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. 

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.

Is it just me, or is everyone paranoid?

I am on lesson 10 of my Thai language CD, best birthday present of 2012. Thai is a tonal language, pronounce it with the incorrect tone and you could change the words. 'Ma' with an up tone means horse, with a down tone means dog, which could confuse a vet and cause problems in a pet shop, for example. I know a few phrases to get by and have mastered a couple of sentences which translate as, 'I can speak a little Thai, but not very well', but it sounds fairly impressive. This goes down well with taxi drivers and in coffee shops, which is most encouraging, and I vow to get onto lesson 11 before the month is out. Baby steps, ey.

At first I thought the CD was geared up for lonely businessmen, "how to address a Thai woman", and "how to ask a Thai woman to go for a drink", it kind of is this, but not in a sleezy way. I think it's in our nature to stereo-type, it's only our ignorance that does it, lack of knowledge, life is easier for ourselves if we can compartmentalise. For example, when I see a lone, white, middle-aged overweight male on the streets of BKK I think, eeew, you dirty bastard. Now, my Dad is visiting and fits some of that description, but he's not a creep, looking for a "good time" (least I hope not), and I'd hate to think anyone was judging him as such. Likewise, not all gorgeous petite Thai ladies in skirts and high heels, are looking to provide a "good time" either, nor are they harbouring a secret penis. Lesson learnt, this is good, I like these awakening moments. Not all white middle-aged men are here looking for prostitutes; not all Thai women with older, less attractive males are providing the oldest profession.

A few weeks ago I read an expat magazine, it was pretty same old same old with regards to the articles - cosmetic surgery, yoyo dieting, saving soi animals, and 2 pages on dream interpretations. An aside - Is there anything more dull than listening to someone else's dream? (James, listen, I had that dream again, no, not the one where I slaughter people in a machete style blood bath, the one where I've missed all my seminars and lectures and I'm failing my degree.) James is excellent at pretending to be interested in my dreams, I think he's actually well jell that I remember them, whereas he rarely does. So, does it sound inspiring? The expat magazine? Surprisingly it was, for me, although my evenings have been spent in a haze of gin since we arrived thus hampering my judgement.

I was inspired by the magazine to attend a writing group, something I'd have liked to do in Manchester, but what with cramming full time work into part time hours - the myth of equality in the workplace - so I could crack on with unpaid employment (kids/home related, will bore off with the details) there simply wasn't time. But the article said:

"One of the special things about 'the writing group' is the way the members interact", the "group leader says that, after experiencing the destructive criticism of many writers' groups 'on several different continents' (but mostly in London) that left her unable to write, sometimes for weeks after a group meeting, she is determined to nurture and encourage writers...." "So whether you are a best selling author OR A BLOGGER, a journalist or a poet, join 'the group' and get inspired."

I go. It's my first night out other than walking to the shops and back. I'm nervous, I don't know the mall where it's held, and I'm pretty devastated its not in a pub. I don't know what to expect, just that I have to bring 3 pages of my own writing with copies for the group. Despite setting off mega early I arrive late, having been lost in a maze of shops, and finally giving in and asking for directions, in Thai I might add. I attend, it is diverse - though crossing continents, not genders, it is fast-paced, there are no introductions beyond 'hello, sit down', I don't get to give my rehearsed schpiel about being new to BKK, a mother, a lover and a woman in my own right. I understand the reasoning, as the leader points out on several occasions 'there isn't much time', and 'that's the nature of this group'. There is a clear structure explained at the outset, we are all to read each others work, critique/comment in a friendly, helpful way, not like in London. London or Londoners are getting a pasting.

I find it hard to come up with things to say, I regress to seminars in degree poetry where the lecturer had clear favorites and girls with educated accents knew what to say, or so I thought. (My take on William Blake, "it's the lyrics of The Verve", I feel like a dufus, enter tumbleweed, never speak in poetry again). I comment that it's tricky to absorb the text and my comment is immediately met with 'you have to read fast'. (Back in your box Kenno).

James has printed off my last blogpost to share, we have no printer yet, and because my short story (ironically based on a not-boring-dream) is not fit for critical consumption. This was a mistake. It's like taking my diary along. Who critiques a diary? Lovers of Anne Frank and Sue Townsend perhaps. It is not well received, or so I fear. The woman opposite folds her arms and despite being vocal up until now, feeds-back nada. Uh oh. Then our leader tells the group she is "sick and tired" of the same stereotypes of Asians (she is from Europe), being described as 'exotic'. She goes on about stereo-typing, I try to confirm that it's a building with wild tropical flowers I'm calling 'exotic', not my talented masseuse. It goes unheard, like the tail end of every Hugh Grant sentence, and suddenly I'm a Londoner.

