I stepped steadily towards the counter, arms shaking under the combined strain of the basket full of plates and fatigue from last night's fitness class. There was no-one in front of me and no-one behind: i was confident.
I tripped over my own feet, ramming the shopping basket full of plates into the counter.
The plates rattled ominously, and the shop assistants stared.
Too embarrassed to care, I looked them right in the eye and said:
"This is why I need new plates."
I'm back. Not that I went anywhere – I'm just back from a pause in writing in this blog. As you might have seen from Tashcakes!, I'm still busy cooking and writing recipes. What with work, Mandarin lessons, K-Pop dancing, baking-blogging, gym and socialising this blog has taken a bit of a back seat, alas. But I haven't forgotten about it; and I'll continue to write whenever I can.
Oh, and Merry Christmas!
Showing posts with label anecdotes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anecdotes. Show all posts
Thursday, 24 December 2015
Monday, 17 August 2015
A Welcome Home Present... Cat-Style
I was just hanging the washing up yesterday morning, having just returned from holiday, when I heard the bloodcurdling screams of a small anguished animal coming from the kitchen.
I ran straight to the source of the terrible sound, and found one of my cats, Sheba, with a tiny bird in her mouth. She looked proud as punch; the bird struggled frantically, flailing its free wing as hard as it could.
"Sheba! Let go!" I was horrified: Sheba's never brought back 'presents' before like our other cats have in the past. She must have been really happy to have us back.
Miraculous, Sheba plopped the poor creature at my feet. The bird froze and fell silent, probably certain of its end between the ferocious cat and the looming human monster. It's little chest rose and fell rapidly in terror.
Quickly but gently, I scooped the bird up: it was more than small enough to loosely fit in one hand. Sheba chirruped and purred, winding herself around my ankles in a 'Didn't I do really well?' sort of way. I scratched her behind the ears with my free hand, stretching wide so the bird in my other hand was as far away from her as possible, and went into the garden.
I felt sick. What if the bird was so injured that I had no choice but to snap its neck? Could I do it? I'd have to.
I peered into my loosely-closed fist. It ('she', I decided after a while), blinked warily up at me. I opened my hand a little more so I could take a better look: there was no blood, nothing sticking out at odd angles, and her wings looked fine (although they were folded, so they could still have been broken). I sighed in relief- she was okay, or at least would just need a bit of time to recover.
At this point it occurred to me how crazy it was that I was holding this little bird. Feeling a little guilty (because I'd be annoyed if I'd just been through the same thing), I took a picture of her in my hand with my phone.
I opened my hand up to see what she'd do, bringing my other hand up to make a sort of platform. To my surprise she simply flexed her wings and hopped straight onto the fourth finger of my right hand, her tiny talons wrapping themselves around the digit. I raised my hand up into the sky, but she just gripped a little tighter.
"Go on," I said in what I hoped was a soothing voice, "Here's your chance." I bobbed my hand upwards, but she gripped tighter again, not ready to go just yet.
"You should really go now before my cat comes back outside," I said. She cocked her head in my direction and blinked again.
With my free hand, I reached out to smooth her mussed-up feathers with a finger, thinking maybe she'd finally fly away if I tried to touch her. Instead, this seemed to calm her down a little, and she shifted to make herself more comfortable. Thinking she might be ready, I walked over to the garage and raised her up, so she might hop on the roof. Instead, I felt the pressure of her little feet increase around my finger. I sighed, and brought her up to my face. What was I going to do with this bird?
I paced around the garden, the bird (who I'd now named 'Liwu'- Mandarin for 'Gift') on one hand and my phone in the other. It was tricky manoeuvring with one hand, but I managed to take another picture of her send out a plea for advice on Facebook.
A few people mentioned broken wings again, which made me worry. It didn't seem as if Liwu's wings were broken, and she didn't seem to be in discomfort when she'd stretched her wings, but there was always a chance. Would I have to take care of her? With two cats in the house, I hoped not.
After about half an hour of pacing around with this bird in my hand (at one point shooing poor Sheba away, who'd come outside to see what I'd made of her present), I sat down on the garden chair. I brought Liwu up to my face again. She was breathing normally now, and had stopped peering around wildly. I took more photos of her with my phone (she seemed curious about it, shifting so she could get a better look). I found out Liwu was in fact a young goldfinch, according to the RSPB online bird identifier. All the while I kept chatting to her, even though knew she couldn't understand me. Every so often I reached out to scratch her on the head or stroke her feathers, which she seemed to like.
About a good hour after I first picked her up, I stood up. I felt Liwu shift from one foot to the other and twitch her wings a bit.
"Alright. Are you ready, now?" I asked her. I raised my hand high into the air, and waited. It was like a spell had been broken: Liwu straightened herself up to peer at the sky. After just a moment or two, she stretched her wings wide. She flapped, took a great leap and was gone.
As if on cue, Sheba waltzed back into the garden. I picked her up (she gave a squawk of disgruntlement) and carried her back inside.
Be safe out there, little Liwu!
I ran straight to the source of the terrible sound, and found one of my cats, Sheba, with a tiny bird in her mouth. She looked proud as punch; the bird struggled frantically, flailing its free wing as hard as it could.
"Sheba! Let go!" I was horrified: Sheba's never brought back 'presents' before like our other cats have in the past. She must have been really happy to have us back.
Miraculous, Sheba plopped the poor creature at my feet. The bird froze and fell silent, probably certain of its end between the ferocious cat and the looming human monster. It's little chest rose and fell rapidly in terror.
Quickly but gently, I scooped the bird up: it was more than small enough to loosely fit in one hand. Sheba chirruped and purred, winding herself around my ankles in a 'Didn't I do really well?' sort of way. I scratched her behind the ears with my free hand, stretching wide so the bird in my other hand was as far away from her as possible, and went into the garden.
I felt sick. What if the bird was so injured that I had no choice but to snap its neck? Could I do it? I'd have to.
I peered into my loosely-closed fist. It ('she', I decided after a while), blinked warily up at me. I opened my hand a little more so I could take a better look: there was no blood, nothing sticking out at odd angles, and her wings looked fine (although they were folded, so they could still have been broken). I sighed in relief- she was okay, or at least would just need a bit of time to recover.
At this point it occurred to me how crazy it was that I was holding this little bird. Feeling a little guilty (because I'd be annoyed if I'd just been through the same thing), I took a picture of her in my hand with my phone.
I opened my hand up to see what she'd do, bringing my other hand up to make a sort of platform. To my surprise she simply flexed her wings and hopped straight onto the fourth finger of my right hand, her tiny talons wrapping themselves around the digit. I raised my hand up into the sky, but she just gripped a little tighter.
"Go on," I said in what I hoped was a soothing voice, "Here's your chance." I bobbed my hand upwards, but she gripped tighter again, not ready to go just yet.
"You should really go now before my cat comes back outside," I said. She cocked her head in my direction and blinked again.
With my free hand, I reached out to smooth her mussed-up feathers with a finger, thinking maybe she'd finally fly away if I tried to touch her. Instead, this seemed to calm her down a little, and she shifted to make herself more comfortable. Thinking she might be ready, I walked over to the garage and raised her up, so she might hop on the roof. Instead, I felt the pressure of her little feet increase around my finger. I sighed, and brought her up to my face. What was I going to do with this bird?
I paced around the garden, the bird (who I'd now named 'Liwu'- Mandarin for 'Gift') on one hand and my phone in the other. It was tricky manoeuvring with one hand, but I managed to take another picture of her send out a plea for advice on Facebook.
A few people mentioned broken wings again, which made me worry. It didn't seem as if Liwu's wings were broken, and she didn't seem to be in discomfort when she'd stretched her wings, but there was always a chance. Would I have to take care of her? With two cats in the house, I hoped not.
After about half an hour of pacing around with this bird in my hand (at one point shooing poor Sheba away, who'd come outside to see what I'd made of her present), I sat down on the garden chair. I brought Liwu up to my face again. She was breathing normally now, and had stopped peering around wildly. I took more photos of her with my phone (she seemed curious about it, shifting so she could get a better look). I found out Liwu was in fact a young goldfinch, according to the RSPB online bird identifier. All the while I kept chatting to her, even though knew she couldn't understand me. Every so often I reached out to scratch her on the head or stroke her feathers, which she seemed to like.
