Kicking Culture Shock in the Face (that'll be the anger stage then)

Question: How helpful has it been for me to read that all of the following may have been symptoms of CULTURE SHOCK?

Moody melancholia, a desire to run for the hills flicking the Vs at the world behind me, weeping at a song that teaches my kids the alphabet, remembering with fondness my indie days, cringingly recalling my rave days, frantically checking Facebook status updates and Twitter posts - making sure I'm not missing out on anything, remembering with rose-tinted specs my house-shares in my 20s, swinging from mood to mood like a monkey on a chandelier, reminiscing times before the responsibility of kids - my kidulthood.

Answer: Well pretty damn helpful really.

I read about the stages of culture shock thanks to an email from Rebecca my stoic, loyal, hilarious, intrepid and trusted comrade since our teens. And I am relieved to read that like with grief, I'm going through a process so there appears to be some 'normal' in what feels like my 'crazy'.

In a nutshell there are 4 stages of Culture Shock: Wonder, Frustration, Depression and Acceptance

I can write about this now because I feel I am emerging for the first time and accepting Bangkok as my new psychedelic home. I am surrendered to it, but in a good way, like a willing 50 Shades of Grey way. I've thrown myself into my new life and brusied myself from the fall. I've been entirely self-critical throughout - 'I'm not parenting well enough here, I'm not supporting us financially for the first time ever, I'm failing to mix, I don't think anyone 'likes' me' - but now, I appear to be winning.

When we arrived I thought 'I'm going to take this opportunity and on behalf of everyone who's never been given this chance, I'm going to embrace it and become the best goddamn expat/stay at home parent/other Bangkok has EVER seen'. I blame my love of the sport movie genre and a slight addiction to inspirational quotes (watch me) for setting off at the pace I did. Mohammad Ali famously said "If I were a garbage man, I'd be the word's greatest garbage man". I over-apply this principle and soon run out of energy. I tried to be 'the best' in my first month, during my 'Wonder Stage', and the wonder stage was gooood, if a little frantic. Like the start of a new relationship where each other's flaws are 'so cute'. "James, look at the size of this apple, its huge, take a picture of me holding it", "waaaaah look at that 'stand up for a monk' sign on the train","OMG I just had the best massage ever", "lets eat Pad Thai everyday then go out and get matching tattoos" (we haven't...yet). The wonder stage was 'wonderful' for our enthusiasm knew no bounds, and Bangkok is brilliant for all its intensity.

I don't want to go on about the Depression stage, because it hit me hard and I'm worried writing about it might conjure it again. I'm not the type of person who says "Candyman" in the mirror several times just incase. However, lets just say I've been pretty low at times and its felt debilitating. Were it not for the support of James and my mates back home willing me on like an over competitive mum on Sport's Day, and my new mates sharing the roller coaster emotions and laughing in the face of culture shock, then maybe I'd still be feeling that way. I dread to think.

So what changed and why am I feeling ok? How - dare I say - am I feeling good? Well, it hasn't been by madly rushing to experience as much as I can in a short time, attempting to get to grips with everything as fast as I can, because this has left me feeling panicked, and more alienated. I must have looked like the cockroach that ran into my massage room and quickly scuttled in different directions til it found a hiding place (least relaxing massage ever). I think I've accepted that in a way I am the office 'new girl', and only time and the arrival of a newer girl will change that. There isn't an Alice in Wonderland remedy, although you might be able to buy one in Nana in the stall next to the dildos and viagra. The change has come with a bit of being kind to myself, seeing culture shock for what it is - a fucking shock to the system. 

The shock isn't so easy to recognise through symbols, of course its differences in language and culture and climate, but its not so easy to read when you're 'in it'. It seems to steadily build, and it appears to be a continuum so who knows if I'll sink again, and I'm sure I will. For me the shock hasn't been the fact that frozen crocodile is cheaper than most cheeses in the Big C, or that the supermarket shelves are packed with skin-whitening lotions while I'm hoping for a bit of a bronzey, nor is it that the woman at the til is often a ladyboy, because that just adds difference to my usual shopping trip and I love that ladyboys have 'real jobs' not just involvement with an exploitative sex industry, and as for the food  - people at home, you were right, it is divine.