Stereotyping is different to racism, but falls under the same umbrella. I'm left feeling accused of something I'm vehemently against. Then the question, "Why do you write this? Who is it for?" For friends and family back home, I say, without time to add that it's also a cathartic process, helping me adapt and settle in. Then I'm hit with "well if you already have readers then why would you need to come to this group?" Repeated twice. Ouch! Where's my feedback sandwich? E.G. I like your individual style, the contents is racist, but overall it's a jolly good read). Disclaimer - no one has said I am racist, clearly this is hyperbolic, I am incredibly paranoid and don't respond well to criticism.

I sink lower into the chair, my mouth dry, my heart pounding. I didn't dare get a drink having arrived late and feeling the tension. Is my blog too harsh? Too English? Too colloquial? Stereo-typing? I cringe. I have read the other offerings with enthusiasm, and found words of encouragement for every writer, which was challenging at times, but who gives a shit what I think anyway? And why should I give a shit either? The leader says I've written about what everyone writes about when they first arrive in Bangkok. I'm also obvious and normal, eek. Who led the London writing group? Nina Myskow? Brian Sewell? I feel misunderstood, misinterpreted, lost in translation, labelled and pigeon-holed. Perhaps how my writing group leader felt in London. Her issues? Her revenge on London via my well-meant blog? Some questions follow, but by now I'm withdrawing, "How long did you spend writing this?" "Do you write anything else?" "Perhaps you could bring that next time". Ick!

Writing this I can't believe I've been toying with the idea of going again, (though contemplating taking John Cooper Clarke's, "Chicken Town" to pass off as my own work strikes me as amusing, yet immature). It's tonight, the group, and I'm not going. I'd have liked to have gone to defend myself, but I decide if I feel I have to defend myself then maybe it's not the group for me. Also, I've been in touch with a genuinely good soul from the group who didn't get onto the harshness I felt, and with common sense and tenderness convinced me its probably not the place for me to make friends. Not yet, though I may return...

Abe starts school

We were spoilt for choice when it came to choosing an English speaking school for our Abe. One school looked like it was designed by Enid Blyton, complete with Magic Faraway Tree, another was completely summer fete with ice-pops, Thai dancing and games of tick, there were kids from far and wide - amazing diversity. In Manchester, Abe served a 2 term stretch in a fabulous inner city school, where assembly was interpreted in sign language, and the teachers downloaded photos onto iPads to share with the parents. It was pretty special and we were fortunate to get a place there.

In his new school there are lobsters and tropical fish in tanks around the grounds, tall trees with different coloured ribbons (each colour has a different meaning in Buddhism) in the play areas, swimming pools for different age groups, a canteen that serves a worldwide menu of deliciousness, and a row of colourful scooters outside his classroom, so the children may race around the class during breaks, taking in the terrapin, water play and slides/climbing frames. He's eating rice, something he wouldn't do for me at home. He has a new pal, Jessica, and he's told me tales of play-dough togetherness. He has chosen a purple (please don't call it lilac) t-shirt and he's in the red house, same as me when I was at school. He's been in Thailand for 7 weeks, he's ready for school, he needs to socialise and he craves this routine. He is the only British born child in his class.

The school run is trial and error, we are experimenting with different modes of transport, namely the tuk tuk, sky train and taxi, (I'm too chicken to ride the motorbikes yet, not with Abe). We've been late twice in 5 days, neither of us like being late. Abe wants to know if Ty will be there, "no darling, Ty lives in England". Today when he entered the classroom his teacher played and sang "Good morning, Abe" on the xylophone. I'm not perky enough to be a school teacher, hats off.