About a good hour after I first picked her up, I stood up. I felt Liwu shift from one foot to the other and twitch her wings a bit.
"Alright. Are you ready, now?" I asked her. I raised my hand high into the air, and waited. It was like a spell had been broken: Liwu straightened herself up to peer at the sky. After just a moment or two, she stretched her wings wide. She flapped, took a great leap and was gone.
As if on cue, Sheba waltzed back into the garden. I picked her up (she gave a squawk of disgruntlement) and carried her back inside.
Be safe out there, little Liwu!
Monday, 3 August 2015
Thursday, 11 June 2015
Red Lipstick- Part 2
I haven't worn red lipstick for a while- mostly out of laziness: that stuff gets everywhere. Alas, the last time I wore it resulted in the first Red Lipstick story. Maybe it's just sheer dumb luck I experienced the same sort of crap again seven months later.
I went out with a couple of friends tonight to see a film (Mad Max is the most intense, awesome two hours of film ever). Because we were also going to a nice bar beforehand, I decided to put my favourite red lippy on. I was just wearing the sort of dress I'd wear to work. Nothing revealing, nothing fancy.
But it seems like these are a distraction for some:
Even when they're attached to a face with an expression like this:
I caught a late train home and managed to grab a seat, immediately getting my phone out to play Go (an ancient Chinese board game I've recently become mildly obsessed with). No sooner had I taken my phone out and started a game than the man sitting next to me- about thirty years my senior- leaned into my personal bubble of space.
"Got to make sure you reply to those texts, right?" He drawled.
"Yep," I said shortly, not liking his snarky tone and not bothering to correct him about what I was doing.
"I can reply to some of them if you want?"
"No, thank you," I said, again keeping it short but (foolishly) polite.
"Come on, let me help you reply to your texts."
"Nope," I said, more than a little more curtly.
"Aww come on, don't be like that." He leaned over a little more.
This time I completely ignored him, calmly placing a stone on my virtual Go board instead.
The man then turned to his mate, sitting on his other side, and snorted loudly, "People on trains these days. They have no class... no matter how they look."
I'm not joking: that's what he said.
I flat-out ignored him, even though I really, really wanted to verbally tear him to pieces. Of course, it was just bait to get me to respond.
Throughout the journey this man kept on and on at me, while I held my ground. The last straw was when he turned to his friend and asked what stop he needed to get off at: it was my stop. Right at the end of the line.
'Sod this,' I thought, and got off the train at the next stop, catching the next one home.
Why am I so sure it was the red lipstick? Because once again, as I mentioned in Part 1: my hair, my clothes and the rest of my makeup was as it usually is. The only thing different about my style was the colour of my lips- and I never, ever get this sort of problem when I'm not wearing it.
Why is red lipstick a green light to be pushy for some people? It's just a sodding colour, after all. I'm going to go ahead and say it: it's because for some people (and it's just a few select arseholes, both male and female), see red lipstick as a great big sandwich board with 'I'm easy' written on it.
Am I going to stop wearing red lipstick when I feel like it, because of this?
Heck, no.
I went out with a couple of friends tonight to see a film (Mad Max is the most intense, awesome two hours of film ever). Because we were also going to a nice bar beforehand, I decided to put my favourite red lippy on. I was just wearing the sort of dress I'd wear to work. Nothing revealing, nothing fancy.
But it seems like these are a distraction for some:
Even when they're attached to a face with an expression like this:
I caught a late train home and managed to grab a seat, immediately getting my phone out to play Go (an ancient Chinese board game I've recently become mildly obsessed with). No sooner had I taken my phone out and started a game than the man sitting next to me- about thirty years my senior- leaned into my personal bubble of space.
"Got to make sure you reply to those texts, right?" He drawled.
"Yep," I said shortly, not liking his snarky tone and not bothering to correct him about what I was doing.
"I can reply to some of them if you want?"
"No, thank you," I said, again keeping it short but (foolishly) polite.
"Come on, let me help you reply to your texts."
"Nope," I said, more than a little more curtly.
"Aww come on, don't be like that." He leaned over a little more.
This time I completely ignored him, calmly placing a stone on my virtual Go board instead.
The man then turned to his mate, sitting on his other side, and snorted loudly, "People on trains these days. They have no class... no matter how they look."
I'm not joking: that's what he said.
I flat-out ignored him, even though I really, really wanted to verbally tear him to pieces. Of course, it was just bait to get me to respond.
Throughout the journey this man kept on and on at me, while I held my ground. The last straw was when he turned to his friend and asked what stop he needed to get off at: it was my stop. Right at the end of the line.
'Sod this,' I thought, and got off the train at the next stop, catching the next one home.
Why am I so sure it was the red lipstick? Because once again, as I mentioned in Part 1: my hair, my clothes and the rest of my makeup was as it usually is. The only thing different about my style was the colour of my lips- and I never, ever get this sort of problem when I'm not wearing it.
Why is red lipstick a green light to be pushy for some people? It's just a sodding colour, after all. I'm going to go ahead and say it: it's because for some people (and it's just a few select arseholes, both male and female), see red lipstick as a great big sandwich board with 'I'm easy' written on it.
Am I going to stop wearing red lipstick when I feel like it, because of this?
Heck, no.
Tuesday, 31 March 2015
Overheard on the Tube: The Bridesmaid-zilla
"I can't believe how casual the bride's being about everything. When I asked her how she wanted the bridemaids' hairstyles to be, she just said 'let them choose: I just want them to be happy.' Can you believe that? It's totally unacceptable."
-A lady bitching about how her bride-to-be friend is planning her wedding.
-A lady bitching about how her bride-to-be friend is planning her wedding.
Saturday, 21 March 2015
Born to Dunce
My status update from Facebook, Friday 20th March 2015 (yesterday night):
Dramatically tripped over my own feet in the car park this evening (after dance class, no less). A lady walked pass and, clearly convinced that I was drunk and about to drive legless, tutted and gave me the evils. Nope, not drunk, lady- I just have a constantly faulty internal gyroscope.
Dramatically tripped over my own feet in the car park this evening (after dance class, no less). A lady walked pass and, clearly convinced that I was drunk and about to drive legless, tutted and gave me the evils. Nope, not drunk, lady- I just have a constantly faulty internal gyroscope.
Sunday, 15 March 2015
Forever Alone
It was the kind of occasion where somewhere, deep down, you know heard other person correctly: but it was just so damned weird that you didn't believe your own ears.
"Sorry, what?" I asked the barista.
"I said, 'do you dance like black women?'" he said, quirking a suggestive eyebrow at me.
My problem is that I'm immune to flirting, which has two main downsides. If a nice guy flirts with me, I only see it as "banter" and banter right back, but not in the right way- causing the nice guy to "take the hint" (that wasn't even there because I was so clueless) and give up, and me to kick myself about five hours later when I realise I was being flirted with. That's the first downside. The second downside is that a not-so-nice guy will take it too far, and I won't realise what's happening until it gets to that point- resulting in time being wasted and me being marginally ticked off.
I walked into the coffee shop this morning and asked for a flat white.
"Alright," he said. "But I gotta warn ya... it's either going to be in this cup, or this one." He indicated to a large cup and an espresso shot cup.
"Uh, aren't flat whites just regular? I'm pretty sure you don't shoot one, either" I grinned, assuming he was just trying to be funny.
"Just kidding, large it is. Wait, what did you order? Oh, a flat white. That'd be regular then."
I smiled and handed the change over, while the barista got to work.
"You look kind of stressed, you having a bad day?"
I blinked. (Here we go, I thought, we have a conversation artist... alright, just be polite, Tash). "No..? I'm quite happy, actually."
"It's just that you look sort of tired."
(Wait a minute, I thought, is he trying to 'neg'* me??)
"Then I've come to the right place," I laughed, brushing it off.
"So, do you work around here?"
"Oh... no. Just passing through the area."
"Don't you have work today?" He asked.
"No, no work for me on Sundays. I'm just on my way to dance class."
