I'm Worried #dontleavemebehind

How do you explain to your Thai live-in domestic help why the kids are shouting "YUK!" at every mealtime? Tonight, what inedible dish is revolting the children? Boiled squid? Chilled monkey brain

No! Irish recipe sausages and mash. Patti attempting to remove the skin, and flicking flacid sausage everywhere, Abe oozing mash between his teeth crying 'urgh!'. Where do I seek advice about etiquette for toddlers toward domestic help?

Post-meal I sneak Patti crackers and cheese (like smack into Strangeways) I worry about offending Wandi, don't get caught with cheese Patti! Likewise James wants a beer out the fridge but won't venture into the kitchen, it's weird living with a stranger, for all of us. Sometimes I daren't search the cupboards for a snack in case Wandi thinks I'll spoil the dinner she's making me, but then the snack cupboard is seriously lacking (only wasabee peas remain).

This week saw a list of House Rules magnetised to the fridge following a meltdown at a local breakfast buffet (mine, not the kids). I frantically googled Reward Charts and followed the advice of Supernanny! Desperate times! (People keep posting "Good Times" on social media everywhere, stop it please, unless you're being ironic, and while you're at it easy on the hash tags too - #itsasirritatingasahalfinsertedtampon #idontknowwhatitmeans #dontleavemebehind.)

At home I'd probably laugh it off, the ridicularse behaviour of my kids of late, compare horror stories with mates, or escape from parenting with mates without kids. "Grow up Patti!" Not my best response to a cheeky toddler this week, she is 2. I'm having a period. Sorry, it's just a fact, and its humid and I don't know whether I just bought a sanitary product or incontinence pads, but either way I feel like shit and I'd like chips and gravy, a can of Vimto, a shit magazine, and perhaps something on E4 to watch.

All Abe's little school mates are gone, the summer holidays started a week ago and will last for 8-sodding-weeks (Abe: "I don't like mashed potato, it's 'sodding'"). Most expats from school seem to have gone home, or on long jollies, and we only just got here so we're not going anywhere. I imagine the border officer at Manchester airport is still recovering from Patti's vicious attack (but come on, who body searches a tantrumming toddler FFS, a biting and kicking one, she's hardly pedaling drugs, surely the crime looked more kidnappy).

This week the rules on the fridge have been broken by me more than the kids. The 'no shouting' one in particular. Yesterday morning, before 09:00 this happened:

05:30 - Patti and Abe woke up and ran themselves a nice bath
06:00 - Abe comes to show off about said bath...shivering
06:01 - James and I jump into action imagining Patti has drowned
06:02 - Comfort shivering children - I am hoarse from shouting
08:00 - Kids chase Wandi, "don't bite me, noooo" overheard
08:01 - Comfort Wandi post early-morning-assault-attempts
08:13 - Patti felt tips the parquee floor, it won't come off
08:14 - Patti on step for 2 minutes, Abe hysterically laughing at the high jinx
08:15 - Have another go at removing the red pencil crayon from the bathroom wall - a separate incident
08:16 - Vow to remove all smug parent friends from social media - a gloating-parent cull

So, early doors we left the flat in search of the park, misery loves company as do stressed parents. After 5 minutes Abe is whimpering about his tummy, like the constipated baker he "kneaded a poo"(Boom!). There are cubicles in the public loo, I'm not sure if some are meant for foot washing? What's the hose next to every bog for? Arse or feet? Arse surely, but it has the force of a jetwash! Miraculously Abe's chronic stomach pains are healed by the medicinal properties of ice-cream. We stay, we play, we make friends! 

We invited a mum and 2 kids back to our apartment to hang out. This is not something we did in England, we didn't need to, or were we more guarded and less trusting? We are quick to make a Levenshulme connection, it's the law of 6 degrees of separation. We had a lovely morning, the kids running wild whilst we chewed the fat. 

I'd been feeling like the Gina Rowland's character in 'A Woman Under the Influence'. I've decided to be very me, like no airs or graces me, sweary self-deprecation (I did write 'defecation' then and thankfully proof read, I don't need scat-friends...yet). I've considered saying dark things to people when we chat for the first time, like 'scat' or 'merkin' related, separate the wheat from the chaff. Please just 'get me' without me having to explain 'me'. I'm 37, I can't be arsed.

