Will Take Kittens for Bribes

Recently, an old school friend of Dad's passed away from a combination of lung and bone cancer. From what I hear he was a great guy, and one of the last things he did before he died was to reunite his and my dad's old group of school friends. It's unknown whether or not he knew he was dying when he got everyone together- I suspect he did, but others say he wasn't officially diagnosed until only two weeks before his passing. In any case, when his condition rapidly deteriorated, he was in such a bad way that all his family could do was wish him a swift passing to end his suffering.

My dad has smoked since he was a teenager, and I've always been on at him to quit, terrified that this may one day be his fate, too. Alas, he's always been of the 'it won't happen to me' mindset. He refuses to believe that you don't have to be a chain smoker to be killed by cigarettes, choosing to believe that his couple a day is healthy enough. However, I can tell his friend's untimely passing has struck a note with him.

So I decided to strike while the iron was hot.

I asked Dad if he was ready to give up smoking now. He said no- whilst lighting one up. We stepped into the garden while he smoked (Dad hadn't smoked in the house since I was born). He added that he could right away if he wanted to- he just didn't want to. In fact, for the whole two weeks he and Mum were on holiday in Malaysia recently, he didn't take any tobacco with him and didn't smoke once! So what was the problem, I asked him? Dad half-joked that I was trying to take one of his few pleasures in life away. What would it take for me to get him to stop smoking? I asked him. He looked thoughtful, took a drag of his cigarette, puffed out and grinned.

"If you can convince your mother to get two new kittens, then I'll give up smoking."

I laughed. It's no secret that we're a family of cat people, neither that Dad has been thinking about adding to our feline family. But two kittens? Impossible. We already have to adult cats, and Dad knew as well as I did that Mum would hit the roof if I suggested we added two energetic balls of fur to the collection.

But then I got thinking. Dad didn't smoke in Malaysia at all- was it because he was enjoying himself out there too much to care? Back at home, with the stress of work and bills and daily life, of course it'd be harder to kick the habit. Dad has no regular hobbies, so maybe a distraction is the answer to this problem. And maybe a distraction in the form of an energetic ball of fur is just what he needs.

"One kitten."

"What?"

"One kitten." I looked at him seriously. "I'll convince Mum- but only and ONLY if you solemnly swear that, if I succeed, you'll give up for good."

Dad looked at me warily, cigarette hovering.

"I mean it: Dad's honour. One kitten, no smoking."

Dad took a thoughtful drag of his cigarette and exhaled very slowly. "... Alright."

We shook on it, me giving my poor Dad the meanest stare I could muster.

"Give me a month," I said, ominously.

I didn't feel as brave as I sounded, though- I knew it would be a real job convincing Mum. While I'd like another cat as much as Dad- I also have my Mum's practical brain in me. What about the extra money on vet bills and food? Dad's retiring soon, can we really afford another cat? Would it be fair on the other cats to cause them the stress of socialising them with a new cat? How would we juggle taking time off to litter train the kitten, introduce it to the garden, make sure it didn't escape through the cat flap before it had orientated itself in our home?

But if it meant Dad giving up cigarettes for good...

This was a week ago. Last night I caught mum in a good mood. I tentatively broached the subject with her, mentioning that there was a chance that we could get Dad to stop smoking... but only if we supplied him with a kitten.

To my surprise, Mum responded only by scrunching up her nose a little. This might seem bad to you, but to me- who has a couple of decades of reading my mum's body language- this was positive. It wasn't an outright and definite no.

Sorry Dad, your smoking days may be numbered after all.

In Which Tash Takes a Day Off

Well alright, most of the day off- but it's as close to a full day off as I've had in quite a while.

I've been very, very busy. I work full-time, manage five blogs altogether which involves a lot of baking, photoing and editing, writing and Going Out and Doing Stuff, I have a regular exercise routine, still occasionally try to keep up with music, and I have a very active social life from making sure I give my time to as many friends as possible. One of the downsides of being so busy all the time is that friends have gotten used to having to book me up to two months in advance, but at least my friends are also very understanding.

Recently I've been doing some voluntary online work for the up-and-coming Lady Dinah's Cat Emporium (London's very first cat café), which is super-exciting! Of course it's been a challenge to juggle the mad amount of stuff I already do, but I'm so happy to be able to be part of it in some way, although it does mean that time management has become a fine art.