"Oh, what kind of dance do you do?"
"K-Pop. Korean pop, that is."
And then he said it.
"So do you dance like black women, then?"
Honestly my brain just switched off when I asked him to repeat what he'd just said. It was clear he didn't have a clue what K-pop was (which is fair enough), but that statement literally just came out of the blue. It was a particularly random statement to make– especially since I'm as pale as milk. The worst thing about it was the appraising up-and-down look he was giving me. I pretended not to notice.
"I'm not sure what you mean. Um, it's more street-style?" I added, helpfully.
"Right, right," he said. He then proceeded to hand me my coffee, holding it out of my reach for a few seconds while asking me to try the coffee there and then on the spot. He tried to make me promise that if he'd made a bad coffee he'd make me another one for free.
I made a wild grab at the hovering coffee cup. "I'm sure it'll be fine, thank you!" I more or less ran off.
The coffee was terrible: I threw it away. I didn't go back.
*Negging: the practice of giving someone a very mild insult while acting friendly, sometimes in the hope that they'll subconsciously want your approval.
"Sorry, what?" I asked the barista.
"I said, 'do you dance like black women?'" he said, quirking a suggestive eyebrow at me.
My problem is that I'm immune to flirting, which has two main downsides. If a nice guy flirts with me, I only see it as "banter" and banter right back, but not in the right way- causing the nice guy to "take the hint" (that wasn't even there because I was so clueless) and give up, and me to kick myself about five hours later when I realise I was being flirted with. That's the first downside. The second downside is that a not-so-nice guy will take it too far, and I won't realise what's happening until it gets to that point- resulting in time being wasted and me being marginally ticked off.
I walked into the coffee shop this morning and asked for a flat white.
"Alright," he said. "But I gotta warn ya... it's either going to be in this cup, or this one." He indicated to a large cup and an espresso shot cup.
"Uh, aren't flat whites just regular? I'm pretty sure you don't shoot one, either" I grinned, assuming he was just trying to be funny.
"Just kidding, large it is. Wait, what did you order? Oh, a flat white. That'd be regular then."
I smiled and handed the change over, while the barista got to work.
"You look kind of stressed, you having a bad day?"
I blinked. (Here we go, I thought, we have a conversation artist... alright, just be polite, Tash). "No..? I'm quite happy, actually."
"It's just that you look sort of tired."
(Wait a minute, I thought, is he trying to 'neg'* me??)
"Then I've come to the right place," I laughed, brushing it off.
"So, do you work around here?"
"Oh... no. Just passing through the area."
"Don't you have work today?" He asked.
"No, no work for me on Sundays. I'm just on my way to dance class."
"Oh, what kind of dance do you do?"
"K-Pop. Korean pop, that is."
And then he said it.
"So do you dance like black women, then?"
Honestly my brain just switched off when I asked him to repeat what he'd just said. It was clear he didn't have a clue what K-pop was (which is fair enough), but that statement literally just came out of the blue. It was a particularly random statement to make– especially since I'm as pale as milk. The worst thing about it was the appraising up-and-down look he was giving me. I pretended not to notice.
"I'm not sure what you mean. Um, it's more street-style?" I added, helpfully.
"Right, right," he said. He then proceeded to hand me my coffee, holding it out of my reach for a few seconds while asking me to try the coffee there and then on the spot. He tried to make me promise that if he'd made a bad coffee he'd make me another one for free.
I made a wild grab at the hovering coffee cup. "I'm sure it'll be fine, thank you!" I more or less ran off.
The coffee was terrible: I threw it away. I didn't go back.
*Negging: the practice of giving someone a very mild insult while acting friendly, sometimes in the hope that they'll subconsciously want your approval.
Wednesday, 11 March 2015
London Mode: Engaged
I returned to Reykjavik last Thursday. Alas, I still didn't see any Northern Lights thanks to the tricksy Icelandic weather, but I still had a great time on the Golden Circle tour and walking around the beautiful city.
By a stroke of complete luck, an old school friend I haven't seen in nine years happened to also be in Reykjavik, so we met up for lunch one day- myself with my friend Siu Yen and her with her boyfriend. We got to discussing how friendly the people are in Iceland. In fact, Iceland is sometimes also known as "Niceland"! I found myself becoming more open and friendly to strangers in general, as a result: the country made me just a little less guarded.
Fast-forward to being back home in London. This evening on the train, I stared straight past a friend from dance and only noticed her when she physically called my name and ran after me as I walked off. I couldn't stop apologising.
What happened? Well, I call it "London Mode". It's that mode that everyone from a large city finds themselves adopting sooner or later: a sort of self-defence against the endless amount of bodies and noise. I've fought it off for a long time, trying to remain in-tune with my fellow human beings. Alas, it seems that I have unwillingly mentally downloaded London Mode as a default.
A friend told me a story recently about how someone on the London Underground fell over and hit their head (my friend only learned about this after being stuck outside the closed station, waiting to be let in). The poor bastard lay bleeding on the ground for about fifteen minutes before anyone would help them. In fact, there were people stepping over him.
I don't think I'll ever get to that level of London Mode (the level at which you literally just stop caring and become numb to other people). However I think that even if I adopted Icelandic openness in London, I think I'd very quickly be taken advantage of by my brilliant, cruel city. In a city where people are increasingly afraid of making eye contact for fear of being stabbed, I'm afraid that London Mode is a fate every Londoner must adopt sooner or later.
By a stroke of complete luck, an old school friend I haven't seen in nine years happened to also be in Reykjavik, so we met up for lunch one day- myself with my friend Siu Yen and her with her boyfriend. We got to discussing how friendly the people are in Iceland. In fact, Iceland is sometimes also known as "Niceland"! I found myself becoming more open and friendly to strangers in general, as a result: the country made me just a little less guarded.
Fast-forward to being back home in London. This evening on the train, I stared straight past a friend from dance and only noticed her when she physically called my name and ran after me as I walked off. I couldn't stop apologising.
What happened? Well, I call it "London Mode". It's that mode that everyone from a large city finds themselves adopting sooner or later: a sort of self-defence against the endless amount of bodies and noise. I've fought it off for a long time, trying to remain in-tune with my fellow human beings. Alas, it seems that I have unwillingly mentally downloaded London Mode as a default.
A friend told me a story recently about how someone on the London Underground fell over and hit their head (my friend only learned about this after being stuck outside the closed station, waiting to be let in). The poor bastard lay bleeding on the ground for about fifteen minutes before anyone would help them. In fact, there were people stepping over him.
I don't think I'll ever get to that level of London Mode (the level at which you literally just stop caring and become numb to other people). However I think that even if I adopted Icelandic openness in London, I think I'd very quickly be taken advantage of by my brilliant, cruel city. In a city where people are increasingly afraid of making eye contact for fear of being stabbed, I'm afraid that London Mode is a fate every Londoner must adopt sooner or later.
Monday, 23 February 2015
Chinese Tales: It's my First Day
This week my story is a bit short because I have been busy and just changed jobs. Yesterday was my first day at my new job. There were lots of great new people and an even greater amount of new things to learn. New names, new systems, new computers, new toilets, new everything: so I'm very happy and very tired. Because work is from 9-6 at my new company, my manager is allowing me to start at 8am and finish at 5pm on Tuesdays so I can go to Chinese class.
~ ~ ~
Zhรจge xฤซngqรญ wว de gรนshรฌ shรฌ yidiวn duวn, yฤซnwรจi wว shรฌ hฤn mรกng, gฤng huร nle gลngzuรฒ. Zuรณtiฤn shรฌ dรฌ yฤซ tiฤn wว zร i wว de xฤซn gลngsฤซ. Yวu hฤnduล de hวorรฉn, gรจng duล xuรฉxรญ xฤซn de dลngxฤซ. Xฤซn de mรญngzรฌ, xฤซn de xรฌtวng, xฤซn de diร nnฤo, xฤซn de wรจishฤngjiฤn, xฤซn de yฤซqiรจ: Suวyว wว hฤn gฤoxรฌng, hฤn lรจi. Yฤซnwรจi gลngzuรฒ shรฌ cรณng 9 diวn dร o 6 diวn, wว de jฤซnglว rร ng wว xฤซngqรญ'รจr 8 diวn kฤishว, 5 diวn lรญkฤi, suวyว wว kฤyว qรน zhลngwรฉn kรจ.
