Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
The Mystery of the Missing Pants
“My presents are pants!” Husband exclaimed during our present opening session.
And he was right. Husband received a beautifully wrapped package of around twelve pairs of boxer shorts having formerly highlighted a pant crisis in the sartorial department. (American friends: we’re talking men’s knickers, boxers, underpants, undercrackers, here … not trousers.) He also received some lovely linen shirts that most certainly were not pants: they were very nice.
He packed his new shirts and his undergarments to bring away with us. Unfortunately we hadn’t quite enough space in our bags to bring enough clothes so just the other day I had to prepare a pack of clothes to go to the laundry department at the hotel.
Eventually they were returned. The shirts were neatly folded and so were the pants. I put my t-shirts away, and when Husband returned from scuba diving I told him: ‘Our laundry is back.’
However, on closer examination - not that close – the rather horrible realisation hit us that two of the pairs of pants … uhm … weren’t Husband’s.
Eeeewgh. And nastier still … they were somewhat elderly. Eeeewgh again.
We called the lady from Housekeeping … she retrieved the offending undercrackers and said “Just a minute” and then she disappeared. She disappeared for 24 hours.
I called again this morning with another bag of washing, because Husband is still short … of shorts. I gave her the new bag of washing and asked her if there is any news of Husband’s new and very black knickerknacks… She said “Just a minute…” and she’s been gone for five hours already.
Where have Husband’s pants gone? Is it the same place that single socks go? Does anyone know?
And he was right. Husband received a beautifully wrapped package of around twelve pairs of boxer shorts having formerly highlighted a pant crisis in the sartorial department. (American friends: we’re talking men’s knickers, boxers, underpants, undercrackers, here … not trousers.) He also received some lovely linen shirts that most certainly were not pants: they were very nice.
He packed his new shirts and his undergarments to bring away with us. Unfortunately we hadn’t quite enough space in our bags to bring enough clothes so just the other day I had to prepare a pack of clothes to go to the laundry department at the hotel.
Eventually they were returned. The shirts were neatly folded and so were the pants. I put my t-shirts away, and when Husband returned from scuba diving I told him: ‘Our laundry is back.’
However, on closer examination - not that close – the rather horrible realisation hit us that two of the pairs of pants … uhm … weren’t Husband’s.
Eeeewgh. And nastier still … they were somewhat elderly. Eeeewgh again.
We called the lady from Housekeeping … she retrieved the offending undercrackers and said “Just a minute” and then she disappeared. She disappeared for 24 hours.
I called again this morning with another bag of washing, because Husband is still short … of shorts. I gave her the new bag of washing and asked her if there is any news of Husband’s new and very black knickerknacks… She said “Just a minute…” and she’s been gone for five hours already.
Where have Husband’s pants gone? Is it the same place that single socks go? Does anyone know?
Monday, December 29, 2008
Reality check
I heard from Sister-in-law that it was rather mild in the UK on Christmas day...
Here, on the other hand, it drizzled all day. These pictures were from Boxing Day!
So don't feel too envious, please.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Blessings and Good wishes
On the 23rd December nine ceremonial seats appeared in the hotel reception. We were informed that the monks were coming the next day to perform the ceremony to bless and wish good fortune on the hotel. All guests were invited. First they would have the Islamic ceremony, then the Hindu and then the Buddhist. All services would take place around reception where a Christmas tree stood: this is the way the world should be.
After breakfast Husband and I went to have a look. We were invited to sit down. We saw the end of the Hindu service and then joined the Buddhist ceremony. We watched the whole thing and it was brilliant: a real privilege.
Buddhist Monks do not own things and so the Thai people give them necessities. People can buy a monk box in the shops here: it’s yellow and full of various essential items. Monks go out in the morning with their alms bowl to collect food. The hotel had prepared monk boxes and food and these were handed over as part of the ceremony. Water was blessed and the amulets from the Hindu service were blessed by the Monks (both Husband and I were given one each). The nine monks chanted. I can’t describe it. It was beautiful, not singing, definitely chanting … The monks unravelled some string and passed it over the items they were blessing and then they passed it along to the end of the row of monks – normally the string goes around the building – but it hasn’t here.
As a woman, I am not allowed to touch or make eye contact with the monks. As a Western woman … is this hard? A bit, yes, but I believe as a guest here in Thailand one has to respect their ways – or get off home. Everyone was taking pictures – all the staff – and I checked several times with different people because it felt … disrespectful … like religious tourism. In the end I tried not to worry.
Eventually the main monk got up. He was elderly and had a stick. He took the water that their ceremony had blessed and with some fine sticks tied together like a brush, he flicked it over us all. He couldn’t see so well so the manager walked with him holding his arm. As he got to us (Husband on the end of the row) he said ‘Ah, Farang’ (white foreigner.) We wai-ed to him. (Thai greeting: hands together like in prayer and you bow.) The monk asked Husband if he could speak Thai and H said ‘a little bit.’ They talked a little in Thai about how long we had been here. It was confused by Husband thinking he meant in Thailand and the Monk meant at the hotel!