Which is why maybe it's a bit sad that having a relaxing day is novel enough for me to write about it in The Wacky World of a Weird Girl. In fact, I'm writing this right now as a break before I get back to work.

I booked a day off work today, originally because a friend was coming down from Birmingham to visit, but then she had to go to a medic's function (she's a doctor). I decided to keep the day off instead of cancelling it, because I suddenly realised that actually, I really do need a day to myself.

So this morning after a mini lie-in (but not too much because I prefer being productive), I got up, and started the day by visiting a café I'd always wanted to try out for breakfast (reviewed in one of my other blogs).

I LOVE going into London just after the morning rush hour on a weekday. It's so quiet! I sat outside the café with my coffee and breakfast, and for the first time in months I felt truly relaxed. Note that I don't mean happy- I've been very happy indeed- but it was the first time in a long time I actually sat back in peace and quiet, did nothing and didn't feel guilty about doing nothing. I sat slowly sipping my coffee and nibbling my cake until it was all gone, and sat watching the world go by just for a little longer before I reluctantly got up and continued with my day.

Even though I was reluctant to shift myself from my relaxed spot, I knew I'd enjoy myself at my next destination: Camden Town, one of my favourite places in London. Also another great place to be during those few hours between breakfast and lunch on a weekday.

Camden Town on the weekend- and even during lunchtime on a weekday- is always absolutely rammed. It's a trendy place to be for all ages, is a popular tourist destination, and is just an overall cool place to be. This morning I got the chance to walk around at my leisure, discover new nooks and crannies without being squeezed out of the way by more people, and actually be able to look around without my vision being blocked by bodies.

Whilst I was there, I bought a cup of tea from Yumchaa, and sat on the balcony outside which overlooks the canal and the Camden Lock West Yard world food market. There was still an hour to go before people would start trickling in for lunch, and it was bliss. There was one funny moment when a couple of French tourists walked past me, sitting with my cup of tea, and one said something to her friend like 'Ah, le typique anglaise!', gesturing towards me in a way which she obviously thought was subtle. Yes, yes, we do love our tea here. And I do understand a bit of French, lady.

Sitting there after Relaxation Time Stage 1 earlier in the morning, in view of the canal and the smells of food from all around the world wafting from the market below, colourful bunting for the coming evening's music festival billowing in the gentle wind, with tea in my teacup and a little more left in the teapot- it was zen. There was even a resident friendly kitty cat to play with: perfect.

I was quite sad to leave when lunchtime hit and the zen was broken by the oncoming crowds of people- but I was able to leave my quiet spot outside the tea shop knowing that there was more fun stuff to do, even if relaxation time was over. I had lunch, and headed off home to do continue with work before making dinner for the family.

This weekend I'm back to my old tricks, going out to meet friends and baking and blogging and going to events, and soon the memory of being totally 'at ease' will fade- but one thing I will remember to do is take time off for myself more often: sometimes it feels like I'm so busy making time for other people that I forget to make time for myself. Don't get me wrong: I choose to be busy. It's a way of life I enjoy. However, sometimes I need to be reminded that I need switching-off time to recharge (even if it's only once every two months). I can't wait to be able to have another day off where I can sit with a cup or tea with my favourite place almost all to myself, and literally do nothing else but drink tea, sit and watch the world around me.

In the meantime, I'll try to hang on to that memory of the feeling of zen for as long as possible, before the business of tomorrow and the day after sweep it away.

Anyway. Back to work.

A Mixed Bag of Nothing

A direct quote from one of my other blogs, Where I Like To Eat:

'...I am in fact Jewish, as well as being half Chinese. An unusual mix, granted, and indeed when with either side of my family I feel neither Jewish enough nor Chinese enough- but at least that makes me exotic and interesting (at least I like to think so!)'

I've never had a problem with being a mixed bag of blood (specifically half Chinese with Russian and Polish blood from the Jewish side). In fact, I've always thought of my mixed background as pretty darn cool: I get the elegant mystique of the Far East along with the proud grittiness of East Europe. I can handle both my stinky fermented tofu and my drink my chopped liver like a pro. I've never felt a crisis of identity, or an insecurity in who I am, or a feeling of not belonging. I've always felt that I belonged everywhere, and that anywhere could be home.

That is, until relatively recently.