Abe came into our bedroom in a mood this morning. We're not sure whether he's had the dream about the man coming and shrinking his toys again, but he's a bit vulnerable. I snuggle him in, we have a chat, he says he hates Patti and he hates Wandi and he prefers England. We talk about this for a bit and he says he wants to hang out with Wandi a bit more and go to the play area with her. Abe's buzzing at the possibilities of his new idea and I hear him ask Wandi in the kitchen, "Wandi, can you take us to the play area today?" Wandi's in agreement which feels like progress and the next step for their relationship.

We're staying in today so I get the paints out, we do some pictures and it's fun. I plug the iPad into the boom box, find the ABC phonics song Abe liked at Alma Park Primary School  http://youtu.be/BELlZKpi1Zs and watch him as he hears it, processes it and smiles so hard it's heartbreakingly beautiful. He asks me: "Are they happy tears or sad tears, mum?" These are happy tears Abe, because you look so happy right now, and I'm not sure when you last smiled like this. We exchange goofy toothy grins. Patti carries on painting the only bit of exposed table she can find, she is punk. Abe takes her paintbrush from her. Abe, we're teaching Patti about sharing aren't we. Abe: "No we're not". It's normal again.

You don't realise the support network you have until it's gone. Not just the obvious family and friends, but the whole network. The familiar: the Richard Gere lookalike butcher, Bolsh the dog from across the street, the regular weekly trip to the pound shop. We miss how easy it is at home. It's not like we want to go back yet, it's just it's all alien and everything's an effort. I could do with a duvet day, comfort food, a roast chicken and the right flavour crisps.

I'm starting to miss events - my brilliant mate's wedding, an old friend's funeral, baby Polly being born, baby Mylo hitting his milestones, summer festivals where I could've gegged in, my niece's adoption, my niece's birthday, the John Lewis clearance sale. I had new people to invest in and I have to hope the bonds we'd made before we left can be picked up where they left off. I am a romantic, a worried romantic.

I'm worried. I'm worried about us. I'm worried about the people missing us. I'm worried about the woman crying in the bar, I'm glad her friends are making her laugh, consoling her, who's making my mates laugh, consoling them? I'm worried that the support we have here's isn't enough. I'm worried  that the centres at home that offer support to those without family/ friends are closing, like the libraries and the Sure Start centres. I'm worried about the little naked kids playing in the building site in the mud next door, the proximity of the walls being smashed down next to their little bodies, the vehicles driving past them, their vulnerability. I'm worried my mum will never understand how I can love my kids and want a life for me too. I'm worried about Wandi leaving, or Wandi staying and it never feeling 'normal'. I'm worried I'm helping to make a documentary about Brits in Bangkok and it will be images of me crying all the time, even though I'm actually happy most of the time.  I'm worried soon I'll be tired of all this frigging effort, all this worry.

Before we left Manchester, Abe bought some little worry dolls from Levenshulme market and I was explaining how they work to him. I asked what he worries about, "Foxes" he said. Relieved this was his main concern, we chatted about it. I haven't seen any foxes in Bangkok, Abe. "OK then, snakes" he says. I teach him the Thai word for snakes is "gnoo". I know because "gnoo gnoo blah blah" or "snake snake fish fish" explains how I get around the language here, as a snake slithers and a fish swims. Gnoos are less scary than snakes. 

Meanwhile, Patti's listening to a Spanish version of 'Wind Beneath My Wings' on YouTube. It's been a batten down the hatches kind of a day, she looks up "Turn it off mama, that's not Ing-il-ish".

"According to this, you're already dead"

Our birthdays, James’s and mine, are 4 days apart though he’s a lot older than I am (obvs). Both being Geminis we’re torn between a world of wanting to show off and shying away from the limelight in equal measure. We have a number of sides to our characters, some say Geminis are 2 faced, we’re not (yes we are) though I can change my mood with the moon. Our personalities have nothing perhaps to do with astrology, I haven't gone in for all that shit since Grange Hill went downhill (post Ro-Land and Danny Kendall). However, for 300฿/ GBP 7.00 I decided to have my palm read by a palmist come astrologist. It was my mum's idea, as she cast aside her Christian ideology, to dabble with the occult. I thought I was just along for the ride.