On Abe's first big day we're both a bit nervous. I'm trying to hide my anxieties with over enthusiasm. "Wow, what an adventure". Mummy being chirpy in the morning, something is amiss. The cab takes us half an hour to travel 10 minutes as the crow flies. We all take him to school, James can oversee the misadventures of Patti, while I focus on Abe. In the classroom the teacher announces the new friend, and asks the kids what they're going to show Abe today. Abe's not really listening, he's clinging to my leg, his face red from the heat and from stifling a sob. "The slide", "the scooters", "the terrapin". The teacher draws on the board how the day will plan out - a little voice, "Is that the best you can do?" The laughter brings relief. Abe doesn't want me to go. Drop and run possibly a better option than stay and play, but he won't sit on the carpet with the other kids, he won't let go of me. It's playtime and my cue to leave, Abe cries, the little sea of beautiful faces are wondering why the new boy is crying and if I speak I too will cry so I just smile at them, our universal language. Patti is the first to grab a scooter and try to race with the other kids, she's in the Wendy house and down a slide before we reach her. I don't think she'll have too much trouble when it's her turn to join up. I sit on a swing next to Abe, watch the other kids playing, and then a lovely kid takes him for a ride on his taxi trike. I have to leave and Abe unravels, the teachers are kind and reassure him, I kiss him, tell him I love him, and promise to return at home time. I wait until I'm out of sight before I cry. James tries to comfort me with a pat on the arm but I feel far too guilty for doing this to my boy so it only makes me worse.

Parenting is a series of letting go, setting them loose into the world, arming them with as many tricks for survival as possible, hoping they'll be ok and keep coming back for cuddles. We swing by the Scottish Restaurant on the way home. It's the nearest place open and I need a coffee. I spot a small figure lying on the plastic seats, hair dusty, feet filthy, he/she looks out of place in the spotless cafe. We order drinks and round the corner to sit down. Two more boys, aged maybe 8 or 9 lie fast asleep on the arched couch, top to tail. James and I exchange a wide-eyed look of concern. No parents are near, they're not in school, they don't have shoes, they're filthy from the street. I well up again as the thought of these homeless children(?) taking refuge in the restaurant sinks in, and I realise Abe will be fine. When I arrive home I google charities in Bangkok and make some notes. I need to do something about this. To be a part of this new society, I need to contribute to it, I don't know how yet, but something needs to be done outside of our privileged bubble.

How hard do you want it?

We have moved. A choir of angels are singing the hallelujah chorus as I type. Finally we are in our apartment on the 16th floor with amazing views across the city and a pot for each of us to piss in simultaneously if we fancy. The parquet floors are perfect for skidding in socks and there's plenty of space for our regular Family Dance, especially now we've splashed out on a Boom Box. Belle and Sebastian's "Boy with the Arab Strap", Stone Roses "This is the one", and Patti Smith's version of "Gloria" were just some of yesterday's disco tunes giving rise to dance like noones watching. Each room has a balcony so bring on the storms, though kids are banned from venturing out, the stuff of nightmares. The bedrooms have walk-in-wardrobes and the kids are taking it in turns to lock each other in, switch off the lights and scream, loudly. I need to teach them how to play Hide and Seek, before the neighbours suspect us and call Childline. Also, thanks to the wardrobes, a far cry from what I'm used to back home, I can now see at a glance that I only seem to purchase navy trousers, what's that about? And that everything I own needs ironing. I can also admire my shoes, I shan't be wearing them here, doubt I'll ever make it out of flip flops, and even they make my feet feel bruised on the soles. I seem to walk a lot in this city of smiles and knackered feet. I've given a virtual tour to a few of my beloved friends/family so they can picture where we are, and envision forthcoming holidays. Hark at me! It's very beige, lots of neutrals, so we're spicing it up with bright cushions and throws from "Ginger", my new favourite shop.

James and I are taking it in turns to explore locally, can't really wheel the kids up and down the main road, they get knackered too quickly and demand to "go 'ome". On my initial trip out I encountered my first Bangkok rat, back leg broken, blood on his hip, limping towards his death on the main road, Sukhumvit. I wanted a little ambulance driven by a gerbil in a luminous paramedic uniform to come to his rescue but alas, as James pointed out, he's more likely to be bbq'd on a skewer. I ventured out to a supermarket, Villa, where they sell stuff you can get at home, Fray Bentos pies, quorn pieces, sausage rolls, etc. I'm not missing home enough to opt for the pie, but this will be my yardstick for sorrow/ future bouts of homesickness - do I need a Fray Bentos pie?

