Quasi-Multilingual Adventures

My status update from Facebook, 31st May 2014 (last week):

Brussels Chinatown = speaking French AND Mandarin today. 'Bonjour, 早上好!' Chinglish. Franglais. Franglese. Ow my brain.

It's awesome to know other languages, even if only a little. I can't understand three types of people: people who don't like animals, people who don't like music and people who don't believe in learning a little about another country's language before visiting.

You can't learn a language fluently just like that, but you'd be surprised at how just learning a few words and phrases can do, and how that in turn makes you familiar with the structure of another language, making you instantly feel a little less like an alien on someone else's planet.

Last week, I went on the trip to Brussels I won from the Godiva Chocolate Challenge (you can read all about the trip and all the lovely things I ate on my blog Tashcakes!) and I got to exercise some of my language skills. I was nervously looking forward to dusting off my rusty French, having done well at it at school up to GCSE level, after which I dropped it to take sciences instead (a regretful decision in hindsight, but you can't go back in time). Even so, although all I could only remember basic conversational French, I felt secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't have to know how to converse with someone about something like politics or global warming.

As a result, I was able to visit restaurants that the locals like, and experience more warmth and smiles from strangers (after all,  people do in general appreciate if you try to speak their language even a little). In fact, I ended up barely speaking English at all to anyone aside from my non French-speaking mum (my travel companion for the trip) and occasionally the hotel staff.

What I wasn't expecting was getting the opportunity to put the Mandarin Chinese I've been learning into practise.

I've been taking evening Mandarin language classes once a week for nearly a year now, having decided that it's high time I learn how to converse in the common language of one half of my heritage. It's been going well- I impressed my Chinese family when I went to Malaysia earlier on this year (okay, more like entertained, but at least I was understandable when I spoke), and my fellow classmates often tease me for being the 'teacher's pet'. However I've only been able to practise in 'safe' environments- up until last week.

We ended up stumbling into Brussels' unofficial Chinatown on the second day of the trip, and to my delight the common language of the community was Mandarin. London's Chinatown seems to have more Cantonese speakers, my Chinese friends are all Cantonese speakers and my Chinese family primarily speak Hakka and only a little Mandarin, so I don't often get to practise with others outside of the classroom.

So, I went to a Chinese supermarket and spoke a little to the cashier in Mandarin, who to my relief understood me through my surely glaring Western accent. Best of all, mum and I decided to test our Mandarin skills at a little Chinese restaurant, where they literally only spoke Mandarin and a bit of French (at one point I asked our waiter- in Mandarin of course- if he spoke any English. He said no, and looked a little panicked, but relaxed when we continued in Mandarin). Both my mum's and my own Mandarin skills are a bit basic, but between us we were able to order, ask if they had Chinese tea, ask for extra utensils to share one dish and handle the bill.

It's a unique, amazing feeling to be able to speak to someone in a language other than the one you grew up with, and an even more amazing feeling to do so in another country. To many English people and Americans believe that they don't have to try learning another language before going on holiday because 'they'll probably all speak English there anyway'. I've even known some people who believe that everyone should know English when you go to another country. I believe this is just arrogance and laziness. Maybe I only believe this because I'm a linguaphile, and I find the variety of languages on this planet beautiful and interesting. Even so, people often forget that English itself is a patchwork mishmash of other languages that has been developed over a very, very long time.

Besides: when you go to a friend's house, you respect the fact that they have a different way of doing things, don't you?

A Foodie's Living Nightmare

I am a foodie. That's pretty obvious, given the time I dedicate to other two blogs Tashcakes! and Where I Like to Eat. I love looking at food, smelling food and tasting food. Well, almost all food. Show me a raw tomato or an aubergine in any shape or form and I'll run in the opposite direction, I have a very mild phobia of mushrooms and avocado makes me so sick I hallucinate; but in general, food is fun.

For the last couple of weeks I've been ill. So ill, in fact, I didn't notice what was gradually happening to me until a couple of days ago, when I began to feel more like a human being again. There were a few clues, although I didn't realise at the time.

The first clue was a most obscure one: my mood was flat. Not bad, just flat: walking to different places or putting something delicious in the oven or hanging out the washing triggered no emotional response from me. I put it down to just being run down from being ill.