It all started about a month ago, on the week of Chinese New Year (just to clarify, I've always found myself identifying with my Chinese side a tiny bit more than my European side). A colleague of mine brought in some oranges to celebrate. Later on I caught her by the printer, an orange in my hand, to thank her. I laughed that I was glad to have some fruit, after having way too much nian gao (new year sticky rice cake). My colleague gave me a funny look.

"Nian gao..?" She asked.

"Er... yeah, you know- sticky rice cake. I bought one of those cute fish-shaped ones," I added helpfully. My colleague gave me an uncertain smile.

"Natasha, you're not Chinese are you?"

I suddenly felt uncomfortable- it's not the first time it's been noted that I look extremely un-Oriental, but it was definitely the first time I felt almost caught-out. I explained I was half, and conversation awkwardly petered out.

I made my way back to my desk and had a sudden flashback, back to when I was at school:

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I was walking down the hallway with a Chinese friend, and she was talking about setting up a club for the Chinese pupils of the school. I said I thought this was a great idea, and I'd love to help out and join. My friend laughed.

"You're not really Chinese though, are you?" she said.

I was unfazed. "'Course I am! I mean I may not be 100% Chinese, but I have enough Chinese DNA to count I think."

"Oh Tash you know what I mean- I mean you're not Chinese enough."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Not Chinese enough.

At the time I was too bogged down with all my musical extra-curricular activities to care much that I didn't have another to add to my list, but I find myself caring now, after about a decade.

On a similar vein, I was thinking of giving dancing a whirl, recently- for fitness, and because I believe in completing things on your bucket list well before you'd normally consider having a bucket list (I'm just that organised in life). I thought of how cool it would be to do some traditional Chinese dancing- with fans and ribbons and whatnot. So I did some Googling and found a group that do adult workshops in London.

My usual devil-may-care confidence went a bit wobbly when I saw the photos of the willowy, beautiful, extremely Chinese ladies practising in their qipaos. And here's me, with my European curves, unremarkable features and distinctly un-Chinese face, hoping to join them.

I'd be like a goose amongst cranes.

Another spanner in the works is my shoddy grasp of the language- despite having studied Mandarin as a side-module at university for two years. It doesn't help that my Chinese friends have all been Cantonese-speakers and the Chinese side of my family speaks Hakka rather than Mandarin, but it's a poor excuse, even so. In fact, I studied Japanese for one year and for some bizarre reason excelled at it, while two years studying my heritage language bore slightly weaker results.

So here I am, wanting to be more involved in my own culture- but finding out that it's not my culture, after all- not really. In fact, it's starting to occur to me that my Chinese friends and family- or at least the people in Chinatown, Wing Yip or other places I frequent with a Chinese community- might actually see me as a bit of a White Girl Wannabe.

Only even without the Chinese side, I'm not really a White Girl, either.

So where the bloody hell do I belong?

I'll never find a community I can fully fit into- it's in the nature of being mixed race, after all, and I think I've forgotten this somewhere along the way. In the meantime, I'll continue to enjoy eating lots of different types of food and learning about my different heritages: and every time someone finds out for the first time that I'm half-Chinese and that my middle name is Ching, and responds with stark disbelief, I'll just have to get over it.

Perhaps I will ask about that dance group- perhaps not. I definitely want to take up Mandarin again (and Japanese while I'm at it- no sense in letting my knack for it go to waste...) I just wish I were as blissfully unaware of my 'unwholeness' as I was before. I suppose I'll just have to find a new level of accepting myself, and not caring about what other people think.

And yes, my middle name really is Ching.

~Fin~

RANT: Answering the Phone

I think it's high time this blog had a rant tag- here we go!

Today, something happened when I picked up the ringing phone. Something that has been happening to me more and more frequently recently, and not just with one caller.

Ring ring.

Me: 'Hello?'

Caller: 'Hello?'

Whooooawhoawhoawhoa. Time out. Stop. Hold up. Wait a minute. Let's look into the whole etiquette of phoning someone, shall we?

When you call someone, unless you've arranged a set time with someone, have a personalised ring tone (and maybe a picture that pops up if on a mobile phone) for them or they're having a transient psychic moment, the other person isn't going to know who's calling. So, when the other person picks up and they (usually) ask 'Hello?', the logical and just plain decent thing to do is reply with 'Hi, it's *blank*'.

See? Simple, quick, to the point. Maybe if you're good friends you can add a funny noise or signature sentence, or another few words of your choice- anything that lets the other person know who's calling. What you don't do when someone picks up and goes 'Hello?' is to go 'Hello?' right back.