We'd been to The Grand Palace, my mum and I. My first tourist trip in the 3 months I've lived here. We'd tried to go en masse, but it was hot, like hot hot (at some point I'll stop going on about how hot it is, my sweaty top lip and fringe issues will fade away). The kids and the men made it as far as the entrance to the palace, which involved a walk, 2 trains and a boat. The kids were red faced and tired, and having failed to heed my warning the previous night the men wore shorts.

Me: "It says no shorts"
Dad: "Just women or men?"
Me: "Doesn't stipulate, just says 'no shorts'."
Dad: "Well if a monk's gonna get excited about seeing MY legs, I'd rather not go!"

It was an option to join a queue to hire some elephant print sarongs, but the spoil-sports rejected the chance to be ridiculed by me, and took the kids home. The Grand Palace, where the Kings have lived for yonks, was pretty spectacular - lots of bright coloured jewels stuck to the sides of fancy buildings (sorry I didn't hire the earphones and take the tour, and I rarely read the schpeil about historical places, 'Philistine!'). There wasn't a great deal of shade and we didn't hang about long, not after we nearly blistered our soles legging it into the temple for a nosey with no shoes on. We took a few selfies, which completely missed the buildings in the background, so we could've been anywhere - Parkgate, Prestwich, Paris. We had an ice-cream then skid-addled.

On the way to the palace, through the market, I'd spotted a palm with lines drawn on outside a little shop tucked between other shops and near the harbour. So we headed there, commenting on the amazing street food smells and fabrics, the chatter, the vibrancy, the colours. I felt like a tourist, I just needed a sarong, a fanny pack <snigger> and a woven triangular hat like the local farmers wear. The shop was no bigger than an outdoor loo (this woman's obsessed with the privy). A Thai lady in her mid 50s sat chatting on her mobile phone at the far end of the room, a desk separating us, and lots of clutter. She had plenty of pictures on the walls - photos of cheery ochre-gowned monks on one wall, and a picture of the king with his dogs on the other, a bit 80s and vulnerable looking, like when you see Prince Charles dancing with an African tribe and it kind of makes you feel a bit sad for him, all vulnerable, self-conscious and uncoordinated (just me that one?).

There were a few bunches of bananas lying around (perhaps for energy, or maybe she suffers with cramp) an array of padlocks (kinky?), newspapers, documents, it needed a sort out and I imagine my mum was dying to get stuck in and tidy the place.

Mum went first, writing down her date of birth and presenting her palms. I pretended to write a postcard so I could jot down her future. Our woman looked stuff up in her book, muttered in Thai, counted a lot, bilingually, and used a magnifying glass and an ink jet pen to draw dot to dot on Mum's hand. Then she revealed details like "You will live a long life", "When you were young you had an allergy?" - "Yes" mum offers. Really? It's the first I've heard. Then she became quite specific "When you were 49 you had a great boss - supports you" and other little snippets perhaps from mum's past, perhaps not. Midway through our woman takes a call on her mobile. This is all very matter of fact and relaxed, no spiritual references are made, no jangling bangles and sequined scarves in sight. The future is bright for Mum, "You have great asset to sell this year. A property? You have?" My parents have been talking about 'downsizing', though my mum wants to retain the same amount of bedrooms and a garden so technically it's 'moving' - we both "ooh'd". Afterwards my Mum says "Well great, I'm going to die of cancer". "No" I correct, "she said you also have to be careful of cysts and heart disease". Take from the reading what you will.

My turn. I've only done this once before, in Australia more than 10 years ago. My Aussie psychic immediately causing me to doubt her abilities by referring to my hands as "beautiful". My school mates still joke about the shape of my "curly digit fries" destined for arthritis, all crooked-like. Then she told me in a "You're terrible Muriel!" accent, that "I can see you like to travel", while whistfully chatting to the voices above her shoulder, her eyes closed. Well no shit lady, I'm in Australia which requires a certain amount of love for travel. I can't remember the rest, and the tape she sold me chewed up so it sounded like she'd had a gram of speed and 10 helium balloons during the reading, which if she had may have made it more memorable.