The second clue was when I snapped off a square of dark chocolate to celebrate being able to breathe through my nose again, but somehow still feeling flat. Again, it did nothing.

The second clue was at work again when I decided to treat myself to a carrot muffin for breakfast at work. My colleague noticed me poking at it forlornly with a fork and smiled.

"Well? How is it?"

"It's got the perfect texture: light, moist and with just enough bite. But it tastes of nothing."

My colleague looked surprised, saying that our other colleague had eaten one too and had thought it was perfect, but then again I did make cakes every week so I'd be the most qualified to comment. We all shrugged it off- I can usually pick out obscure notes and flavours in things no-one else can when it comes to food, so we all assumed I was just being a tad critical. I finished my carrot muffin dejectedly, bemoaning the waste of calories that I could have spent on something tastier.

The final clue- the clue that made the awful penny drop- was yesterday evening when I was cooking beef rendang (a highly aromatic Malay curry) and baking vanilla cupcakes at the same time. My mum came home, and commented on what a wonderful smell it was.

"Which one?" I asked, beaming, and then I froze.

It hit me at once: I couldn't tell which smell was which.

In fact, I couldn't smell anything at all.

I panicked, and went to my cooking chocolate stash to snap off another square of dark chocolate. I popped it in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. My worst fears were confirmed: I had also completely lost my sense of taste. Even worse: the loss of my senses of smell and taste had also bizarrely robbed me of the memory of smell and taste. Everything was just... nothing. Nothing at all.

Have you ever been in a silent room, minding your own business, when suddenly everything just goes *silent* silent? You realise that the room was never silent to begin with, you just didn't notice the noise of the boiler, or the fan, or whatever droning noise there was in the background until it stopped? Well, losing your sense of smell is exactly like this.

What was I going to do? I knew of people who had, like me, gotten a severe cold, lost their sense of smell and taste, and then had literally never gotten those senses back again, even years after. I'm a baker, for pity's sake! How the hell am I going to experiment with new flavours when I can't taste what the frig those flavours are?

After dinner yesterday evening, my family trouped down to vote for the elections. Like always, the voting was held at my old primary school down the road. How I missed being able to smell the rubber smell of plimsolls and the sweetly acrid smell of wood polish in the gym, and all the old smells of when I was five years old. I've always been aware of the power of smell and how evocative it can be: certain smells can give me very strong flashbacks. However with my sense of smell gone, I was even more acutely aware of what I had lost.

The worst thing about it though is how disconnected to the world you become. No familiar smell of home when you walk through the door after a long day of work. No smell of damp leaves when it stops raining and the sun comes out. No smell of freshly cut grass, of people, of fresh baking or cooking, or more seriously gas leaks or burning.

My experience has so far been met with mixed reactions, mainly of those who can't imagine what it's like and understand how terrible it actually is- and those who can't imagine what it's like and think it's really no big deal.

IT'S A BIG DEAL.

Of the things I've eaten so far, the only way I know what I'm eating is through texture. I have the vague sense of if something is sweet or non-sweet (not even savoury), but it's more like an echo of sweetness rather than actually tasting sweetness. The lovely fragrant curry I made may as well have been textured cardboard. The chocolate I ate may as well have been pleasantly melting plastic.

However, there is hope: despite realising I've been like this for the past week without noticing and fearing I might be like this for a while, if not indefinitely, I noticed a faint scent of flowers a couple of hours ago when I put some hand cream on. It was there and gone again in a few seconds, but at least it gives me hope that my sense of smell and taste have only temporarily gone on holiday!

Adventures in Iceland: Discovering Reykjavik

Deciding to go to Iceland was definitely the most impulsive thing I have ever done as a self-confessed overthinker.

It was also definitely the best.

I've decided to do a lot of good things for myself in the past: Taking up Mandarin again, exercising more and eating less, writing more often- all things to build the awesome Tash 2.0 model that I want to be. Simply going on holiday wouldn't be what I usually count as self-enrichment, but this was the first time I'd ever arranged a holiday for myself. People always cite the Aurora Borealis as a 'thing to do before you die'. Well, why wait? I did everything: booking the flights, hotel, tours, transfers, the whole lot. My inner PA was giddy with glee, and my outer exhausted worker was glad to be getting a break at the end of it, so the process killed two birds with one stone.

