more stop on from where she said she was disembarking).

Being Oriental, she'd be better able to judge my age than Westerners. Her hair was completely grey; mine is nearly completely black (if you don't look carefully), yet she offered me her seat. I am indeed getting old...

(London, 2020)

The naughtiest girl in the school (Singapore)

I mentioned to Wilson Tan (schoolmate in the Arts stream at Raffles Institution [RI]) Siva’s nickname for me (in blog Reputations live on forever).  He asked me what I’d done to Siva to warrant such a sobriquet.  I said I didn’t remember doing anything TO Siva, whose nickname for me, I do remember, was Twinkle Toes as I was (and still am) very clumsy.

I told Wilson the only thing I could think of was what I did do to James Shi's name.  

Each day, two students’ names would go up on the blackboard for classroom cleaning duties.  When James’s name was up, I’d go and draw three horizontal lines extending right from the vertical of the last letter in SHI, making him James SHE.

Coming away from that conversation with Wilson, three more memories have now surfaced.

One of the boys in my class is called Wee Bin, with the nickname of Vim (given by his family, I think).  There was a TV advert at the time for a scouring powder under the brand name of Vim.  The jingle was sung in English and Cantonese to the same tune.  The English version goes:

All cleaning jobs are easy easy easy

All cleaning jobs are easy easy easy

All cleaning jobs are easy — with VIM!

I’d sing it to poor Wee Bin each time I saw him.

One day, I witnessed him throwing a piece of scrunched-up paper into the waste paper basket, so I went, “From one Bin to another!”  Poor boy.

There was another boy in my class, Boo Tat, whom we’d affectionately call Boo Boo.  At the time, there was a pop song called Me and You and a dog named Boo (1971 single debut by Lobo), so I’d sing it to Boo Tat whenever I saw him.

I’m now beginning to understand how I got that nickname…

(Singapore, 1971–1972)

Reputations live on forever:  https://piccola-chinita.blogspot.com/2017/12/reputations-live-on-forever-singapore.html 

How much spookier can it get? (London)

Whenever I’m early for an appointment (e.g., teaching), I’d kill time by diving into the nearest charity shop and almost invariably emerge with an armful of books.  

One of those is Collected Ghost Stories by M.R. James (published 1931, and with stories set in the 1800s even).  It then got left sitting around for ages (like all such purchases) — easily ten years, I’d say.

I recently returned to my reading habit, in an effort to de-clutter my flat.  

First thing I saw on the front cover picture of the Ghost Stories book is a moonlit path winding through a forest, with a female figure on it, a bit like an illustration out of Red Riding Hood.  It looked just like the route I used to take from Pymble station back to my ex-schoolmate Wilson’s house in Sydney when I was visiting in 2002.  The female figure could well have been me.

Opened to the first story, and it was set near Auch (date: 1883).  Auch is this little town 6km from the French farm that I’d been going to since 1996.  Most French people, even those from the southern half of France, have not heard of Auch.

I finished reading the book in November last year.

BBC’s Radio 4 has a long-running soap opera, The Archers, broadcast since 1 January 1951, set in a farming community somewhere in the Midlands, England.  

In the episodes running up to Christmas just gone, one of the story lines included the character Jim Lloyd, a retired academic, being asked to put on a series of ghost-story telling performances in the attic of this grand manor house hotel as a form of Xmas entertainment, to earn some income for the hotel.  We're not actually treated to the full performances.

Three of those story-telling sessions ended up being used as separate 15-minute slots (not just in the soap opera) on Radio 4, at 6pm on Monday 30 Dec, Tuesday 31 Dec, and Wednesday 1 Jan.  I’d missed the Monday one — not that I was particularly trying to catch them.  

Was home before 6pm on Tuesday, New Year’s Eve, so decided to tune in.  Within the first two lines, I had identified it as one of the stories in that Collected Ghost Stories book.  The end credits confirmed this.  The Monday and Wednesday ones were not by the same author, by the way.  

What are the odds of that, I ask you!!  

Of the three recitals on offer, I had to go and choose the Tuesday one which featured a story I'd read.  

Of all the ghost stories published out there, one of the three (which is a very narrow range) in those separate slots had to come from a book that I’d bought at random in a charity shop a decade ago and only decided to read a month before the broadcast.  What had prompted me to read that one and not some other book?!

Another thing:  it was a book published in 1931, which is generally too ancient to be still floating around in the market.  

My hair stood on end, not because of the ghost element but all the spookiness of the coincidences raised by this one book alone!  

(London, 2019)