There is an exotic looking massage place 5 minutes down the road. Judging by the Japanese well-to-do ladies in their straw hats paying and exiting, I presume it's not a 'massage' parlour in a coital sense. I go in and book an appointment. The list of treatments are extensive, what do I choose? I've delved in to holistic therapies before now, even had my exhausted pregnant body scrubbed and rubbed like a big joint of pork on a Sunday, salted and oiled. I can do this. I opt for an oil massage, I'm not ready to be trodden on Thai style just yet, I'll work up to that. My lady greets me and brings me lemon tea in a wooden handleless cup, then smuggles me down darkened corridors to don over sized patterned peasant pants and washes my feet in a sink on the ground (reminds me of toilets/holes in the ground when you visit rural monuments in Greece, without the stench, and I don't have to squat and wee down my leg). Having had my feet anointed, I am delivered to a darkened room and seated in a comfortable, squashy leather arm chair reminiscent of Joey and Chandler's in Friends. I haven't been massaged in company before and the sound of other bodies being pummeled and slapped is a bit weird yet not ruinous to my relaxation. I have opted for a foot massage though my entire legs are catered to, occasionally bordering on unpleasant, mostly relieving. I have my head, neck and shoulders massaged and I'm thankful my boobs are left alone (my friend unable to say the same since her recent touch up in a massage shop). There are moments when I need to giggle, like when she punches me, wrings my neck from behind, and when she hit me on the top of the head a few times, making me feel like a human boiled egg. I'm glad I ticked the "medium" option for intensity of massage, don't think I'd want it hard! Not yet.

Home sickness - even though I've had longer holidays!

Last week was a wobble of a week. I'll try and explain why, without sounding ungrateful or using too many words, (a regular paranoia that goes alongside writing this blog- along with grammar and spelling fears, I know I overuse the comma, for example,,,,,).

Some of our cargo arrived, the rest is coming by sea in the merry month of (mid) May. I couldn't remember what we'd packed in the UAF (Unaccompanied Air Freight) perhaps my dignity and patience were packed and travelling separately from me, my ability to be succinct in the row behind). The cases arrive during our dog-sitting ventures (see previous post) and when we return to Chateau de Bangkok, 5 cases are standing to attention, ready for inspection. I have a root while James is at work, which is fun at first. I find more kids books, wellies, coat-hangers (was I high when I packed these?) socks, towels, nappies, and more random objects. Encouraged and intrigued by these treasures I move on to case 2. Our parting gift from friends, protected by a pillow with a little round blood stain on (really Natalie?) lies waiting for my emotional reaction shouting 'Surprise!' I see the room full of our friends faces at our parting soirée, how suddenly everyone was in the living room with Prosecco in hand, and I want to hide. I remember I looked at James and said "oh friggin hell, they're gonna make me cry now, can I just go?". The gift, my trigger, is a photo of Abe and Patti's little mates, taken by a close friend. It is framed beautifully and signed by our best pals, with moving messages inscribed. I quickly flap the lid of the case shut, it feels like I'm fleeing from my surprise party. Then I spot a bottle green cardigan hand-knitted by my mum for Patti, uh oh, sinking feeling, wave of grief, water entering eye area, hand up to cover mouth - drown the sob, but it's too late, I'm spotted by Eagle Eye Patti who saunters over, stares up at my face quizzically and starts patting my arm with her tiny soft and sticky toddler fingers, "s'ok mamma". The floodgates open.

When I feel low or sad, or I'm just having a full moon kind of a day, I usually a) phone a friend, b) drive to my folk's, c) booze. None of the above are an option due to time zones, lack of credit, being sole parent while James is in Burma. I decide to go with the emotion and have a day of crying. I handover parental care to youtube and the DVD player. I text James, fearful of burdening him on what is a 'big day' in the world of cultural relations. He responds quickly to tell me I'm amazing and it's all part of the settling in process. It's not enough, the crying continues, I spend the day in a fog of misery, taking hugs from the kids as and when they're offered. Like eager to please cats bringing me tortured birds I receive toy dogs, slobbery kisses and gentle caresses followed by demands to provide sweets and chocolate, 'have you got any crisps, mamma?' I think this 'mamma' thing is a result of my failure to police youtube, and Patti finding Spanish versions of cbeebies shows, 'Makka Pakka adora su uff uff' and other shows. It could be worse, much worse, but internet worries for another day.