My good friend Siu Yen was my partner in mischief during our three night stay- we'd often talked about having a 'girliday' (girly holiday) in the years we've known each other, so we were pretty darn hyped up when we got on that plane. Even the plane journey was pretty awesome- WOW air has now become my favourite airline of all time.

“On the left shoulder is a light to make you look fabulous,” the head air hostess said as the life jackets were being modelled. “Also great for attracting sailors.”

We saw some amazing things made by humans:

Hallgrímskirkja and it's massive, er, organ

Some amazing things made by nature:

Strokkur geyser and Gullfoss waterfall

And ate some amazing food:

Herring and rye bread, and soup in a bread bowl

Soup in a BOWL made out of BREAD. How much of an awesome idea is that?

As for seeing the Northern Lights... technically we did. 'Technically' because although we were staring straight at them at the time, we had no idea what we were looking at. This was because they were in the grey spectrum, and sort of look like weird streaky clouds. We only found out that they were the Aurora when we saw a fellow tourist's photos from the same night: they had come out a faint glowing green. Apparently this is a thing. Who knew?

Even though I didn't catch the Lights on camera, I did manage to catch a rainbow corona around the moon:

And we got a pretty clear sky for star gazing, so it was still a great experience. Next year, either Finland or Norway! Although it's going to be hard not going straight back to Reykjavik, because I did enjoy the beautiful natural wonders and the easygoing people there.

In the meantime, I'm writing up a short piece for the British Guild of Travel Writers New Travel Writers 2014 competition. I have so many stories about the people I met out there, but this blog will have to wait until I've completed the piece. The deadline is the beginning of next week, so it won't be long!

We were sad to leave, but it was good to leave on a high. Anyway, when I got back to the office I found a box of tea and a bottle of coconut water a colleague had left for me, along with my Christmas present:

 

Those guys know me too well.

Covered in Blood and Onions

I stared at the massive bowl of chopped onions and chillies; the onions and chillies stared back at me. I donned my onion goggles, held my puny hand blender aloft like a weapon, and jammed it into the bowl.

What followed was an complete vegetable carnage.

The hand blender made a terrible strained scream, and a geiser jet of vapourised onion forced its way into the air like water from a whale's blowhole, followed by a horror movie-like spray of chilli-reddened onion gore in every conceivable direction. It was too late to stop. I had to continue.

Sanguine vegetable matter continued to fly at me as I gritted my teeth and carried on blending, the cut on my thumb from an earlier mishap with a broken food processor burning from the chilli juice, despite the plaster covering it.

And then suddenly, it was all over. In front of me was a bowl of wonderfully fragrant curry paste; on me was about a third of it. I calmly wiped myself off, sprayed on a bit of perfume to mask the smell of debauchery, and stepped out of the house with bits of onion still on my T-shirt.

How did I get here?

Last week I was bought a food processor as an early birthday gift. I've never owned one before but always wanted one, knowing the amount of amazing things I could do in the kitchen with one. Finally, I could now create almost anything from scratch!

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. A week on- today, this is- I unboxed it, cleaned all the parts up, and plugged it in to give it a test run. I was very disappointed when absolutely nothing happened.

After checking that I hadn't done something silly like forget to turn an extra button on or something, I traipsed down to the supermarket along with my mum who still had the receipt (thank God she's so organised) to get it replaced.

There was only one of the same model left, and it looked like it had already been opened. I insisted on checking the contents of it before taking it home- and as my mum and I were going through it, we both cut ourselves on the processor blade, which had been shoved haphazardly back into box my whoever the last person to handle it was. The blade was also embedded in the processor itself, making it, again, totally useless.

We settled for a refund, I promised to write a disgruntled letter to the supermarket's CS department about the dodgy way returned stock is handled, and we headed home empty-handed. A slightly annoying shame, since I was halfway through making a fancy curry, and needed a food processor to make the curry paste. I had already prepared my ingredients, and there was no way I was making anything less than what I'd planned all week to make.

So now you can see how my train of thoughts went, and how I ended up creating chaos in the kitchen with my too-small hand blender. In any case, I doggedly kept on, eventually got the meat happily marinading, and set off to my favourite shopping centre to invest in a more expensive but infinitely more reliable brand of food processor. A little absent-mindedly though: hence the bits of onion still stuck to me.

So. Now that I finally have my amazing machine, next time I hope to create magic in the kitchen instead of mayhem.

