Antenatal training: 2 (London)

Further to my blog Antenatal training: 1, a BBC Radio 4 journalist approached me one day about the Chinese perspective on pregnancy and childbirth.  I don’t think she was thinking of China’s One Child Policy — rather, all the rituals and customs that go with them: what to do / not do / eat / not eat.  I emailed her with what I know from my younger days in Singapore.  She then asked if I’d like to be interviewed for her radio programme on the subject.  I said no, I am camera-/microphone-shy, I will be happy to help with information but not go on air.  She suggested meeting up for a coffee to talk about it.  

When I arrived at Broadcasting House, she said since I was already there, she’d just show me around to see the set-up.  I think she might’ve been trying to let me see how informal it really is, that it’s not scary at all, hoping I might change my mind.

The fire alarm then went off, so we left the building and had our coffee in one of the back streets.  We carried on talking about the Chinese way of dealing with pregnancy and childbirth.

When I got to the bit about 胎教 (tāijiào / “womb education” = antenatal training) including things to avoid, like not visiting the zoo, in case one’s baby ends up being born looking like a monkey, she whooped with laughter and said, “When my mother was pregnant with my brother, she went to the zoo* in Hong Kong, and he does look a bit like a monkey. Don’t tell my brother that!  He’s very sensitive about it.”

(*or maybe Haw Par Villa, a kind of theme park featuring Chinese legendary characters, gods and spirits.  The Monkey King is a famous Chinese character from the story The Journey to the West 西游记 xīyóu jì / "west wander-around record", about seventh century monk 玄奘 Xuánzàng (/ Tripitaka) who spent 17 years travelling overland to India to collect some Buddhist scriptures, so maybe the monkey-image impact on the unborn baby could've come from a visit to Haw Par Villas.  There's a Haw Par Villa in Singapore, too.)

(London, 200?)

Caught napping? (Singapore)

An old friend who’s now an academic says, “I am attending a Zoom meeting with 156 participants.  It’s a great system.  I’ve always found these meetings terminally boring and want to go to sleep.  Now I can do that!”

Reminds me of what I used to do at school.  I always chose a seat right at the back, so that I'd be out of the teacher’s line of vision.

One day, during a Mandarin lesson, the pace was a bit slow.  I was right at the back, in the corner by the windows.  I intertwined my fingers (as if about to pray, the Christian way), but held them up to forehead level as a shade for my eyes, with my elbows resting on the table.  This way, I could close my eyes without anyone seeing it, as it looked like I was resting my forehead on my partly clasped hands while reading the textbook on the table.

At one point, I felt a nudge from the girl sitting next to me (we were seated two to a row).  I opened my eyes and looked at her, a sort of “What??”  She used her eyes and lips to point at the front of the class.  I turned round to face the class and saw everyone looking at me.

Then I saw that the teacher was also looking at me.

What had happened was the teacher had asked the class what the meaning of a particular word/phrase was.  She went round the whole class but no one could provide the right answer.

I was the last one left.  The teacher called my name.  No response from me.  She called my name again.  Still no response from me.  That was when my neighbour nudged me awake.

Luckily, I gave the right answer...

(Someone told me later on that it was obvious — to the teacher as well, all the way from the front of the class — that I’d been sleeping as my eyes were bloodshot and sleep-laden.)

(to catch someone napping: (British informal) find someone off guard and unprepared to respond)

(Singapore, 1960s)

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 (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?”.

This reminds me of a phone conversation I once had with the secretary of one of our film directors on The Heart of The Dragon (HOD).  HOD was made by a company specially set up for it, with each producer/director having their own company.  

Nigel’s own company was a corporate training filmmaking company, specialising in communications.  I took the call from the secretary.  Nigel wasn’t in, so she said she’d like to leave a message for him.

Secretary:  Tell Nigel I can do it and you know what I mean…

Me: Do what?  I don’t know what you mean.

Secretary:  No, those are the names of the training films:  “I can do it” and “You know what I mean”.

(London, 2020 and 1983)

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)