What the hell do you mean, 'Hello?'? You're the one that called me!

See, what you've done here is to answer a question with a question- which is not only maddeningly obstructive and confusing, but could also be considered impolite. When I picked up and said 'Hello?' I wasn't just greeting you, I was also very politely asking 'Who are you?' When you ask 'Hello?' right after me, to me you're just asking 'Well, who are you?'

Don't give me that, even if I'm not the one who you expected to pick up, you know who you're after and could at very least introduce yourself.

Now, this applies even to normal people. However, I also have the added fun little bonus of being a bit 'voice blind', or whatever you want to call it. In a nutshell, I find it hard to recognise people's voices, even people who I've known for years- and over the phone I find it pretty much impossible (a real head-scratcher, because I also have absolute pitch, which means I can identify any musical note without being told what it is, or sing back a note you tell me to sing without hearing it first). Anyway, the long and short of it is, I doubly don't know who you are when you call me. In fact this became a running joke at my last job, which partially involved having good links and relationships with suppliers and staff based elsewhere over the phone; my colleagues and the others I worked with learnt that they had to go 'Hi, it's *blank*' when I picked up, or at least teasingly 'Hey Tash, guess who it is?' (I did get slightly better at recognising everyone after almost two years there- slightly, but not completely).

Like I said at the beginning, the phenomenon of picking up the phone and being met with a 'Hello?' right back has been occurring more and more recently. I can't imagine why, especially when you tend to know when you're calling a home phone number as opposed to a mobile phone number, and especially when you're family or a friend. So today, a bit fed up of this nonsense (and already in a prickly mood from being patronised by a cashier at the supermarket over a type of apple), I just 'hello-ed' right back again to see how far it would go.

As the non-conversation progressed I did begin to recognise the family member of whom the increasingly confused voice belonged to, but I stuck to it to prove my theory that they knew exactly who had picked up the phone and/ or who they wanted to speak to. Let's take it from the top (and I sh*t you not, this is exactly how the call went).

Me: 'Hello?'

Caller: 'Hello?'

Me: 'Hello?'

Caller '... Hello?'

Me: 'Hello?'

Caller: 'Er... hello?'

Me: 'Hello?'

Caller: 'Hellohellohello? Is this Tash?'

Me: 'Hello!'

Caller: 'Can I speak to your mum, please?'

What did I tell you?

~Fin~

Tash's Running Delivery Service

Studio Ghibli and anime fans may know a film called Kiki's Flying Delivery service.

A couple of weeks ago I was up bright and early for my morning weekend run, dressing in my Lycra running gear and kitted out with my sports watch and mp3 player strapped to my forearm. Just before I stepped out, mum (who happens to also get up early) collared me.

"Ah, Tash. I was going to pop out to the baker's to get some bread rolls for the week, but since you're going out, I was wondering if you'd run down there and get some for me?"

I considered this for a moment.

"So you want me to run there, in all my Lycra glory, straight into the shop, beet-red in the face and sweating like a pig, and run back with a bag full of rolls?"

"Yes, please."

"... Okay."

It's a mile to Mill Hill Broadway (well, 1.1miles) one way, which is just over half of my normal running circuit around my area, so I was quite happy to do it in terms of getting my usual workout. I was, perhaps, a little less happy to be running through a busy high street and into a quaint little shop where less-than-unusual things tend to happen for the poor unsuspecting owners, but I've never been one to give a fig about what people think (or so I try and tell myself).

Now, my face turns maroon (yes, maroon. Not red. Maroon.) at any sign of physical exertion. I don't have to be out of breath or the least bit tired, my face goes maroon, which is a terrible pity because it makes me look a great deal less fit than I actually am. Anyway, I'd only just managed to run my first mile non-stop a few days before, so I was glowing like Rudolph's nose and heaving like a fish out of water by the time I entered the shop.

Did I mention it had started to rain halfway through my run? It had started to rain halfway through my run. (So I was also quite damp.)

The owner watched me apprehensively behind the counter as I picked up a pair of tongs and began filling a bag with rolls, trying to act as nonchalantly as possible (an impressive feat, I think, whilst glowing like Rudolph's nose and heaving like a fish out of water). When I went to pay for the rolls, he gingerly dropped the change in the palm of my hand whilst leaning backwards, as if afraid I'd detonate like a bomb if he wasn't careful. I smiled as charmingly as I could whilst gasping for air, and made my way back home, clutching the bag of bread rolls to my chest to protect them from the rain whilst hoping passers by wouldn't think I'd stolen them from the bakery.