Friday, 20 February 2015
Fake it 'till you Break it
Sunsets are such an enchanting cocktail of colours. Burnt oranges, warm reds, majestic purples... it's such a shame that this display of colour isn't quite as attractive on my knees.
If you'd have told me a few years ago that I'd go to dance lessons, I'd have laughed at you; if you'd have told me just one year ago that I'd be breakdancing, I'd have bought you a nice white jacket with extra-long sleeves. Regardless of who's sanity is in question right now, breakdancing is exactly what I found myself doing this Wednesday. Hence the knees.
No, I didn't spin on my head- does spinning on one's head seem like a good way to break (ahem) into it? It was only about six seconds of "light" breakdancing within a whole three to four-minute routine, but it still required strong enough leg, arm and core muscles to defy gravity for a few nail-biting moments. It was tricky. Failed moves were painful. I loved it.
Do you love baking, but don't consider yourself a baker? Love playing the piano, but don't consider yourself a pianist? Love superheroes and pop culture but don't consider yourself a real geek? I dance up to three times a week, not counting at-home practice (in the kitchen where nobody can see me) and I'm going to be performing in a dance show in April, but I still don't consider myself a dancer. Odd, isn't it? Where does one cross over the bridge of affirmation? I am a baker. I am a pianist. I am a geek. I'm not a dancer.
I dance, but I'm not a dancer.
It's not important, though: what's important is that, whatever I am, I have a great time dancing. During those years ago that I would have laughed at the very idea of me dancing, my permanent state of internal being seemed to be a foetal ball of pre-emptive embarrassment. Yes, I performed many times in front of hundreds of people when playing the piano, but music was always the one fantastically strange exception to my painful awkwardness. I've long since taken a few leaves out of the honey badger's* book (apart from the eating cobras and biting people parts), and now if there is something I want to do, I'll give it my best shot, not worrying about if I'll fail miserably or not. And you know what? I may not feel like I'm a dancer, but I can dance just fine after all.
(Although let's see if I say the same thing after the show in April.)
~ ~ ~
* Link included in case this blog entry is found in a hundred years' time** and the meme has long been forgotten
**Not probable but not impossible, seeing as once something's on the internet it's on there for good. Permanently. Forever. Including all of those drunken picture you upload. Sweet dreams.
If you'd have told me a few years ago that I'd go to dance lessons, I'd have laughed at you; if you'd have told me just one year ago that I'd be breakdancing, I'd have bought you a nice white jacket with extra-long sleeves. Regardless of who's sanity is in question right now, breakdancing is exactly what I found myself doing this Wednesday. Hence the knees.
No, I didn't spin on my head- does spinning on one's head seem like a good way to break (ahem) into it? It was only about six seconds of "light" breakdancing within a whole three to four-minute routine, but it still required strong enough leg, arm and core muscles to defy gravity for a few nail-biting moments. It was tricky. Failed moves were painful. I loved it.
Do you love baking, but don't consider yourself a baker? Love playing the piano, but don't consider yourself a pianist? Love superheroes and pop culture but don't consider yourself a real geek? I dance up to three times a week, not counting at-home practice (in the kitchen where nobody can see me) and I'm going to be performing in a dance show in April, but I still don't consider myself a dancer. Odd, isn't it? Where does one cross over the bridge of affirmation? I am a baker. I am a pianist. I am a geek. I'm not a dancer.
I dance, but I'm not a dancer.
It's not important, though: what's important is that, whatever I am, I have a great time dancing. During those years ago that I would have laughed at the very idea of me dancing, my permanent state of internal being seemed to be a foetal ball of pre-emptive embarrassment. Yes, I performed many times in front of hundreds of people when playing the piano, but music was always the one fantastically strange exception to my painful awkwardness. I've long since taken a few leaves out of the honey badger's* book (apart from the eating cobras and biting people parts), and now if there is something I want to do, I'll give it my best shot, not worrying about if I'll fail miserably or not. And you know what? I may not feel like I'm a dancer, but I can dance just fine after all.
(Although let's see if I say the same thing after the show in April.)
~ ~ ~
* Link included in case this blog entry is found in a hundred years' time** and the meme has long been forgotten
**Not probable but not impossible, seeing as once something's on the internet it's on there for good. Permanently. Forever. Including all of those drunken picture you upload. Sweet dreams.
Monday, 9 February 2015
Chinese Tales: Culture Confusion
Every week part of my Chinese homework is to prepare a short spoken piece about my week. It only occurred to me this week: why not combine blogging with my weekly Chinese dialogue? My stories are still the sort of thing I'd post here. So from now on, every week I'll write one interesting (or not objectively) thing about my week in English and translate it into pinyin (phonetic Chinese). And, if I have enough time/ can get a Chinese keyboard, translate into character later.
Note: the English part is going to be grammatically structured in a way that will let me translate directly into Mandarin more easily (for example I'll write something like "yesterday I went to the cinema" rather than "I went to the cinema yesterday"). It's going to look a little strange, but thinking with Chinese grammar from the start is much easier than thinking with English grammar and then having to rearrange everything, trust me on this!
Here we go! This week's story: Culture Confusion.
~ ~ ~
My friend looks Chinese, but was actually born in India, so waiters in Chinese restaurants will often speak to her first, and speak in Mandarin: so my friend always has to say "I'm sorry, I can't speak Chinese," and the waiter will always look confused.
Last Thursday, myself, my friend and her boyfriend went to a hotpot restaurant to eat dinner. The waiter immediately spoke Chinese to my friend. "Wanshang hao, ji wei?" he said. ("Good evening, how many people?")
My friend said, "I'm sorry, I can't speak Chinese...", and the waiter looked confused. But he looked even more confused when I suddenly said "san wei, xiexie!" ("Three people, thanks!")
He looked at my friend, her English boyfriend and myself. "Oh!" he said. "Are none of you Chinese?"
My friend said "Er... no..." I thought, "I'm half Chinese", but I didn't say this out loud because I wasn't confident! However I did try to order food in Chinese: but not the dishes that were too difficult!
~ ~ ~
Wวde pรฉngyวu kร nshร ngqรน xiร ng Zhลngguรณrรฉn, bรนguรฒ tฤ chลซshฤng zร i Yรฌndรน, suวyว Zhลngguรณ cฤnguวn de fรบwรนyuรกn chรกngchรกng tฤ shuลhuร . Suวyว wวde pรฉngyวu zวngshรฌ dฤi shuล "duรฌbรนqว, wว bรน huรฌ shuล Zhลngwรฉn," hรฉ fรบwรนyuรกn zวngshรฌ kร nshร ngqรน yฤซ diวn kรนnhuรฒ.
Shร ng ge xฤซngqรญsรฌ, wว, wวde pรฉngyวu hรฉ tฤ de nรกnpรฉngyวu qรนle huวguล cฤnguวn chฤซ wวnfร n. Fรบwรนyuรกn mวshร ng gฤn tฤ shuลhuร : "Wวnshร ng hวo, jว weรฌ?" tฤ shuลle.
Wวde pรฉngyวu shuลle, "Duรฌbรนqว, wว bรน huรฌ shuล Zhลngwรฉn..." Fรบwรนyuรกn kร nshร ngqรนle yฤซ diวn kรนnhuรฒ, dร nshรฌ wว tรบrรกn shuลle "Sฤn weรฌ, xiรจxiรจ!" de shรญhรฒu, tฤ kร nshร ngqรนle gรจng kรนnhuรฒ!
Tฤ kร nle wวde pรฉngyวu, tฤ de Yฤซngguรณrรฉn nรกnpรฉngyวu hรฉ wว. "Oh!", tฤ shuลle. "Nวmen shรฌ bรนshรฌ Zhลngguรณrรฉn?"