This palmist starts off well, shows me her ID and she's buzzing that we're both born in June. Then she tells me I'm "independent" <throw your hands up at meeee> and "sincere". She says I have had my heart broken in the past - which I can't deny if Groove is in the palm, and its true. Though I suspect there'll be a break in my heart line the day I saw my last epsiode of Coronation Street. Next she tells me I must be careful of 2 affairs, "foreign people love me" she says, and I am to reject the first advance, but she seems game for me dabbling with the second. I feel Mum's eyes burning into the back of my skull and on the boat ride home she tells me she'll be keeping an eye on me. I tell James and he asks "Who is he?" in his Dev off Coronation Street voice, feigns a Patti/Abe style tantrum, and says he's not talking to me anymore. I guffaw. Not that I'm being flippant, its just you can't be cross over a palmists predicted love affair, anymore than for a love affair that happened before we met.

So, it is written in my palm that I am to have great success in "Mass communication - very good!" (are you listening Random House Cooper/Penguin/Faber and Faber?). While my thoughts drift to a writing career my mum gets fixated with the time I worked for a tele-communications company, Cable and Wireless then NTL in the mid 90s. I'm trying to emancipate myself from the 9-5, Mum.

If all else fails, I'll make a fortune with the "import/export of beautiful things" (I typo'd 'thongs' then instead of 'things', is this an omen? 'Beautiful thongs' <reaches for sketch pad>). At 63 I'll be living in a mansion as a millionaire, my Mum comments, "I'll be dead by then".

I shall skirt over the doom predicted for my mid 50s: an accident, hospitalisation, hypertension, spending too much money, 'The Dark Years'. This lady doesn't hold back, there's no spoonful of sugar with this reading - aren't they meant to keep the fear at bay? At one point I think she may laugh and tell me, like the Tim Robbin's character in Jacob's Ladder, "according to this (life-line) you're already dead". I notice she doesn't tell me I'll live a long life.

I'm neither a cynic nor a believer of psychic readings. That may seem a bit flaky but I can't dismiss it totally and turn my back on my predicted millions, and its part of my Bangkok soul search. Why I dabble abroad and not in the UK is a mystery. Escaping my real world? Being told my future's bright will be more believable perhaps without a British regional accent. Hearing my future may clear the path a bit, give me some direction, like if someone said, "look Kenno, you know that dream about dancing on 3-2-1, well its time to move on now, mate, the programme finished in the 80s." 

If I take all the good points, won't it make me strive? Be more ambitious? Surely a good thing, yeah? And as for the negative points, I'll deal with them if and when they arrive. Whenever I embark on something new I put pressure on myself to make it count, have all these ideas, like I'll move to Thailand and become amazing at yoga, or be fluent in Thai straight away, but without new ventures I'd probably live in the now and not reach for a goal. My Dad says by looking at your palm all you can see is your past, the manual labour you've just done digging the garden, the segs in your hands (he does love a good seg), but he's a pure cynic. Perhaps each time I met with a reader, a psychic, I was feeling a bit vulnerable and needed someone to say "Hey Kenno, stop worrying it'll cause hypertension, you'll be right." Has it stopped me worrying? Has it fuck!

The 14th Century Christian Psychic, Meister Eckhart, is quoted as saying (get me and my 14th Century mystics! I think it's relevant but who cares, I just like the quote):

"The only thing that burns in Hell is the part of you that won't let go of life, your memories, your attachments. They burn them all away. But they're not punishing you...They're freeing you from your soul. So if you're frightened of dying and you're holding on, you'll see devils tearing your life away. But if you've made your peace, then the devils are really angels, freeing you from the earth."

and 1000 expat ladies clutch their pearls

Forgive me Karl Marx for I have sinned.
What is this sin, comrade?
Subjugation, exploitation, capitalism, maintaining the status quo.

A regular question in my current circle is "Do you have help?" and my answer ahem, is hard for me to erm, say aloud, er, "I have a maid", sorry Natalie, can't hear you, speak up, "I have a maid", what? "I HAVE A FRIGGIN' MAID, OK?!"