Oh, and the curry turned out absolutely amazing. I should bloody well think so too, after all of that.

~Fin~

Unintentional Gluttony, Brain Freeze and Rest

I revisited one of my favourite places for cake today (which also happens to be the location that this post took place in). I always become a little over-ambitious when it comes to dessert, so I tried to go light on the drink- to no avail.

Also (see, this post isn't just a lazy repost!) the last part of this post's title should really be 'Lack of Rest'. I've been burning my candle at both ends lately, with a full-time job, writing for four blogs in total, baking and recipe-creating for two out of those four blogs, looking into more writing work on the side to build experience and looking into training and courses for myself in my spare time. Then I exercise nearly every day, and snatch a few moments here and there for other hobbies like craft and music (ah the days when all of my spare hours were spent on the piano...) There are, quite literally, not enough hours in the day.

I love being busy, but I thought I was fine with energy levels until today on the tube, when I wandered onto two wrong trains in a row to meet my visiting friend today, and then straight away led her onto three wrong trains in different directions to a place that I go to all the time.

I think it's a sign I need some me-time. Looking at my diary, I think I can book myself a time slot for that sometime in June...

Short Stories: What Makes You Get Up in the Morning?

Everyone talks to themselves in their heads now and then. Don't tell me you never have- I'm onto you.

I'm not talking about full-blown conversations all day every day, or constant internal monologues: I'm talking about those moments when you do something (or don't), and a voice deep in the recesses of your mind- your voice- says something to you like 'oh, stop being so stupid.' Or something of the like. It depends on the situation. You might even mutter it under your breath to yourself.

I tend to find myself doing it most often when I'm exercising. 'Just do another five minutes and you've reached your target.' 'Don't forget to breath, idiot!' 'What are you, some kind of weakling? I said SKIP.' (I use a skipping rope to keep fit; it's a lot more hardcore than it sounds, trust me). This morning, however, I caught myself doing it to get myself out of bed when my alarm went off.

I don't usually have problems getting out of bed- it's getting fully conscious that's the issue- but the previous evening I'd done some calculations and research to find that it'll be quite a lot longer than I thought to get my own place, so I was a bit down because of that; I'd been worrying about a bunch of other things at the same time so I was down about those worries too; I dreamed about three people from my past whom I haven't thought about in a long time and will either probably or definitely never see again, which reminded me that I miss them... and to ice the cake, it was a bloody freezing morning and my bed was all nice and warm. So when the alarm went off, I mashed the off button with my first and lay there in a self-pitying stupor.

'Get up,' my brain instructed.

'No,' I said.

'Now, or you won't get any parking spaces at work,' said my brain.

'No,' I said.

'Quit being pathetic, your problems aren't problems. Get up!'

'No.'

And then my subconscious seemed to remember something crucial about me.

'You have that new apple crumble and custard cereal to try today.'

'Ooh, yum!' I got up straight away.

I could give you several answers to the question 'what makes you get up in the morning?' Apparently, this morning, it was breakfast.

~Fin~

Afterword: Seriously, this cereal has freeze-dried custard in it. Like how an astronaut might eat it. Space. Custard. How cool is that?

Friends with Sugar

My friend Vicky was visiting from Germany, and this evening we went to a dessert bar in Chinatown, where we ate a silly amount of cake. Vicky also gets a bit jittery on MSG, so having already been to another Chinese restaurant she was already getting a little bouncy. Me too- I'd just had a drink that was made out of 50% beans and 50% sugar. This didn't matter though- we were ready to tackle this magical place of cake.

By the end of it, we were giggling like idiots at nothing much in a cake and sugar-induced stupor. I was vaguely aware of Vicky beginning to stack the plates up neatly when I heard her declare proudly, "I shall be helpful! Ploop!"

The 'Ploop!' was accompanied by my sugar-crazed friend more or less slam-dunking the chunk of lemon from her half-finished lemon tea back into her mug- out of which tea shot out of in all directions.

I suppose she was helpful in the end, as she mopped all the spilled tea up- I was less so though, because I was too busy laughing like a hyena.

My Special Day

I've had quite a mixed bag sort of day- it'll work far better if I just bullet point this one or it'll be an even bigger mess.