Wวde pรฉngyวu shuลle "Er... bรน..." Wว xiวng, "Wว shรฌ yฤซbร n Zhลngguรณrรฉn," bรนguรฒ wว mรฉi shuลchลซkว, yฤซnwรจi wว mรฉi zรฌxรฌn! Bรนguรฒ wo shรฌshรฌle shuล Zhลngwรฉn diวn cร i: dร nshรฌ bรน tร i nรกn de cร i!
~ ~ ~
Note: the English part is going to be grammatically structured in a way that will let me translate directly into Mandarin more easily (for example I'll write something like "yesterday I went to the cinema" rather than "I went to the cinema yesterday"). It's going to look a little strange, but thinking with Chinese grammar from the start is much easier than thinking with English grammar and then having to rearrange everything, trust me on this!
Here we go! This week's story: Culture Confusion.
~ ~ ~
My friend looks Chinese, but was actually born in India, so waiters in Chinese restaurants will often speak to her first, and speak in Mandarin: so my friend always has to say "I'm sorry, I can't speak Chinese," and the waiter will always look confused.
Last Thursday, myself, my friend and her boyfriend went to a hotpot restaurant to eat dinner. The waiter immediately spoke Chinese to my friend. "Wanshang hao, ji wei?" he said. ("Good evening, how many people?")
My friend said, "I'm sorry, I can't speak Chinese...", and the waiter looked confused. But he looked even more confused when I suddenly said "san wei, xiexie!" ("Three people, thanks!")
He looked at my friend, her English boyfriend and myself. "Oh!" he said. "Are none of you Chinese?"
My friend said "Er... no..." I thought, "I'm half Chinese", but I didn't say this out loud because I wasn't confident! However I did try to order food in Chinese: but not the dishes that were too difficult!
~ ~ ~
Wวde pรฉngyวu kร nshร ngqรน xiร ng Zhลngguรณrรฉn, bรนguรฒ tฤ chลซshฤng zร i Yรฌndรน, suวyว Zhลngguรณ cฤnguวn de fรบwรนyuรกn chรกngchรกng tฤ shuลhuร . Suวyว wวde pรฉngyวu zวngshรฌ dฤi shuล "duรฌbรนqว, wว bรน huรฌ shuล Zhลngwรฉn," hรฉ fรบwรนyuรกn zวngshรฌ kร nshร ngqรน yฤซ diวn kรนnhuรฒ.
Shร ng ge xฤซngqรญsรฌ, wว, wวde pรฉngyวu hรฉ tฤ de nรกnpรฉngyวu qรนle huวguล cฤnguวn chฤซ wวnfร n. Fรบwรนyuรกn mวshร ng gฤn tฤ shuลhuร : "Wวnshร ng hวo, jว weรฌ?" tฤ shuลle.
Wวde pรฉngyวu shuลle, "Duรฌbรนqว, wว bรน huรฌ shuล Zhลngwรฉn..." Fรบwรนyuรกn kร nshร ngqรนle yฤซ diวn kรนnhuรฒ, dร nshรฌ wว tรบrรกn shuลle "Sฤn weรฌ, xiรจxiรจ!" de shรญhรฒu, tฤ kร nshร ngqรนle gรจng kรนnhuรฒ!
Tฤ kร nle wวde pรฉngyวu, tฤ de Yฤซngguรณrรฉn nรกnpรฉngyวu hรฉ wว. "Oh!", tฤ shuลle. "Nวmen shรฌ bรนshรฌ Zhลngguรณrรฉn?"
Wวde pรฉngyวu shuลle "Er... bรน..." Wว xiวng, "Wว shรฌ yฤซbร n Zhลngguรณrรฉn," bรนguรฒ wว mรฉi shuลchลซkว, yฤซnwรจi wว mรฉi zรฌxรฌn! Bรนguรฒ wo shรฌshรฌle shuล Zhลngwรฉn diวn cร i: dร nshรฌ bรน tร i nรกn de cร i!
~ ~ ~
Wednesday, 4 February 2015
Overheard on the Tube
"So then I flung myself on the bed and shouted 'mentor me!'"
"Haha! And did he 'mentor' you?"
"Haha! And did he 'mentor' you?"
"... No. It was super awkward."
~ A gem from the Northern Line this evening.
~ A gem from the Northern Line this evening.
Sunday, 1 February 2015
Who Else Wants a Piece of Me?
The following story happened to me a few years ago, now. It was the kind of thing that could only happen to me.
~ ~ ~
The email came in first thing in the morning: I was pretty excited to get an interview with such a prestigious company, and I was eager to move onto the next stage in my career. I wasn't unhappy with my current company- I just wanted to move up in the world. I booked a day off from work for the following day, handing the holiday form to my manager.
"Tomorrow's fine, Tash," she said, signing the form. "By the way, could I have a quick chat with you just before lunch in the meeting room? It's nothing to worry about."
I smiled said sure, but- of course- instantly started to worry. Had I done something wrong? Were they onto me?? My brain came up with a list of worst-case scenarios.
Ten minutes to lunchtime I was sat opposite my manager at the table in the small meeting room, door closed. My manager smiled.
"I wanted to tell you how impressed we are with your work attitude and how you've been performing. Since C---- is leaving we think you'd be perfect for the position. I'm really pleased to tell you that we'd like to offer you a promotion."
"... Oh. Oh! Thank you, that's great news!" I beamed.
I also felt like a humongous traitor to all sides. Now that I'd accepted a promotion, it was unlikely that the role at new company I was due to be interviewed at would match my new level (either in terms of responsibility or monetarily). Should I still continue with the interview?
I came out of the meeting room, head spinning. What should I do? Lunch would set me straight, surely. I retrieved my bento box from the fridge, sat down cracked it open. No sooner had I taken my first bite did my phone start buzzing away in my bag. I took it out: one new email. I opened the email.
"Thank you for your interest in our role at X. We'd like to invite you for an interview some time in the next few days."
I nearly dropped my phone (and my chopsticks): another interview with another very prestigious company! What was the universe trying to do to me? I faced the same problem as with the first company, considering my newly promoted status. Would I be wasting their time, and my own, to interview with them anyway? Would I be stupid not to go out there and see what was on offer regardless? Who would benefit the most and the least out of my decision either to go or not go?
How would I benefit from each decision?
~ ~ ~
I decided to go to both, in the end- for all I knew there would be more to lose by not going. In the end I needn't have worried, though: both companies had greatly exaggerated the amount of the sort of work I wanted to do in their initial briefs, and after some amiable interrogation on my part, I discovered that neither place was the place for me anyway. I'm glad I decided to go in the end- both experiences gave me a clearer insight into exactly what I wanted to do with myself.
The reason why I'm only writing about this now, years later, is because I'm moving on from my current job and beginning with a new one very soon. Of course it had to happen in a weird way like the last time, because this is me we're talking about: I was headhunted by a recruiter, and on the same day I got called for a second interview I was also suddenly offered a first interview with a second, very different company: and of course, both interviews would happen on the same day, one after another.
Again I had already made up my mind- this time about going for the first company to contact me- and again I decided to take the interview with the second company that I wasn't so sure about. Needless to say I was a little relieved to not fall in love with the second company, and pretty darn stoked to be offered a job with the first shortly after my second interview. I'm also glad I went to the interview that I wasn't so sure about- it was an area of my profession I'd often been curious about, and sometimes wondered if I'd enjoy. Now I know for sure that I wouldn't, and won't be forever wondering what it would have been like.
So here I am, preparing to leave a job that I've been happy enough in for the past few years, and to say goodbye to my awesome colleagues. Still, you know in your heart when it's time to move on. It's easy to stay in one place simply because it feels familiar and safe, and it takes courage to step into the unfamiliar, but life is nothing if you're unable to challenge yourself to do better.
~ ~ ~
The email came in first thing in the morning: I was pretty excited to get an interview with such a prestigious company, and I was eager to move onto the next stage in my career. I wasn't unhappy with my current company- I just wanted to move up in the world. I booked a day off from work for the following day, handing the holiday form to my manager.
"Tomorrow's fine, Tash," she said, signing the form. "By the way, could I have a quick chat with you just before lunch in the meeting room? It's nothing to worry about."
I smiled said sure, but- of course- instantly started to worry. Had I done something wrong? Were they onto me?? My brain came up with a list of worst-case scenarios.
