The Biscuit Button

What happens when you place a small child right next to a big red button?

So I was on the train (as a large proportion of my entries seem to begin) on my way to see some friends in Birmingham this weekend. I was feeling a tiny bit annoyed at my seating arrangements: I'd booked my tickets well in advance, requesting forward-facing window seats. I'd been allocated a small, cramped backwards-facing seat right at the end of a carriage facing a wall with no windows at all, like the naughty corner in a classroom. I was also seated right next to the broken, stinking toilets, which didn't improve my mood.

Thankfully about halfway through my journey I was given some on-board entertainment to cheer me up.

A few stops along the way a harassed-looking couple walked on, pushing along a four or five-year-old in a stroller. The kid was asking lots and lots of questions, as only a child can do. You probably know the sort of questions: the kind where the child isn't interested in the answer, only in asking even more questions. In any case, I'd already brightened up- I love it when children do this, and love it even more to hear how their parents deal with it.

The only space on the train left was the corner right next to me on the other side of the aisle, which happened to be the place for wheelchair users- complete with a great big tempting red button marked 'EMERGENCY' installed low down for easy access. By the time the couple and their toddler had made their way over, the train had already pulled off from the station.

Now, either the dad, who was pushing the stroller, just didn't see it, or he didn't make the connection between children and buttons in his head- but for whatever reason, he parked the pushchair so that the child was sitting right next to the emergency button.

To my glee, the first thing the little rascal did was press the button. A worried female voice sounded over the intercom.

"Hello to the passenger who pressed the emergency button- are you alright?"

There was a brief pause. Then, with the careful, clear and political pronunciation of a child who has been taught to be polite, the kid replied:

"Have you got any biscuits?"

There was a muffled mass guffaw as the surrounding passengers who had overheard (myself included) tried to stifle their laughter. The father snapped to attention, pulling the child in his stroller away and hastily apologising at the speaker as the lady laughed down the microphone "No love sorry, no biscuits!"

I quite agree with the kid though- I'm all for biscuit buttons on public transport.

~Fin~

Have You Ever Witnessed Bad Parenting...

... And really wished you could go up to the parent/ carer and slap them around a bit?

Today, after wandering around a shopping centre for a bit, I sat down on a bench for a breather. In front of me was a frozen yoghurt stall (the kind where you can choose all sorts of things for toppings), and to the left of me was a fancy cupcake stall.

I heard the loud, open-mouthed cough of a child who's not yet learned to cover their mouths (or never been told) and looked up warily- the cough belonged to a very large little girl, looking no older than six years old, accompanied by who I think was her grandfather. When I say very large, think about nearly twice as big as Honey Boo Boo. In short, the poor girl was quite obese.

At this point I wasn't really focusing on this, though: I was focusing on how the little girl had her face pressed up against the screen that shielded the yoghurt toppings, every so often producing a single, open mouthed cough in the direction of all the fresh fruit and things. It was an impressively disgusting cough: she opened her mouth wide and stuck her tongue out a little. Not pleasant when so close to food, but Grandad didn't comment.

'Fine whatever,' I thought. 'Just as long as they don't walk past me and the kid doesn't cough her germs near me.'

So of course, as you know the way the universe works around me, out of the many benches and many spaces there were, they walked straight towards me and chose to stop by my bench. The child sat right next to me. I tried not to visibly flinch when the girl coughed in my general direction.

I noticed that Grandad had ordered the girl a medium sized yoghurt with three toppings. Now, this frozen yoghurt place is always very generous with their portions and me, a grown woman, can only just about finish a small sized one with two toppings. The portion size of this pot was gargantuan- how was this little girl- a big little girl even so- finish all of that? Sure enough, the child had only eaten a few scoops before announcing that she had had enough.

What happened next horrified me more than a little.

The grandfather- not the little girl- pointed out the cupcake stand, and asked her if she wanted one instead. The girl, quite sensibly, asked him why. Grandad's response?

"They look really pretty, and they're probably healthier too. You can throw that away now, let's go get a cupcake."

And so I watched in stunned outrage for the now enthusiastic little girl as she chucked the largest part of her wasted frozen yoghurt into the bin and they both made their way to the cupcake stand. Of course, the girl plumped straight for one of the larger ones rather than the small ones.

There's not really much else I can say about that...

I'm Not Wealthy, but I'm Rich all the Same

(A follow-on from A Mixed Bag of Nothing):

A couple of days ago I was sitting in a café in London, looking out of a window that faced outwards into Chinatown. Behind me and to the side of me were lots of white and European people- in front of me outside were lots of Chinese people- and there I was, both physically and metaphorically smack dab in the middle of both sides. It gave me the warm fuzzies.

Tonight marked the first night of Passover and my family and I held the Seder night together. At the end of the service, as I cracked out the traditional Jewish sweets I had baked the day before, my mum told me:

"It's not so long ago we were celebrating Chinese New Year, you know. Tash, you have no idea how rich a background you come from."

Oh, I know, Mum. I know.

~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!