We were told we'd need a maid before we came to Thailand. We joked with our friends, me with a maid, pfft. The thought was alien, the act 'alienating' (that's a joke between me and Karl). My father delighted in calling me a 'champagne socialist', we've never shared the same politics. I don't like the archaic word 'maid', it's too 'Upstairs Downstairs' (I'm experimenting with "Domestic Assistant" (DA), it's a bit of a gob-full, but for the purpose of this post, lets go with it shall we? 

My Domestic Assistant Justification Versus My Guilt

I love my children, I would die for them, but I'd rather live for them given the choice. My ambitions/desires didn't come flying out with their placentas. I have goals beyond cooking, cleaning and child rearing, if you don't, that's also fine by me, but to achieve happiness I need time for myself. Abe's school run takes up 4 hours of my day and occurs during Patti's nap time, so I need to be in 2 places at once and while I can be mentally, physically this is impossible. I need an extra pair of hands.

Shopping - I'm not sure when I'm meant to fit that in, and if I continue shopping the way I have been the weekly shop will cost the same as at home, more if I keep quaffing white wine (cheapest bottle I've found is a tenner). It's not cheap here, not to live like we did at home. A piece of Bavarian smoked cheese, which may cost around GBP 1.76 at home, costs GBP 33.00 here! James and I are still agog 3 months on, we didn't even buy it - it's a Xmas cheese in our house. (I'm GBPing all over the place as I can't find the pound sign on my Thai keyboard. This helps to further illustrate that little in my life is straight forward right now.)

We don't have a car to make the shopping process more slick, nor a driver to make it luxurious. We do however get to ride in a danger vehicle with no sides, carrier bags of shopping at our feet, the wind blowing our hair onto the icing of our donuts as we abandon all dietary and safety lessons learnt in Blighty.

Also, I don't recognise half the fruit and veg in the shops - is it a fruit or a vegetable? Am I meant to peel it or eat the skin? Do you eat that boiled or raw? It could be fun, but with 2 kids in tow, suffice it to say, its not. Abe and Patti get through an entire net bag of Babybels before we even make it to the frozen aisle. Can I be arrested for this?

So, in short, I need help/advice with the weekly shop.

House-keeping - I can't physically clean the kids, the floors, the loos, do the school run, cook all the meals, wash all our clothes, iron, etc, in 24 hours, even on mum turbo-boost. I hated cleaning in the UK and I'm not keen here either. There are people that like it, I know of them, some people even describe it as 'relaxing' or 'rewarding' and some folk even buy themselves marigolds with fury cuffs, glam~cleaning. I am ashamed to admit, I need help or we'll live in squalor.

When we arrived in Bangkok we were given pots, pans and crockery to tide us over til our stuff arrived. Amongst the borrowed goods were a global take-away brochure and "an essential guide to living in Bangkok", with a section on 'Setting up home - domestic help and child minding'. I got butterflies when I first read that, child minding. I hated the thought of a stranger looking after my kids, even though that's what school is and I knew I'd have to be open to some big changes, but this change frightened me. I asked whether CRB checks existed out here and South East Asia pointed and laughed at me.

The guide was useful to help plan an interview, I learnt things like - it is considered rude by Thais to use written instructions, verbal is preferred. If a family member of your employee dies, be prepared to contribute to the funeral. In fairness I'm more likely to offer to carry the coffin and wail more than the widow.

Through word of mouth (apparently the best way to find a DA) we learnt of a Burmese woman looking for work. The phone calls leading to the interview were awkward, especially trying to give directions to where we lived. Then the interview was communicatively unbearable, and I gave up asking her to repeat herself for fear of sounding like the Fat Fighters club leader in Little Britain "Come again? Do it again...do it again...do it again....". Plus more importantly she didn't engage with my 'precious darlings' and the vibe was all wrong.

A month later, we're in our permanent address. I text 5 strangers (recommended by our estate agent) to ask if they can help clean the condo and mind the kids. I get 1 response and set up an interview, but she's a no show. I call her and the chat is tricky but we re-arrange. Unreliability is commonplace, so I'm told, due to high expat demand, maids are snapped up quickly and leave swiftly if not looked after properly, and rightly so.