Ten minutes to lunchtime I was sat opposite my manager at the table in the small meeting room, door closed. My manager smiled.
"I wanted to tell you how impressed we are with your work attitude and how you've been performing. Since C---- is leaving we think you'd be perfect for the position. I'm really pleased to tell you that we'd like to offer you a promotion."
"... Oh. Oh! Thank you, that's great news!" I beamed.
I also felt like a humongous traitor to all sides. Now that I'd accepted a promotion, it was unlikely that the role at new company I was due to be interviewed at would match my new level (either in terms of responsibility or monetarily). Should I still continue with the interview?
I came out of the meeting room, head spinning. What should I do? Lunch would set me straight, surely. I retrieved my bento box from the fridge, sat down cracked it open. No sooner had I taken my first bite did my phone start buzzing away in my bag. I took it out: one new email. I opened the email.
"Thank you for your interest in our role at X. We'd like to invite you for an interview some time in the next few days."
I nearly dropped my phone (and my chopsticks): another interview with another very prestigious company! What was the universe trying to do to me? I faced the same problem as with the first company, considering my newly promoted status. Would I be wasting their time, and my own, to interview with them anyway? Would I be stupid not to go out there and see what was on offer regardless? Who would benefit the most and the least out of my decision either to go or not go?
How would I benefit from each decision?
~ ~ ~
I decided to go to both, in the end- for all I knew there would be more to lose by not going. In the end I needn't have worried, though: both companies had greatly exaggerated the amount of the sort of work I wanted to do in their initial briefs, and after some amiable interrogation on my part, I discovered that neither place was the place for me anyway. I'm glad I decided to go in the end- both experiences gave me a clearer insight into exactly what I wanted to do with myself.
The reason why I'm only writing about this now, years later, is because I'm moving on from my current job and beginning with a new one very soon. Of course it had to happen in a weird way like the last time, because this is me we're talking about: I was headhunted by a recruiter, and on the same day I got called for a second interview I was also suddenly offered a first interview with a second, very different company: and of course, both interviews would happen on the same day, one after another.
Again I had already made up my mind- this time about going for the first company to contact me- and again I decided to take the interview with the second company that I wasn't so sure about. Needless to say I was a little relieved to not fall in love with the second company, and pretty darn stoked to be offered a job with the first shortly after my second interview. I'm also glad I went to the interview that I wasn't so sure about- it was an area of my profession I'd often been curious about, and sometimes wondered if I'd enjoy. Now I know for sure that I wouldn't, and won't be forever wondering what it would have been like.
So here I am, preparing to leave a job that I've been happy enough in for the past few years, and to say goodbye to my awesome colleagues. Still, you know in your heart when it's time to move on. It's easy to stay in one place simply because it feels familiar and safe, and it takes courage to step into the unfamiliar, but life is nothing if you're unable to challenge yourself to do better.
Wednesday, 14 January 2015
The Christmas Cake Conundrum
In Japan, there's a rather cruel term for single girls over the age of 25: Christmas cakes.
Why?
Because nobody wants Christmas cake after the 25th of December. But wait, it gets even better: beyond the 25th, those leftover Christmas cakes are left on the shelf, slowly rotting and becoming more undesirable by the minute.
Yeesh...
I quietly turned 27 in October 2014. I say quietly: there was a lot of cake and lots of friends and foam bananas (I can't believe I didn't write about that: long story short, my amazing colleagues bought me a kilo of giant foam banana sweets). I didn't really acknowledge my birthday on this blog though, even though I did document the birthday cake I made on Tashcakes! When I turned 25 I had a mild panic about my existence on this planet and basically had a short existential crisis, and at 26 I legally became a Lady of the Highlands (sort of). 27? A mild bit of panic again, although not as much as when I turned 25- only because it feels like I truly am on the wrong side of 25, now. No going back, of course. Only forwards, forwards, forwards.
I certainly don't feel 27 though, and apparently I don't like it either. I constantly get mistaken for a university student. Or, in the case of two weeks ago at the supermarket, even younger.
I help my mum do the food shop on most Saturday mornings, so the regular checkout ladies and gents will often recognise me with her and say hi. Two weekends ago, however, we were served by a kindly lady we'd never met before. All three of us were chatting about the Christmas and New Year period, when the checkout lady suddenly turned to me and said:
"And what about you, when do you go back to school?"
I blinked, not sure if she was joking.
"Or, er- college, is it?" She ventured. I laughed.
"Actually, I work now- but thank you for thinking I'm young enough to pass as a student!"
This made me feel at least a little better about myself (and also confirmed that people's reactions are of genuine surprise when they find out my age). My slightly inflated ego certainly had a pin put to it this evening though: I visited my regular bubble tea shop after dance class, and chatted a bit to the (cute) guy behind the counter. He handed me my bubble tea- I said thanks and have a nice evening- and then it happened.
"You too, ma'am."
... Ma'am?
Of course it didn't mean anything- what else should he have called me? (Except for nothing at all, grrr...) Alas, my overactive brain was thinking about it all the way down the road to the station. I thought, 'I know I look a bit tired from a long day of work and a bit worn out from dancing for two hours, but I don't look that bad, do I? Oh no, do I actually look older this evening? Have I finally passed my "sell by" date??' I drowned my sorrows in sweet tea and tapioca.
Most of my friends are married or about to be married, and some even have children now. All met their Significant Others at university or just after. The closest I've come to romance after university was being stalked by someone who I thought was a friend and grabbed at by a rickshaw driver. As for online dating, forget it, I'm nowhere near ready for that level of crazy: I have my few single friends to keep me entertained with their horrifying stories for the time being. To be honest though, when I ask myself if I actually need to be in a relationship and it if would improve my life, I have to answer: nah, not really. It's just a bit disorientating when old friends reach new milestones in life and you're, well, not. Then again, one person's progress is another person's stumbling block.
It's not really fair to put a "sell by" date on people, in any case. We are people, after all, not cake. Then again, think about Christmas cakes a little harder: they're steadily fed with alcohol to mature over years, so they just get better and better over time. Perhaps we should be taking this second metaphor a little more seriously than the initial one.
(Possibly including the part about the alcohol.)
Sunday, 7 December 2014
I don't Like Sarcastic People
"It's food," said the guy (a friend of a friend), seeing me dither at the snacks table. I had already eaten before getting to the party, not knowing that there would be food, so I didn't really need anything- I just wanted to be a gracious guest and accept the host's generosity.
"Awesome, I like food," I said a little foolishly, not knowing what to say in reply to that, but feeling like I should say something under his mildly inquisitive gaze. I put a small handful of chips onto my paper plate and moved away to make room for other party-goers.
"Well that looks filling," said the guy, quirking an eyebrow at my meagre portion.
"Haha," I said weakly, and joined the others.
I love sarcasm. Used at the right times it's hilarious, clever and makes people bond.
However, I do not like sarcastic people. Not people that use sarcasm (or I'd be in trouble with myself)- just people that seem to live in a natural state of constant sarcasm. It's like they live to make try to make others feel uncomfortable or stupid.
One of the things that makes me not get on with sarcastic people is that I'm a very literal person. Puns are often wasted on me- and even though as a writer I can make (apparently good) ones up, I don't really find them laugh-out-loud funny. My friends love teasing me because I apparently become indignant really easily, even though I know they're only teasing. It's not as if I have a thin skin; it's just that it takes me one or two beats longer to pick up on social cues than other people.
"Don't worry," my friend said, "he's always really sarcastic." This was after first being introduced to him as her friend from dance- he asked me very seriously what time I was on, and I looked at my watch (I told you I'm really literal).
It made me think of how I have (had?) this old friend who had a razor-sharp tongue. I used to admire her for how forthright she was and how acidic her humour was- but after a few too many years of her using me as a whetstone every now and again, I decided that she wasn't just naturally talented in the art of sarcasm- she was just a bit of an arsehole.
So with this new revelation, perhaps I'll become more sensitive to the way people might interpret the things I'm saying. I believe that when I'm being sarcastic, I'm being so obvious about it that there is no question that I'm joking about something- but maybe there are times I'm not obvious enough and end up hurting someone's feelings. Perhaps we should all use sarcasm a bit less, especially as a way to cover up our own insecurities. Perhaps we should all be more open with each other, so the world will become a better place.