Part 1: The Morning

• Slip on unmopped patch of water when checking on baking muffins

• Drop half the muffins in the oven whilst slipping 

• Successfully return now slightly misshapen muffins to pan but burn myself in the process 

• Scald self trying to run cold water over burn because the last person to use the tap apparently ran it hot and there was still hot water in the faucet

•  Leave house an hour too early after mis-reading the clock (but not yet realising it)

Part 2: Late Morning/ Early Afternoon

• Text friend that I've arrived, only to receive a confused call asking if we were meant to be meeting an hour later- I realise my watch has probably stopped since midnight the night before to make it look like the right time, I've only just noticed this at this moment, AND I must have left an hour early on top of this 

• Go into Starbucks to wait for friend and don't realise that it's now become policy in the UK to call names out instead of order type

• Fail to recognise and respond to a repeated weird pronunciation of my name at the collection point ('Taaarsh' instead of 'Tash' like 'ash') whilst wondering what kind of coffee a tarsh was

• Only realise it's my name that's being called when the lady behind me pokes me politely and respond reflexively by flinging my arm up in the air and shouting "ooh, that's me!", causing Starbucks to go quiet for a few moments

• Choose a hot coffee and end up sitting by the window where the sun bakes me in my own skin whilst at first having no other table options, then feeling too awkward to poach someone else's table when they move, deciding I'd already made myself too conspicuous (and had a proper mug so I could go and take my coffee with me)

• Attempt to browse the new Primark without getting mauled by bargain hunters (I could just leave this bullet point as it is) and witness a woman with a load of clothes on hangers draped over her arms whilst wailing to her friend "this is what my life has become!!"

• Get out of Primark in one piece to meet aforementioned friend and have a beautiful lunch at Mildred's (a popular vegetarian restaurant in Soho), try not to eat all the cakes in the West End and think that the day is finally turning into a more genteel one

Late Afternoon/ Evening

• On the way to the Cake & Bake Show 2012, witness a lady walking the two biggest kitty cats I've ever seen down the street. Without a leash.

~Fin~

What I'd Rather Do on a Saturday Night: Cocktails and Stargazing

Saturday 11th August 2012- what a brilliant night.

This weekend I've been in Birmingham visiting friends, mainly Siu Yen (the one who gave me the selection of Japanese sweets in the entry 14th July 2012) for her early birthday celebrations. I came bearing gifts of funky makeup and these cakes I'd made:

(Luckily they survived the journey on the train with me).

We began the evening with a group of Siu Yen's friends and her boyfriend Cam at a nice restaurant, and later on progressed to a couple of cocktail bars, pretty much having the sort of laid-back letting-hair-down fun out in town that nice people in their twenties have in the city centre on a Saturday night.

At some point in the evening, somebody mentioned that there was supposed to be a meteor shower going on later. Me being a bit geeky and knowing about certain celestial events, I immediately knew which shower it was.

"The Perseids," I said.

"What?"

"Every year around this time there's a meteor shower that looks like the shooting stars are originating from the constellation Perseus, which is why they're called the Perseids."

There was a pause. I felt like I had to continue.

"I used follow an online celestial calender thing to track these astrological events but since it's been so cloudy for the last few meteor showers I've been too disheartened to follow the events properly."

Pause.

"There are also pretty good showers in November called the Leonids, and the Geminids in December are supposed to be the best ones', I added, helpfully.

"Alright... " Somebody said, "But it'd be too bright to see them in the city centre, wouldn't it? All the lights and everything..."

"I think if we went to Cannon Hill Park and got away from the roads it'd be okay- plus it's a relatively clear night for once, so I think it'd be worth it," I said.

Most weren't too bothered, but Cam and Siu Yen were quite excited about the idea, so after cocktails and when it hit 1am, we went back to Siu Yen's flat to get changed out of party dresses and into sensible star-gazing clothing (excluding Cam of course, who was not in a dress to begin with), grabbed a blanket, and went to a petrol station to get some picnic-like snacks.

On the way to the petrol station we passed Broad Street, Birmingham's (in)famous watering hole and clubbing scene for students and young people in general. An ambulance bluelighted its way past, and I bet Siu Yen and Cam that it was for an alcohol poisoning. Sure enough a bit further down the road, the ambulance had pulled up and the paramedics were frog-marching a very bedraggled-looking girl dressed up as a Grecian Goddess with vomit all down her front. I vaguely wondered how long it'd take her to be back in the bar and drinking again after this experience.