I delve into my misery, I prod my emotional ulcers and wait for the pain and the next sob. It's self-indulgent, it's also irritating me but I can't stop. I think of my friends who've lost their mums, the sadness they feel in waves for always, and I feel their heartbreak and cry some more, all the while feeling guilty for sinking further, guilty that my mum's still around, is visiting next month, and although we'll fall out after day 3, how we love each other and have each other to comfort, nag and argue with. When the crying ends I'm spaced out and blotchy.

I get some Skype fixes, Whatsapp exchanges, succinct tweets (not my forte, though I'd love to haiku them), detailed emails, from my (so solid) crew, the people that fuel me, encourage me and help make this decision the right one with their kind words. I'm trying every possible communication process, other than having my own tv show, but give me time...

I don't know if I've experienced 'home sickness' before, I probably did when I went to university but used the same aids as everyone else to numb the sadness. I've felt very sad before, like pit of your stomach sad, from break ups, friendship losses, deaths. It's consuming and the lump sits in my throat like a roast potato I haven't chewed enough, choking. I think the worry that I've removed the kids from their grandparents, their mates, their school/ play group, their people, is my main woe. I have to remind myself all the time that I'm doing this for the kids, and for us as a family, and for the adventures. Home for the kids is where WE are, wherever James and I administer our love in bucket loads, how we reassure them and comfort them. It's worth noting they haven't cried once for missing home, so something must be working, right?

Lumphini Park: What did you do there?

There's a park near where we live, Lumphini Park. It's a good size, 142 acres, and its a welcome rural retreat in this concrete jungle where you buy knock off, there's nothing you can't get. The day we visit the park, I slather the kids in sun cream, prepare the Liberty Bag (contents: water, sunglasses, wipes, hats, small toys and snacks *bribes, sun cream - this is a daily ritual and we usually forget something crucial and pay the meltdown price).

The park is luscious and green and vast, in fact if you google image Lumphini Park you'll see just how green it is. You may also see some 'buff hunks' lifting weights outdoors, a bit of Tai Chi group activity - I'm told you can join in, but I'm definitely airing to the side of hysterical on the zen spectrum. Look further down the photos and wtf!? Giant lizards emerging from the lake and scoffing turtles, all 8ft of them! So you can imagine my anxieties at exploring the park on my own with the kids, no James to protect us/shit it with us, especially considering the only films on our movie channel seem to involve creatures turning on humans, Shark Hunt and Piranha Nights to name but two. Patti is fearless, she can scale a bookshelf and chew on a razor in the time it takes to make a brew, and Abe's really into all creatures great and small (not the tv series about a vet, I doubt it would be fast or sweary enough for my son these days). I have daymares about them both gleefully charging into the open mouth of a terrifying reptile, 'look mummy, it's a real dragon'. Alas, we don't witness any lizards, just the odd jogger ('odd' being the word,  it's 35 degrees FFS people), a couple of prostitues fine-dining from the carts at the roadside, women's bodies with men's voices and feet. It's sweaty, it's hot and humid, there is no breeze.

There are hoses on the back of trucks, circling the park, watering the forestry, it sprays us, it's pleasant at first, then I recall my wise friend's warning: whilst visiting Bangkok 10 years previously, her father accidentally ingested Songkram (see previous post) water during fight time, he lost 4 stone in 2 months through illness, Kampala Bacter. I remember her parents cautioning us from their quaint cottage kitchen. "Close your mouths kids" I bark. We meander through the park, pass a little place of worship, then I spot the familiar bright plastic through the trees, our place of worship. "Park!" Abe is happy to have called the first sighting, he was waivering like a lowly sniper in the thirsty desert, though spotting a luminous yellow wavy slide through some bushes is hardly sniperesque. Thank Buddha for that! We wind down a few paths towards our target zone, the kids red faced even though I'm the one exerting, we park up, they take 2 steps into the play area and the whining starts: "sand in my toes, sand in my toes", "I no like it, I no like it." An Australian woman gives me a head tilt to show her understanding and pity, she offers, "it's hot, hey?" This is parental endurance testing at its finest. I try to channel the endurance skills of Eunace Huthart, the scouse Gladiator circa 1994. I never really liked the show, and we give up and go home.

We return to our temporary home like survivors, a whining, sweaty mess of a journey precedes - up and down high kirbs, besides shit smelling sewers, negotiating the busiest roads, not knowing whether the direction we've taken is the right one. We make it back, we eat Philadelhia sandwiches and rehydrate with chocolate milk. I look at my filthy newly blistered feet, and throw socks into the Liberty Bag.