As if.
"Awesome, I like food," I said a little foolishly, not knowing what to say in reply to that, but feeling like I should say something under his mildly inquisitive gaze. I put a small handful of chips onto my paper plate and moved away to make room for other party-goers.
"Well that looks filling," said the guy, quirking an eyebrow at my meagre portion.
"Haha," I said weakly, and joined the others.
I love sarcasm. Used at the right times it's hilarious, clever and makes people bond.
However, I do not like sarcastic people. Not people that use sarcasm (or I'd be in trouble with myself)- just people that seem to live in a natural state of constant sarcasm. It's like they live to make try to make others feel uncomfortable or stupid.
One of the things that makes me not get on with sarcastic people is that I'm a very literal person. Puns are often wasted on me- and even though as a writer I can make (apparently good) ones up, I don't really find them laugh-out-loud funny. My friends love teasing me because I apparently become indignant really easily, even though I know they're only teasing. It's not as if I have a thin skin; it's just that it takes me one or two beats longer to pick up on social cues than other people.
"Don't worry," my friend said, "he's always really sarcastic." This was after first being introduced to him as her friend from dance- he asked me very seriously what time I was on, and I looked at my watch (I told you I'm really literal).
It made me think of how I have (had?) this old friend who had a razor-sharp tongue. I used to admire her for how forthright she was and how acidic her humour was- but after a few too many years of her using me as a whetstone every now and again, I decided that she wasn't just naturally talented in the art of sarcasm- she was just a bit of an arsehole.
So with this new revelation, perhaps I'll become more sensitive to the way people might interpret the things I'm saying. I believe that when I'm being sarcastic, I'm being so obvious about it that there is no question that I'm joking about something- but maybe there are times I'm not obvious enough and end up hurting someone's feelings. Perhaps we should all use sarcasm a bit less, especially as a way to cover up our own insecurities. Perhaps we should all be more open with each other, so the world will become a better place.
As if.
Monday, 1 December 2014
A Rare Positive Train Journey Experience
I was sitting next to the cutest family on the train home from a Birmingham visit this weekend. It was quite late at night for the two little girls, and they were a little giggly and quietly hysterical, with the mother warily trying to calm them down. At one point the two girls started making puns out of everything, while I tried to hold it together in my seat.
"We can all enjoy a nice lie-in tomorrow," said the mum.
"I'm a lie-on, raaaaawr!" the youngest girl chipped in without missing a beat. Her older sister burst into laughter, holding her sides.
"Mummy I think I'm having a heart attack," she gasped between giggles. The mother sighed.
What an awesome family.
In other news, I have a shiny new phone! It's bigger than my old one, so I'll be able to blog on the go (so I'll never have an idle waking moment. Ever. Again. Yay?)
"We can all enjoy a nice lie-in tomorrow," said the mum.
"I'm a lie-on, raaaaawr!" the youngest girl chipped in without missing a beat. Her older sister burst into laughter, holding her sides.
"Mummy I think I'm having a heart attack," she gasped between giggles. The mother sighed.
What an awesome family.
In other news, I have a shiny new phone! It's bigger than my old one, so I'll be able to blog on the go (so I'll never have an idle waking moment. Ever. Again. Yay?)
Saturday, 8 November 2014
Red Lipstick
"Hey, you're beautiful! Gorgeous!"
I didn't realise the rickshaw driver was hollering at me until he cycled past, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair: I had become the unwitting victim of a cycle-by petting. What surprised me more than the unsolicited contact, however, was my instant, knee-jerk reaction as I recoiled away from his touch.
"Eww..!" I said, laughing and scrunching my nose up like I was in primary school and the rickshaw driver was a little boy with cooties. I didn't notice his reaction as I was too busy laughing at the ridiculousness of the driver's grabbiness and the childishness of my reaction.
I hadn't noticed that the driver had been catcalling me because I wasn't expecting it. I usually dress smartly enough when out and about, but I happened to be going to a 1940's style event with a few friends- so my long hair, usually tied back in a braid, was curled in Hollywood-style waves, and I wore a striking red lipstick. The rest of me was pretty much the same- a smart black dress I often wear to work and ankle boots with sensible-ish heels. I don't tend to get catcalled or chatted up, and I didn't think that a bit of red lippy would be enough to turn me from Everyday Tash to someone to be grabbed at like a can of beans at the supermarket.
What makes guys think they can act like that, though? What happened to just saying hello, or chatting? I'm lucky that I haven't had to experience this too often, but I have other friends that get this kind of treatment all the time. And even I have, although not too often- the last time anyone showed any interest in me in that way ended in almost two years of persistent harassment and borderline stalking which has only just recently stopped (I hope). I think if it weren't for my male friends and family I'd have long ago lost faith in men. Thankfully all I have to do is think of them and I realise that there are just quite a few weirdos, creeps and socially awkward people out there- but of course, not everyone is. Saying that all guys are creeps is like saying all women are crazy. This is wrong, of course: everyone is crazy. I suppose life is all about finding the people that are your special brand of crazy to get along with.
All the same, guys- if you're ever riding a rickshaw and pass a pretty girl you don't know, reaching out to stroke their hair as you cycle by is very unlikely to get a positive response.
I didn't realise the rickshaw driver was hollering at me until he cycled past, his hand reaching out to stroke my hair: I had become the unwitting victim of a cycle-by petting. What surprised me more than the unsolicited contact, however, was my instant, knee-jerk reaction as I recoiled away from his touch.
"Eww..!" I said, laughing and scrunching my nose up like I was in primary school and the rickshaw driver was a little boy with cooties. I didn't notice his reaction as I was too busy laughing at the ridiculousness of the driver's grabbiness and the childishness of my reaction.
I hadn't noticed that the driver had been catcalling me because I wasn't expecting it. I usually dress smartly enough when out and about, but I happened to be going to a 1940's style event with a few friends- so my long hair, usually tied back in a braid, was curled in Hollywood-style waves, and I wore a striking red lipstick. The rest of me was pretty much the same- a smart black dress I often wear to work and ankle boots with sensible-ish heels. I don't tend to get catcalled or chatted up, and I didn't think that a bit of red lippy would be enough to turn me from Everyday Tash to someone to be grabbed at like a can of beans at the supermarket.
What makes guys think they can act like that, though? What happened to just saying hello, or chatting? I'm lucky that I haven't had to experience this too often, but I have other friends that get this kind of treatment all the time. And even I have, although not too often- the last time anyone showed any interest in me in that way ended in almost two years of persistent harassment and borderline stalking which has only just recently stopped (I hope). I think if it weren't for my male friends and family I'd have long ago lost faith in men. Thankfully all I have to do is think of them and I realise that there are just quite a few weirdos, creeps and socially awkward people out there- but of course, not everyone is. Saying that all guys are creeps is like saying all women are crazy. This is wrong, of course: everyone is crazy. I suppose life is all about finding the people that are your special brand of crazy to get along with.
All the same, guys- if you're ever riding a rickshaw and pass a pretty girl you don't know, reaching out to stroke their hair as you cycle by is very unlikely to get a positive response.
Monday, 1 September 2014
Dodging Death
I was just about to switch everything off thie evening when Mum came downstairs, exclaiming how something had blown the bathroom light out upstairs. I shrugged it off- it happens. What did make me get up to investigate was ten minutes later, after Mum had gone back upstairs, when she called down saying that she could smell burning.
I went upstairs, and sure enough there was a faint smell of something burning. But not a smokey smell (which would have been bad enough)- this smelled like burning plastic.
We hunted around to the source of the smell, until I noticed that it was actually coming from Mum's room itself. Mum discovered that it was, in fact, her TV pouring out evil, invisible and silent fumes- all the while still working otherwise as normal.
We quickly switched it off, although in the short space of time we discovered the source of the smell, the fumes had gotten so bad that I had to cover my nose and mouth with a towel to get close enough to fully unplug it. We threw the windows in the room open and closed the door.