Broad Street was littered with short skirts, cleavage, bare chests and glitter, also featuring people on stilts, someone dressed up as Sonic the Hedgehog and another as Pikachu (the image of Sonic the Hedgehog miming spanking has ruined my childhood), and a girl carrying the biggest inflatable penis I've ever seen. Siu Yen commented on how young everyone looked- I noted that perhaps it wasn't that the crowd was getting younger: rather we were getting older.

I've never been to a club, and I've never been out boozing. Sure I go out for cocktails with friends every so often, but I've never once drunk myself sick (maybe because I can have enough fun without alcohol already and I have a pretty hardy liver thanks to my Russian-Polish blood, but that's just speculaton). I'd also rather be in an environment where I can hear other people talking, or at very least shouting. However I have a very broad sense of fun even as a geeky girl, which is why this evening was perfect- good food, funky colourful cocktails and stargazing. Once we had managed to break free of the Bedlam that is Broad Street on a Saturday night, we made our way down to Cannon Hill Park and sort of broke into it.

I said 'sort of' broke into- it's not really 'forbidden' per se to enter the park past opening hours, it's just that the gates to the main entrances and parking are closed. If you know where the park begins and ends, however, you can just go around and sidle your way between and past the bushes to get in- which is what we did.

Feeling ever so daring (and just a bit wary of disturbing and angering the odd passing badger), we picked a nice open spot not too far from the road but far enough from the street lights, spread out the blanket, located Perseus in the sky with the help of a star chart and my pre-existing knowledge of where Cassiopeia and Ursa Minor is in relation to everything (I know, I know...), lay down and gazed out into our galaxy.

We didn't exactly see a multitude of meteorites, and we only stayed out until the clouds finally and inevitably came to shroud the night sky from our view (it was about 2:30am by this time), but any shooting star we did catch was met with loud cheers and exclamations of 'WOW!' and 'Did you see that one??' We chatted about the stars and interesting Science-y things, and I silently reflected to myself, as I always do when I stargaze, how small we really are, and how strangely serene it feels to have everything put into perspective (and, in this instance, what a shame it was for all those students on Broad Street to surely be staring down a toilet later on in their evenings rather than up at the stars). Our excited chatter and laughter gradually died down to a thoughtful quiet, and we watched the stars twinkle and the eerie glow of a satellite lazily tracing its path up in orbit.

"Tash, do you believe in God?"

~Fin~

Short Stories: Making an Utter Arse of Myself- Part 2

(So soon? Why, yes. I told you there'd be more to come.)

I had a great day out in the West End with another good friend, Siu Yen, today. We first met at university in first year when we both took a foundation Japanese course as a side-study to our majors. Like all of my friends, she has her own unique and humorous way of seeing how the world works, and according to her I bring our her weirder side (this is a good thing, I'm told!)

She also knows I have a penchant for pretty edible things, sweet things and exotic food, and she kindly brought me a selection of Japanese sweets she'd found, ranging from biscuity to cakey to chewy.

On the train home I ate the mini mochi, mini dorayaki, and small handful of mini chewy sweets. The one I saved for last was an interesting-looking purple parcel that fitted in the palm of my hand, quite different from the others because the packaging obscured what was inside. I should have taken this as a warning, but instead I saw it as a challenge. Likewise when I prodded it and found that it was very, very squishy, I should have listened to my internal monologue that said 'hmm, this is probably going to be messy- better open it at home over a plate.' But instead, I opened it on the train.

It was one of those horrific moments where once you've committed yourself to a task, there's no going back, even though you realise instantly what a terrible mistake you've made. Instantly a sticky sugar syrup started oozing from the tear I made from the top, and because I had birthday presents for two people in the same bag, there was only one real way to dispose of the mess: by eating it.

I began by attempting to suck the syrup out from the tear, which proved to be noisy and just a bit on the socially unacceptable side. The train was packed full, so I really didn't want to draw attention to myself, and I abandoned this method as soon as the packet wasn't brimming with syrup. However I was still unable to just put the packet away because it was still leaking syrup- so I went for it and ripped the packet open further.