Her name is Wandi (pronounced like Wendy but magic 'wand' vowel sound), she is Thai, which I want my kids to learn to speak, and her English is ok-ish. Wandi needs to leave her current employer because he's not treating her fairly and it sounds like she's caring for an old man with the needs of a baby. We learn that Wandi has worked with European families and she shows us 1980s photos and a good, yet dated reference (she tells us she lost paperwork in the big flood 2 yrs ago). My face aches from over-smiling throughout the interview. I try my Thai on Wandi, she says its "very good, Madame". We decide we want Wandi, not because she praised my Thai, but because she has kind eyes, she's Grandma-ish and we have to go off instinct and trust. Wandi is hired because the vibe is right. 

Wandi asks to 'live-in', she views the 'Maids Quarters' (I'm checking over my shoulder as I type 'maid's quarters', the same way I turn to see who she's addressing when Wandi calls me 'Madame' - I'm not Madame, I'm Kenno from the block).  In Manchester our house had a loo in the backyard - we didn't use it, we're not THAT poor, I'm just expressing my point. The maid's quarters is a poky living space it has a shower/loo, a small bedroom, and no air con, but a slatted window over-looking the washer and dryer. As living space out here goes, I hear ours is good, but it makes me blush, especially in comparison to our massive open plan apartment. I squirm at the thought of Wandi sleeping in there. And there's a service entrance. I read a sign in our apartment atrium telling us that maids and cleaners had to use the service lift, not the main lift, or they'd be banned from using the lifts completely. Where's Rosa Parks when you need her?

I've hired cleaners in work before, you can't run a hostel without cleaners and I've cleaned 'shit' up myself, literally. I'm picturing a bag of adult poo left in a kitchen cupboard in a hostel I ran (not at home, James does his in the pan drawer), a dirty protest with flies everywhere, puke on carpets, stinky toilets, skiddy undies left on the floor, I've cleaned it/seen it all. You can't expect others to do what you're not prepared to do yourself can you? So why am I still cringing? We're paying Wandi more than the average for a Thai live-in maid, plus extras for cleaning up after visitors (tolerating my Father's jokes) and babysitting. 

My society has been trying to inflict the role of cleaner on me from birth, just because I've got a vagina. Pink Plastic kitchens for girls to play in, adverts telling me my hands will feel softer if I opt for one carcinogenic washing-up liquid over another. At home we couldn't justify having a cleaner and they were less common amongst my peers, whereas here, everyone I know has one. 

Perhaps I'd feel less guilt for not cleaning if I was in paid work? Or dare I say, if I had a penis? I'm sure I've thought people were lazy bastards for not cleaning their own crap in the past, regardless of their gender, but more likely through a bit of envy - 'so and so's too good to wash her own pots'.

Can I just point out that this is temporary, at some point I'll be back in England choosing bleach and polishing the woodwork. I know this is a luxury and I'll enjoy the benefits soon enough, I swear.

I know I'm about to be as tidy as I've ever been in my life and I'll clean before our cleaner arrives. I make the bed, then Wandi makes it again, better. I tidy all the empty suitcases, prams and boxes in the storage cupboard, Wandi rearranges it into a work of sculpture. I offer to make Wandi a cup of tea, well I didn't know, I thought I could let her put her feet up, have a brew and a biscuit *and 1000 expat ladies clutch their pearls.

Wandi and I are separated by boundaries, culture, language and the kitchen. Before she starts I offer to get Wandi whatever she needs. A bed, a chest of drawers, a fan, a lamp, to hell with it, she can have my bed, sleep next to James, I'll take the floor. I rush to Ikea, pick up brand new things off the list, aside from the telly and a bed base. We're told the building will provide the bed base, but they don't. They say maids tend to have a mattress on the floor, it gives more room in small quarters.  It feels wrong but what do I know. I clean the room, make the bed, sans base, assemble the drawers, make it nice.  Mr James, not my husband, my camera-mate, asks to come along on Wandi's first day - capture the awkwardness. When Wandi arrives she tells me she has a bad back and needs a bed base. Shit! Shit! Shit! I feel like a twat, not because I've been busted for being a slave trader, because I'm feeling the power imbalance, I should've gone with my gut, not the advice. The advice you see is very mixed. 'Don't get her a telly until the trial periods over', 'don't let 'them' take advantage', 'set the boundaries early on', what boundaries? 'If you give an inch they'll take a mile', 'don't give time off', 'don't give extra money', 'get her to work weekends', 'ours didn't smile enough', its a minefield and I'm in a discomfort zone. How could I not buy her a bed base, and a telly? I get a telly within a few hours of her starting, a good one, GBP 100.