Last weekend, however: progress. I was a little less out of breath from my run since I'd improved during the week (if, alas, no less maroon), and managed to get a nervous smile from the owner when I handed the money over. I've decided that this is quite fun, and I'll try to do it every week. Who knows? Maybe in a few weeks' time the shops will decide my escapades are quite useful in a novel way and I'll become Tash's Running Delivery Service!

~Fin~

Weight Loss: Battling with Yourself and the People Around You

'You've put on weight', said mum, circling me like a trader sizing up a horse at market. 'Your dress looks tigher on you than before.'

Indeed, I had put on two pounds recently, from a lapse in my exercise routine, lack of sleep from insomnia (which every so often I'm plagued by) and, more depressingly, a recent lack of self-control when it comes to grapes and strawberries (which are cruel and sneaky and masquerade as healthy fruit when in fact they pack a load of natural sugar). In fact, I've already lost one of those pounds since laying off those tricksy strawberries and buying a skipping rope to force myself to exercise at home when I'm unable to go to classes after work, and I'm on track to being at the weight I was when I got the dress altered by the end of the week- but of course that's not the sort of thing mums notice. My mum being a Chinese mum (and here I may sound a little controversial), few things I do are ever quite satisfactory. Also, when you're a lot slimmer than you used to be, an extra pound or two can be noticable.

Today, I was making some last-minute alterations to my bridemaid's dress, as one of my best friends (the same one who witnessed the whole incident with the chocolate shop guy in my previous entry) is getting married next week (and I'm the maid of honour, woot! But that's not really part of the story, I'm just bragging). I've lost two stone in a year (which is a lot), and had the dress altered recently to fit my new less wobbly and less chunky figure. It was perfect except the shoulder covers were a bit long, so I tucked and sewed them shorter today. I made the mistake of modelling the finished article in front of my mum (who I thought would be pleased, as she was pleased with how well the dress had been altered to fit my size when I had it done).

'You went to all that trouble to get your dress done, and now you aren't even bothering to watch your weight!' She exclaimed, with the inexplicable glimmer of triumph that my mum always gets when discovering something I've been trying to hide and then ticking me off for it.

Well, that's not really fair- I have been watching my weight. I watch it like a hawk all the time. It's just that recently I've watched it go up a little.

Anyone who's ever loved food and successfully been on a diet will know that losing weight's only one battle: the real war is with maintaining it. I've been very diligent (well, mostly- I underestimated fruit and, alright, maybe stumbled upon a few more cakes than usual). So diligent in fact, that some of my friends have expressed a bit of concern that I might be on a dodgy track: but it's okay, I know my brain works in slightly obsessive ways when it comes to calorie counting and nutrition percentages sometimes, but I can also recognise when I'm being a bit too crazy. However my parents didn't seem to trust me, and of course mum was quite vocal about it.

Flash forward to a couple of months ago.

'Only a small bowl?' Frowned my mum at dinner time, glancing alternately between me and my bowl of stew.

'I bought an extra banana at lunch at work today,' I said, knowing it did sound a bit mad but trying to explain, 'so I have to sacrifice a few calories this evening to balance it out.'

'You have to eat more,' scolded mum, 'you're becoming anorexic!'

There. That word was finally mentioned.

I was not, have never been and will never be anorexic. I simply love food too much, and believe you or me, when I'm calorie counting I get the most out of every single calorie. However quite a few times I've been ticked off for not eating enough, despite the fact by this stage I was reaching my optimal weight and was now losing weight more and more slowly.

Flash forward to this afternoon.

'You haven't been eating the right things,' continued mum, whilst I seethed about how someone could tell me off at one moment for turning into an anorexic, and at the next moment for not watching my weight enough. 'Like those three puddings you bought for yourself two weeks ago.'

'What, the WeightWatchers ones?' I exclaimed incredulously.

She's right of course, just not in the way she thinks. It's not always what you eat, but how and when and of course, how much of it you eat. I thought I was being healthy and appeasing my parents at the same time by increasing my food intake a bit, but in the end I misjudged and I wasn't doing anyone any favours: especially not me.

So now I'm back on the straight in narrow, and just in time for my friend's wedding!