I was presented with a very squidgy, clear jelly-type thing, with what looked like an umeboshi (pickled plum) embedded in the middle. I knew it would taste fine, but I knew that visually, it looked quite horrendous. It certainly wobbled very indecently, and it wasn't just jiggly, it was slimy too.

I tried to delicately catch it with my teeth straight from the packet to avoid other people on the train having to see this alien-looking sweet, but only managed to bite off a small piece because it was so soft. After a few failed attempts I decided I was making more of a spectacle of myself with this clumsy display, so I went for it, took the slimy thing out with my fingers and bit straight into it.

The next part happened in a matter of seconds.

I bit straight into the umeboshi stone and choked in pain and surprise. This one simple action caused me to smear the remaining jelly across my face with one hand, and crush the packaging in my other hand, which caused the rest of the syrup to explode all over me.

Now exasperated, sticky and looking quite worse for wear, I glanced upwards, where a large family, who had apparently been observing me in silence, smiled sympathetically at me before getting off at their stop.

~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!

Of Street Food and Melting Makeup...

True to form, my first tale of woe will be of one that only happened yesterday.

I was milling around in Camden Town yesterday evening, waiting for the precise moment to start walking to London Zoo for the summer Zoo Lates event (one thing about me- I hate, hate, hate to be late for appointments and meetups, often resulting in me being somewhere ridiculously early and then having to find ways of entertaining myself- thankfully easily done in Camden Town, on this occasion). I noticed it was getting a bit breezier now, so I put my cardigan on, but without buttoning up- it wasn't that chilly (trust me, this is a key bit of information for later).

Having grabbed some food from one of the stalls and found a nice bench to sit and eat at, I suddenly remembered that the shirt I had on was white- not a crisp white mind you, but white with grey pinstripes. White enough to make a bad impression of a messy eater, in any case. Noting my poor choice in food in terms of stain factor, I ate the fluorescently orange (and very delicious) sweet and sour chicken with utmost care, and for once, successfully.

Making a note of the time, I decided to touch my makeup up a bit, being forever conscious of my oily (and therefore shiny) skin type. I checked myself in my compact mirror. Alright, was my internal assessment, but a bit reflective around the nose and forehead area: better sort that out before I meet the guys. I fished out my trusty tube of Benefit The Porefessional primer from the depths of my bottomless bag (I always make a point of buying bags with TARDIS technology), unscrewed the lid and carefully squeezed a tiny blob onto the back of my hand.


At least, I intended to squeeze out a tiny blob.

What I actually squeezed out was a whole lot of runny mess, and all over myself: the primer had melted in the warm weather. Cursing, I hurriedly screwed the top back on and made that pose everyone does when suddenly covered with wet stuff (you know, the 'looking generally down at yourself in disbelief with your elbows at your sides but your forearms stuck out like an incredulous velociraptor' pose). It wasn't looking good- now my shirt was streaked with light peachy marks. Could be worse, I thought to myself, at least it's nowhere near as noticable as sweet and sour would have been. I managed to mop myself up well enough with some tissues, but couldn't help noting that I hadn't solved my shiny face problem yet. It occurred to me that I should have kneaded the tube before using it. Silly me! It had been in my bag for a while, after all. I picked the tube up again, and squished it around.

I didn't realise that, in my previous haphazard hurry, I hadn't screwed the top back on properly.

So here I was, shiny-faced and with primer makeup on practically every part of my body except for my face. A bit fed up now, I managed to smear a bit of the stuff straight from my shirt onto my face, re-mopped myself up as best I could, and decided it was time to get myself to the zoo.

I should have just kept walking, in hindsight. Instead, I stopped by a churros stall. I noticed they were doing large, filled churros instead of the traditional thin ones that you dip into chocolate, so I went to get one, deciding that it would cheer me up. And it did, for a while.

I got about halfway through it until it very quietly and very messily exploded.

Now thoroughly fed-up indeed, churro-less and looking like the posterchild for a Persil advert, I resigned myself to the fact that I'd now be meeting my friends looking utterly ridiculous. I whipped out some more tissues and started cleaning the sticky stuff from my bag, and as well as I could from my trousers. I sighed, preparing myself, and looked down to properly assess the state of my shirt, which was of course terrible.

It was then that I noticed why it had suddenly gotten breezy earlier.

The middle button of my shirt had been undone the entire time, exposing, in all its green and spotty glory, my bra.

Which was now also splattered with chocolate.