Wandi's settling in well, she's on a 2 month trial period, but she's a definite keeper if she'll have us. Wandi's making us amazing Thai food, with ingredients from markets I don't know exist. Our fridge is full of random green veg, the cupboards - mixed spices and exotic pots of paste, the freezer - unidentifiable meat. Our house is spotless and organized, and I know that soon I'll have time for me, because of Wandi, which will save on therapy and vallium, which I can buy on the school run if things get really on top. The kids tell her the meals she's made them are "Wandilicious" and thank her in Thai (though they have done time on the step for calling her Wandi-poo-head). And there have been a couple of fish fingers with beef gravy style incidents. I've had to message my mates to tell them of my newly organised knicker drawer, and James and I have banter about her tidying stuff away when we can't find it - threaten to take away the telly. 

I have memories as a child, of accompanying my Mum on her cleaning job. I remember a goat in the garden, a golden Labrador, and an aviary. I can picture the white porcelain of a 'downstairs' loo as my Mum cleaned and I watched from the stairs. I loved going there. In the end they stopped needing my Mum, the place was so clean the 'woman had nothing to do when she got home from work'. Feminism hadn't hit the Wirral in 1980, not in our house, or theirs perhaps. 

Wandi doesn't work weekends, one Monday I ask her what she did at the weekend, she said she went home and cleaned her house. A busman's holiday. I've learnt that Wandi needs a day off, to sign some deeds on some land she is buying. My spirits are lifted when I hear this, I like the thought of Wandi retiring when she's finished with our family (we're her last chapter in domestic help), I can imagine her sitting in her garden, drinking a beer, playing with her grandkids and telling them about Abe and Patti.

There's a lot to get my head around with this move. Having Wandi is a privilidge and a Godsend, yet still something huge to adapt myself and the kids to. Wandi will be treated well with The O'Haras. I feel like I have to sometimes justify this new life to myself, and to readers of this blog. A friend of mine has made a career out of living/studying abroad. He married his boyfriend in Vietnam after living in Bangkok, Malaysia, all over South East Asia. He is a good source of information and encouragement for me. In his last message he said:

"It's so incredibly challenging what you've done. I travel a lot, as you know, but doing so with a family and children under 5 as well, and being responsible for them, their lives, your lives, is an altogether different experience again... I'm dead proud of you". (I wept when I read that). "A life with frequent almost constant misunderstanding, confusion and ignorance is frustrating at best, but somehow rewarding if the same mundane encounters are successfully performed". I am so grateful to him for saying this, for getting it, and thankful to Wandi for everything.

Catfish Mosh Pit

Last Saturday, Mr James and I visited Taling Chan Floating Market. Mr James is Abe's name for the dude directing 'Bangkok Brits' (and my newest friend). Prior to the trip I envision floating along a bustling, vibrant river, pink paper parasol, serene and relaxed, sans enfants.

I chat with Mr James about tasting some river food. I've bottled out of the street food so far, my mum's cautioning voice, "where do they wash their hands?" is off-putting. (She said the same of hot dog vendors & ice-cream vans in my youth, yet I live to tell the tale). I research street food by asking everyone I've ever known eat it, whether they got 'the wildies'. No one has. Street food; river food, same same, I'm going to try it.

There is a narrow street lined with stalls leading to the dock, selling outdoor plants, up-cycled clocks made from cans of Chang, fruit on a stick, handbags. The Durian fruit sits waiting for me to try it, the spiky skin surely a warning sign its meant to be used as a cosh, not scoffed. It smells of bins. I get confused with the puke tasting fruit they feed the celebrities in the jungle, when I describe it on camera, but it tastes oniony, with a weird texture difficult to slide from my teeth. I sample some tiny crispy pancakes garnished with meringue white and the sweetest shredded fruit, I'd rather that than a cup cake any day.

