What's that man doing? Or fuck the chicken carcass

Back in England, my close friend told me her mate was making a documentary, 'Bangkok Brits'. She was going to put us in touch in the context of someone deece and interesting to hang out with, to maybe have a few beers with, and you never know - be part of his programme. A few texts and a phone call followed, and soon a charming man with a big camera and a warm smile is at my front door to chat about the project. The 3 of us sit around the dining room table, talking about how we came to be in Bangkok, our highs and lows so far, our likes and dislikes toward our new city, our plans. Despite talking to a man behind a camera, the conversation flows easily and naturally. I think its the skill of the dude behind the lens, rather than mine and James's abilities. James suggests we're to be replaced by Creature Comforts animals, which eases the tension. I think I guffawed.

The kids ignore it, Patti gets involved only briefly to question, "what's that man doing?" soon losing interest and wandering back to her Grandparents, visiting from home.

What will follow is an adventure for me and the kids, something new and a bit unusual. I've been filmed before (my inner actor reaches for her bejewelled turban) - a Black Grape video (I remember being told to dress "urban street style" and dance around Shaun Ryder), while dancing for The Flaming Lips dressed in a chicken outfit, with The Proclaimers and Michael Stipe watching from the wings, and SFA as yetis, pretty surreal. This time is different. I'm in my mum costume - sweaty vest, shorts and flip flops, and I'll be rambling on about me and my family, and whats happening for us these days in downtown Bangkok - warts and all.

So I'm going on a little journey, within my bigger journey and I will admit, losertic that I am, I'm excited about it. Adult company for a start, someone to share my daily travels with, to raise my eyebrows to when I'm almost mowed down on the pavement by a motorcyclist, or to wrinkle my nose at when Abe or Patti say something cute. 

This is a chance to do one big long Skype to my friends and family at home, but without all the pregnant pauses, and talking over each other. Hang on a minute, I get to be listened to? This is good! This is great! But before I get ahead of myself, it is raising a combination of hopes and fears.

I have tendencies to become overwhelmed with anxiety. After I'd had Patti I got so worked up about every aspect of my life, I ended up in therapy and taking Sertraline to cope. (Is this too honest for a blog? A bit too open? Trusting? Cringe worthy? Who cares Natalie, go to your happy place.) Back then it was a chicken carcass that sent me over the edge, post partum. I hadn't boiled it into a stock. I'd taken a chicken's life and failed to optimise the murder 3 ways ( a roast, a curry, soup), I was failing. It took about 3 sessions of CBT to re-organise my thoughts and realise 'fuck the chicken', put the carcass in the bin, step away from the chicken. Though writing this my inner veggie is shouting "meat is murder", where's the number of that therapist?

The documentary will be about British expats living in Bangkok, as the title, 'Bangkok Brits' suggests. For me the title conjures images of strip joints, beefy tattooed men who's naughty lifestyles in the UK have caught up so they've fled somewhere further than Spain (she's stereo-typing again, the ignorant bitch). Then I think of really privileged white middle class folk, lording it up out here, drinking afternoon cocktails and hosting parties with amuse bouches. To each his/her own, right? Though I don't see where I fit in, how I might be of any interest to the viewer. An average woman moves to Bangkok, and finds the simplest things really hard. 

I resort to making a list of my hopes and fears, a useful tool from my chicken carcass 'meltdown' days.

My Fears
All my flaws will be out there for all to see. I'll come across like a right moron and all of the following: spoilt, ungrateful, unlikeable, inelloquent, dull (argh, the worst dis' there is), more waffly and neurotic than I am, a 'housewife' - an appalling term for a hard as nails job, or a subservient wifey dutifully following her husband, eek. But then I have chosen this, and isn't feminism about choice? And aren't I frigging lucky to have been given the option of moving here, to this life? Yes. But it's not just a feminist issue for me it's also one of class, isn't it? There aren't many people offered this life, are there? James tells me to chill, it will even itself out when we move to South Sudan.

Then more fears, the unimportant ones that plague me even though they ought not, but lets just throw them out there. I'll look fat and sweaty with shit hair and unshaven pits. I'll see for myself my bingo wings flapping in the breeze, cellulite, bags under my eyes (make-up slides off, I can't even cheat) my odd walk, wtf do I wear?! I will be completely inarticulate and say something I don't even mean and 'people' (I don't know who these people are I worry about offending, a friend refers to these as his "monkey voices") will discover I'm an ignorant, uncultured buffoon.

Also I watch a lot of telly, I ain't no fool, people can be edited to look like arseholes. So is it ME I can't trust or everyone else?

My hopes

None of my fears come to light. 

I'll be able to show another aspect to expat life outside of my own stereo-types as listed above. One where privilege isn't taken for granted, perhaps. 

The divide between wealth and poverty is all too apparent here, like most cities I've visited, perhaps more so. I'm not writing a GCSE sociology paper but just to give an idea, look left at a shopping mall with a guy dressed like Richard Gere, Officer and a Gentleman, saluting shoppers as they enter the mall to buy Prada, Gucci, Dior. Then look right and a man wheeling a cart selling home made brooms and Ken Dodd tickle sticks is passing by, holding up the truck load of manual labourers crammed like sardines into the back of a yewt, both having worked long shifts in the blazing sun for fuck all wages.

I hope the parts I'm involved with are good enough to be shown. I will tell my friends to watch the show on channel 5, when? (I haven't asked) only to be slapped off, cut down literally landing on the cutting room floor, all but for one shot of me frumpily stomping down the high street, swearing at the kids to stop whining as they pass out from heat exhaustion.

My hopes, someone off Coronation Street (Corrie) will be watching and track me down to play the role of Terry Duckworth's long lost sister, and a successful career in Corrie follows. This links to my fear of realising my Corrie dream can never come to fruition because I'm no good in front of a camera, a face for radio, and my Corrie dreams die there, there on the stair, right there, an expat mum with flip flops on, well I declare...

And so, it comes to pass, I will be filmed for the telly, the kids too, just going about our everyday business while James is at work. We'll show what it's like for a new family to Bangkok, thus adding another element to the show. So now, I get to blog about it, as my life turns into The Truman Show. I have so much to say about what's happening in my new world, it's changing by the day. I think it's exciting, it's certainly very different and I love it. I still don't feel like I fit in anywhere yet, my identity is still up for grabs to a certain degree. But as long as I can continue to think 'fuck the chicken carcass' I think I'll be alright.