Here I am a "farang", a person of European ancestry. I am Jenny foreigner, but a foreigner is just a person from a different place, right? It gets 'Frustrating' at times, and this is another stage, which can manifest in ANGER. I can be in an empty cafe with 8 employees behind the counter and still wait 30 minutes for my drink. I can be clearly trying to cross a busy street at a crossing with my kids and noone stops for me (zebra crossings are aesthetic not functional),  Patti can show signs to Thai people that she doesn't want them to touch her face, and still they touch her face and get upset when she growls and tries to bite them. The Chupa Chup lollies I buy to rot my kids teeth while pacifying them are impossible to open, the sky train terminals crash closed too soon and bruise my thighs. Darling, the condensation dripping from my martini cocktail is marking my silk blouson. Grrrr, you're damn right I'm angry <does angry monkey face>. Although this said, such is the vibe in Bangkok, I can't get angry about these things, everyone seems so passive - I'm hoping it will rub off.

Back to my question of why am I feeling ok nowadays? Well, a combination of things, the first being the love of my family. Secondly, I've returned to yoga - we've had a passive on/off relationship for 15 years. I found a really amazing place where on entering reception I feel instantly calmer, and although my first class was in Thai and I did the relaxation part with one eye open so as not to make a show of myself, you know, while everyone's doing downward facing dog, and I, as class "farang" am lying down. I actually managed to enjoy the class and not let Polly out of prison during any of the poses (Air high fives self). Thirdly, I've learnt a bit of Thai. I was able to have a conversation with a taxi driver whereby I expressed how difficult I was finding it to tell the time in Thai. The number one - "neung" is used for both one o'clock and seven o'clock depending on what other word you use with it. I know, its hard to explain, but I think he knew what this crazy half-pissed farang was on about. Learning the language eases the culture shock, its obvious really.

Then there are other things I'm finding helpful, like talking to Wandi about her family. This weekend is special for her as a new Buddha arrives at her temple, and hopefully one of these days I'll go and see where Wandi lives <pearl clutching time again>. I'm watching the odd Thai TV Drama (I may one day love it like I loved Prisoner Cell Block H (i.e. for its shitness). In the last Thai soap I watched I'm convinced the murderer was played by 'himself".

I'm taking it a little steadier, I've looked within myself (and on this occasion I don't mean exploring my vulva with a vanity mirror) I mean looking at me like a kind person would, like a Buddhist might, or a person on a purple ohm at the stone circle at Glastonbury, and generally sloooooooowwwwwwinnnnngggg dooooowwwwwwnnnnnnnn.What's the point of having amazing views if you don't stop to look at them?

So, I've kind of worked out that everything I need is here. I doubt I'll ever feel entirely at home here, but I can start to enjoy the differences. There will be times when my foreignness feels glaringly obvious (like standing for the King's National anthem at the cinema before the film and feeling like a  divvy).  As for my mood swings, let them swing, I am that chandelier riding monkey. I decided early on in my blog I'd measure my happiness by whether I'd bought a Fray Bentos pie and some of you may be interested to know I haven't yet. If I act a little crazy, or if I upset anyone, I am sorry, but Culture Shock is going to be my excuse for everything  these days. 

Where the hell have I been? oooohhhhhmmmm-my god.

It is the ridiculousness of a walk home that has inspired this post. My farewell to Mr James, who has  accompanied me with his camera on my Bangkok adventures and daily struggles. A chapter has ended and a new one will begin. I have turned a corner - literally and metaphorically, and entered the next phase of the 'culture shock process'.

Mr James, my cameraman/director/therapist/friend, not necessarily in that order, has returned to his loving family, his Jammy Patch and their gain is our loss, but a happy one, 'a bientot', 'so long', 'we'll meet again'. Oh God, if I start singing Vera Lynn songs on the way home from 'women-drink-for-free' nights, by all means mow me down with a tuk tuk.

We had a farewell drink in a little bar at the corner of the street, where you can choose the tunes from Youtube, and if you're a male not interested in 'company' you're left alone, otherwise there are gyrating possibilities of the gangsta rap video - ilk. After a couple of beers, a summary of our journeys and the making of the show, and a few belly laughs with Billy - another contributor to Brits in Bangkok and ace cheeky cockney company - I exchange my farewell letter for the contents of Mr J's fridge - he had to go home, man cannot live by peanut butter and tea alone.

I did well not to cry (too much) though Uma, Mr James's fixer and super cool, gorgeous Thai font of knowledge was shocked at my tears. She's only met me a few times, once at an HIV/AIDS temple and I wept there too. On this occasion I was crying at yet another goodbye. I'm sure soon I'll be a pro at goodbyes, hardened by the frequency of goodbye hugs. I felt a bit like I'd had my stabilisers taken off my bike, and Mr James having given me a good push-start has let go, and I'm on my own again, pedalling like mad, excited about the ride ahead but scared of falling off my bike and scuffing my chin.