Here's the kicker- normally Mum goes to bed much earlier than this, and sometimes falls asleep in front of the TV while it's still on (despite me lecturing her about doing this on many an occasion). Mum could have been gassed to death in her sleep without a sound. I would have been downstairs, completely unaware until I went upstairs, or possibly in my adjacent room, also being silently poisoned. Or, the TV would set alight. Either way, if Mum hadn't been up later than usual (ironically watching TV instead of falling asleep to it), Dad may have come home from his night shift to bodies, burning or both.
Sobering thought.
I've moved Mum downstairs to sleep on the sofa for the night while the fumes dissipate from her room. In the meantime I've been periodically checking the TV to make sure it stops fuming, which thankfully, it has now.
This is right up there with the time the ceiling collapsed in a patch right next to my bed with me in it, in terms of brushes with the grim reaper.
I went upstairs, and sure enough there was a faint smell of something burning. But not a smokey smell (which would have been bad enough)- this smelled like burning plastic.
We hunted around to the source of the smell, until I noticed that it was actually coming from Mum's room itself. Mum discovered that it was, in fact, her TV pouring out evil, invisible and silent fumes- all the while still working otherwise as normal.
We quickly switched it off, although in the short space of time we discovered the source of the smell, the fumes had gotten so bad that I had to cover my nose and mouth with a towel to get close enough to fully unplug it. We threw the windows in the room open and closed the door.
Here's the kicker- normally Mum goes to bed much earlier than this, and sometimes falls asleep in front of the TV while it's still on (despite me lecturing her about doing this on many an occasion). Mum could have been gassed to death in her sleep without a sound. I would have been downstairs, completely unaware until I went upstairs, or possibly in my adjacent room, also being silently poisoned. Or, the TV would set alight. Either way, if Mum hadn't been up later than usual (ironically watching TV instead of falling asleep to it), Dad may have come home from his night shift to bodies, burning or both.
Sobering thought.
I've moved Mum downstairs to sleep on the sofa for the night while the fumes dissipate from her room. In the meantime I've been periodically checking the TV to make sure it stops fuming, which thankfully, it has now.
This is right up there with the time the ceiling collapsed in a patch right next to my bed with me in it, in terms of brushes with the grim reaper.
Friday, 22 August 2014
Hey, I Just Met You, and I Am Crazy (Part 2)
I really wonder what on Earth is wrong with me, sometimes.
On Wednesday we were split into small groups during dance class to learn the next part of the choreography. I was hyper from dancing, as usual, and was chatting to another class member with whom I've never spoken with before. At the the end of the class...
"Well it was nice chatting to you!" they said, smiling.
"Whee!!" I skipped off at high speed.
... Told you I fail at meeting new people.
On Wednesday we were split into small groups during dance class to learn the next part of the choreography. I was hyper from dancing, as usual, and was chatting to another class member with whom I've never spoken with before. At the the end of the class...
"Well it was nice chatting to you!" they said, smiling.
"Whee!!" I skipped off at high speed.
... Told you I fail at meeting new people.
Sunday, 10 August 2014
Hey, I Just Met You, and I Am Crazy
"Sometimes, when I have a little left, I like to spray my hands and pretend I'm a robot." - Me talking about decorating cake with edible metallic spray about ten minutes into encountering a new human being.
I'm really bad at meeting new people.
No no, let me rephrase this: I'm really good at pretending like I know what I'm doing when I'm meeting new people at first, but I'm terrible at maintaining any sense of normality throughout the social situation. For instance, I'll start off seeming like a nice, normal person, and then only a few minutes in of talking to someone, sporadic flashes of crazy suddenly burst through the faรงade, like some sort of nervous reflex.
I visited a friend's house to play my first ever game of Dungeons and Dragons a few evenings ago- my character was a new addition to the campaign, and the group had already had two sessions of play. I already knew my friend of course, and I had already met her husband. It was the rest of the group I had to try to convince that I was 'cool'.
I had been talking like a nice, normal person to my friend's brother-in-law when the subject of what I'd used to make the cakes I brought silver came up (I'd sprayed them silver and gold like loot). Like a nice, normal person I explained how I'd done it. My friend's brother in law joked that he might end up looking like the tin man if he got any silver on him. And then, not at all like a nice, normal person, I cracked that remark about pretending like I'm a robot out.
At another point, we started discussing about how strictly we have to stick to our character's alliances and personality, and then ended up with a philosophical statement about how the inevitability of how our characters can and can't act could be a metaphor for life. And hastily and awkwardly added "Or not..."
During the actual game, I was absent-mindedly stacking the die up in a colourful tower. Another member of the group and pointed this out, amused. I felt a silly crooked grin appear on my face. "I like stacking things, stacking things is fun."
*Facepalm*
There were plenty of other moments like these throughout the evening, made worse by the fact that I was also trying to learn the rules of the game on the fly, stay in character and remember everyone's real and in-game names at the same time; and as the game commenced, I felt myself getting quieter and quieter. The group was fantastic- everyone was very welcoming and had the same cheeky, slightly avante-garde sense of humour as I did- but I was terrified of accidentally taking the joke too far, or stepping over the mark as the newbie. I started out being super friendly and slightly hyperactive, but by the end of the evening I must have seem very subdued, and perhaps even a little aloof in my awkwardness.
I used to be so painfully shy I wouldn't be able to talk to new people at all. Now I'm much better at pretending that I'm confident and at toning down my eccentricity to begin with, but this sort of suppression results in my eccentricity forcing its way out like water spewing from a cracking dam. Honestly, I'm not sure which one is worse.
Thankfully, the people that have stuck by me after these awkward first moments are both awesome and just as nuts to boot, so I needn't worry too much. After all, life is all about finding people with the same type of crazy as you, and those people become your friends.
I'm really bad at meeting new people.
No no, let me rephrase this: I'm really good at pretending like I know what I'm doing when I'm meeting new people at first, but I'm terrible at maintaining any sense of normality throughout the social situation. For instance, I'll start off seeming like a nice, normal person, and then only a few minutes in of talking to someone, sporadic flashes of crazy suddenly burst through the faรงade, like some sort of nervous reflex.
I visited a friend's house to play my first ever game of Dungeons and Dragons a few evenings ago- my character was a new addition to the campaign, and the group had already had two sessions of play. I already knew my friend of course, and I had already met her husband. It was the rest of the group I had to try to convince that I was 'cool'.
I had been talking like a nice, normal person to my friend's brother-in-law when the subject of what I'd used to make the cakes I brought silver came up (I'd sprayed them silver and gold like loot). Like a nice, normal person I explained how I'd done it. My friend's brother in law joked that he might end up looking like the tin man if he got any silver on him. And then, not at all like a nice, normal person, I cracked that remark about pretending like I'm a robot out.
At another point, we started discussing about how strictly we have to stick to our character's alliances and personality, and then ended up with a philosophical statement about how the inevitability of how our characters can and can't act could be a metaphor for life. And hastily and awkwardly added "Or not..."
During the actual game, I was absent-mindedly stacking the die up in a colourful tower. Another member of the group and pointed this out, amused. I felt a silly crooked grin appear on my face. "I like stacking things, stacking things is fun."
*Facepalm*
There were plenty of other moments like these throughout the evening, made worse by the fact that I was also trying to learn the rules of the game on the fly, stay in character and remember everyone's real and in-game names at the same time; and as the game commenced, I felt myself getting quieter and quieter. The group was fantastic- everyone was very welcoming and had the same cheeky, slightly avante-garde sense of humour as I did- but I was terrified of accidentally taking the joke too far, or stepping over the mark as the newbie. I started out being super friendly and slightly hyperactive, but by the end of the evening I must have seem very subdued, and perhaps even a little aloof in my awkwardness.
I used to be so painfully shy I wouldn't be able to talk to new people at all. Now I'm much better at pretending that I'm confident and at toning down my eccentricity to begin with, but this sort of suppression results in my eccentricity forcing its way out like water spewing from a cracking dam. Honestly, I'm not sure which one is worse.
Thankfully, the people that have stuck by me after these awkward first moments are both awesome and just as nuts to boot, so I needn't worry too much. After all, life is all about finding people with the same type of crazy as you, and those people become your friends.
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