When we reach the gangplank, a shoal of catfish are being fed bread baps/batches/buns/rolls (choose your own regional term), loads of them slapping about vying for the next bite. Its a catfish mosh pit. Buckets of terrapins, eels, and fish for sale, presumably for pets. The set up is - wander around the moored boat where the diner's dine, choose your scran, sit on the raised floor at a low table, order, pay, scoff. Simple-ish. Having wandered around for curiosity and camera I decide on some white fish, large prawns and chicken satay. The fish is prepared by a young Thai woman on a long-tail boat in the murky water, she sits opposite the prawn, squid and crab woman, each have a BBQ and are busy cooking as the orders come in from above. My white fish is stuffed with twigs, dipped in a bucket of salt, bbq'd and served on a vine for a plate. The head is still on, the bones remain. It's fit. It's meaty, but less meaty than a monk fish, and the 2 accompanying chilli dips pack the perfect punch. Who am I kidding? I'm no Nigella, I choke on the chilli and I'm paranoid the whole time I'm talking there's shit in my teeth or grease on my chin. The chicken satay is a no show.

I look around and I'm surrounded by local families and groups of friends, out together for Sunday lunch, sharing fish, noodles, conversation. Is this the Thai version of the British family roast? I try a prawn, it's awkward to break into and my new nails chip. The prawn's a bit mushy/ liquidy and gives me the fear, especially as I've seen a slippery squid bounce on the deck where the dirty river water has sloshed - its re-captured and plonked on the grill. I need someone to tell me it's ok, a 'pescy' friend, a 'sole' mate (sorry). It tastes like a prawn, I can't show off with adjectives, a prawn is a prawn is a prawn. 

I'm telling Mr James and camera how lovely it is to be here, experiencing another side of Thailand, and how perfect it would be if I could teleport my friends to me, share my big white fish/salmonella/floaty market adventure. I need them to come and laugh at me/take the piss, commet on how ridiculous my life is at the minute, then reassure me - the prawn's ok, you're ok, get a grip, Kenno. I talk about friendships for a bit, about how James having a job is preventing our togetherness, making me long for him to come home, clock watch, and by the time he's home there's nothing left of me. All the while I worry I'm acting like a fool. Look at me for God's sake, at where I am, it's amazing, its beyond my dreams, and I'm blubbing...again. I can't swallow my prawn. Will I ever be satisfied? I'm cross with myself.

Mr James swaps his camera for a Chang and he has tears in his eyes. He is missing his family too. Or is it sweaty eye syndrome (it stings, sweat in your eye). We chat about my sadness, our families, then we talk music, festivals and friends. Laughing and enjoying the atmosphere as waiters shout to chefs, families natter and children sleep/play. I explain how lovely the school mum's have been, how I've exchanged numbers but not dialled. I'm too shy shy. I'm concerned people will think I'm snubbing them when I don't follow up on their suggestions of joining the British Club. I can't, though I've never been and I'm told its great for families. I'd hoped to integrate not be segregated by a private members group, I can't express this shirking for fear of appearing judgmental, because I think 'just find whatever works for you' out here. Am I isolating myself? Being aloof? My mates at home are a special, hand-selected, M & S finest range. How can anyone live up to that?

After a chat and a Chang, I sit on a bench, bits of tree falling on my head, I write some notes for this blog. There's a live 8 piece trad Thai band, "Volunteer Spirit" playing clang, clink, ding music, which mixes perfectly with the man on the megaphone in the distance. The camera is recording this moment, which James later describes as my Synedoche New York-like life, its a film I didn't get, like art within art, within art...

I've enjoyed a little boat ride down the river, seen a community I didn't know existed - homes on stilts in luscious tropical terrain that I've only ever seen on Vietnam war films. Its been a lovely day, spent in an amazing place, surrounded by smiling families, fantastic food, its food for my soul. I've had the best chat with a new friend. I hope to call him a friend, but after all he's being paid to hang out with me, he's only around til the end of the month, my losertic status remains.

I go home and go out for booze with James, try and describe my day. The next day I experience my first Changover.