I cried for a whole street, the rain mingling with my tears, not like Andy McDowall in 4 Weddings "Is it raining? I hadn't noticed"...piss off...but more Julian Lennon, "Salt Water Wells in my eyes". I am laughing at my dated uncool references. It rained, I got wet. I don't have an umbrella, I just lose them, even the one I 'accidentally'  stole from Habitat when pregnant with Patti (I still feel responsible for their going into liquidation). But I had a sudden realisation, a moment of clarity, because things have started getting easier for me you see. I'm not shouting at the kids anywhere near as much, we're having daily laughs and park adventures, they seem to want to dance with me (although I was a tad disappointed that the kid's reaction to Inner City Life played on the boom box during a recent storm didn't get a better response than "turn it off mum, its too loud"). I'm excited about being here, I'm doing yoga (in Thai), I'm contemplating joining in with the nightly aerobics in the park (its 20p!) and I have a bunch of new mates that seem totally cool.

The filming came to a natural and positive ending and I didn't weep in my final interview, though I'll probably weep with embarrassment if I ever watch it (I'm toying with the idea of never seeing it. Someone once said to me that the meaning of life was planting a tree and never seeing it grow, but just to bastardise one guru's enlightened quote, my interpretation is 'make a documentary for channel 5 and never see it shown).

Back to my walk home and turning my frown upside down - I felt free. I had a moment. I could see clearly. A piano could've fallen from the sky behind me and I wouldn't have turned to see it.  I walked forwards,  past a ladyboy wearing an ill-fitting peach twin-set; perfect make-up. I passed a row of motor-cycle taxi drivers with carrier bags on their heads chowing down on street food, seated on low plastic chairs, the kind you get on the street outside pound-shops in Manchester. I passed a woman having her photograph taken on the steps of a shopping mall, posing with the illuminated design in the window whilst getting drenched. I passed the sign on the building site reading "You Dream it we Build it" (they've obviously never shared my Stephen King style nightmares). I started thinking about how rich life is for its mix, its randomness, its colour and craziness, about how if you're open to the universe anything can happen. In my life I've met some amazing people, fallen in love with friends while seeing the world, I'm a lucky bitch, I really am (onus on 'lucky' not 'bitch').

Our last day of filming was spent at The Golden Mount, other filming has occurred which I haven't written about, but I don't know whether I can blog about it, or whether I need to wait until I can make good of it first. I have visited a remote women's refuge and an HIV/AIDS temple to find my place in the world, where I can give back to my new society, but I don't know what my role will be. I've had company with this soul search, and I've seen things and met people I never would had I not been filming for telly. I talked to a Thai woman at the refuge, she studied in Stockport where I've worked for years at several refuges. Random brilliance! I met a ladyboy called Nan, and chatted about his life, in a gazebo amongst the trees. These memories are preserved in my mind and I hope to share more of them and write write write.

At the Golden Mount we met our new mates on the roof where a whopping great golden bell sits cordoned off by rope, which Patti and Abe saw as a challenge and clambered over, getting told off by a monk - not everyone can say they've been told off by a monk can they? You see, I knew we needed to give them life-experience, though that wasn't quite what I had in mind. We met our mates and their kids and we shared the moment. And, so that Mr James could get a few shots of the city for telly, we were allowed to be up there for a bit on our own. We had access to gongs, to wind chimes, to the view of the city, to the expanding cloudy sky, to the end of the day, to the peace to be had at the top of a mount. I could've had a proper moment there, and I think I'll return to take that moment because with Patti and Abe breaking the rules, it kind of harshed my mellow. Though that moment, I wouldn't have wanted any other way. 

I meant what I said though, on camera, I feel hopeful, and I hope I'm not narrated as some moaning 'trailing spouse' (I can't even believe that term still exists). I've taken a gamble, seized an opportunity in moving here and in contributing towards the film. The final cut is out of my hands but its been a blast, and without it my time here may have provided me with the space to contemplate my new life. I've seen so much beauty in such a short time, felt the power of people, the power of love, the power of the universe. I'll be taking more walks in the rain if they're this evocative. 

It's going to be hard not to let this experience turn me into an urban hippyy! Now where's my conch shell, I want to get some practice in before yoga - oooohhhhhhhmmmmmmmm(mygodmyidentitysearchcontinues). 

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. 

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.