All the time I couldn’t look at the Monk, although I desperately wanted to. I kept my eyes on his saffron robes and wai-ed. The Monk put his hand on Husband’s arm; he held it there to greet him and moved it a little because he hadn’t the words … And then the Monk said in slow but perfect English ‘I am so pleased to see you here.’
Quite suddenly I was shaking and my eyes were watering.
After breakfast Husband and I went to have a look. We were invited to sit down. We saw the end of the Hindu service and then joined the Buddhist ceremony. We watched the whole thing and it was brilliant: a real privilege.
Buddhist Monks do not own things and so the Thai people give them necessities. People can buy a monk box in the shops here: it’s yellow and full of various essential items. Monks go out in the morning with their alms bowl to collect food. The hotel had prepared monk boxes and food and these were handed over as part of the ceremony. Water was blessed and the amulets from the Hindu service were blessed by the Monks (both Husband and I were given one each). The nine monks chanted. I can’t describe it. It was beautiful, not singing, definitely chanting … The monks unravelled some string and passed it over the items they were blessing and then they passed it along to the end of the row of monks – normally the string goes around the building – but it hasn’t here.
As a woman, I am not allowed to touch or make eye contact with the monks. As a Western woman … is this hard? A bit, yes, but I believe as a guest here in Thailand one has to respect their ways – or get off home. Everyone was taking pictures – all the staff – and I checked several times with different people because it felt … disrespectful … like religious tourism. In the end I tried not to worry.
Eventually the main monk got up. He was elderly and had a stick. He took the water that their ceremony had blessed and with some fine sticks tied together like a brush, he flicked it over us all. He couldn’t see so well so the manager walked with him holding his arm. As he got to us (Husband on the end of the row) he said ‘Ah, Farang’ (white foreigner.) We wai-ed to him. (Thai greeting: hands together like in prayer and you bow.) The monk asked Husband if he could speak Thai and H said ‘a little bit.’ They talked a little in Thai about how long we had been here. It was confused by Husband thinking he meant in Thailand and the Monk meant at the hotel!
All the time I couldn’t look at the Monk, although I desperately wanted to. I kept my eyes on his saffron robes and wai-ed. The Monk put his hand on Husband’s arm; he held it there to greet him and moved it a little because he hadn’t the words … And then the Monk said in slow but perfect English ‘I am so pleased to see you here.’
Quite suddenly I was shaking and my eyes were watering.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
My Memories
Our first Christmas as expats was spent back in the UK. Our second was spent with our best friends who came to Thailand. The third, last year, the children went home and I went on a Skyros holiday in Koh Chang. Husband came out to join me on Christmas Eve.
So I’m sitting here, on my fourth Christmas, overlooking the Andaman Sea. (Don’t hate me: it’s raining and yes, I do know how lucky I am.) I’m writing this on my laptop on the 25 December and questioning the irreverence of such behaviour. I won’t post it on my blog today because I know you are all having Christmas… I will post it sometime when you are back. (Are you back yet?)
I look back at my childhood Christmases and I only remember one house: the house that my parents are still living in now. We moved there 9 days before Christmas in 1972. I was six. There’s a story in that move, but not for now.
Every Christmas morning we would wake to stockings on our bed. Downstairs would be the Christmas Creatures: they were started in this house and I believe the first one was a snow man. After breakfast we would, as a family, climb into the car and drive … not to church … no. We would drive to the West Kent Hospital in Maidstone which was one of the hospitals in which my Dad was a doctor. The West Kent was a stunning building. As you walked in the front door two huge staircases would sweep up in a curve on either side of the hallway and meet in the middle as a balcony. I’m sure it was desperately ill-suited to being a modern hospital, but I still mourn its demise*.
First we would visit the wards in which Dad had patients. I guess he was here as a doctor, but as a child I hardly noticed this because my sister and I would be fed crisps, nuts, chocolates or biscuits and given fizzy drinks by nurses decorated with tinsel. We would wander through the ward saying happy Christmas to the patients and their visiting families. After we’d done Dad’s wards, we’d have two vital places left to visit. The first one was the maternity unit to see if there were any Christmas babies – this really was the highlight of our morning and I hated it if there were none. I always worried if there were two as well; what about the baby that came second?
The second crucial visit was the children’s ward. Sister T, a wizened little woman with a severe grey bun, dressed in navy blue with a big silver buckle on her belt, ruled. She had a mighty personality: loving and strict. She welcomed us with open arms. Father Christmas would visit – mostly we’d be in time for this – after all, this is what my sister and I were here for! If we missed him, he would still have left a present for us. (In 1976 my sister spent about six weeks in Sister T’s care in this very ward. She had a broken femur – thigh – in traction.)
All over the hospital we’d bump into Dad’s colleagues and their children. On the drive home we’d stop at Linton Hospital, a geriatric hospital, in which Dad often had patients, though I was less enamoured of this place. I’m not sure if it was the old people that frightened me or the lack of Christmas babies or Father Christmas.
*Later on a new Maidstone Hospital was built at Barming, where it is now and the old West Kent was knocked down. A mixture of my age and change perhaps, but the magic began to fade for me then, despite the fact that Father Christmas would arrive at the new place in a helicopter.
I loved these hospital visits: They were my Christmas traditions. In the old days, my two grandmothers would be cooking while we were out and we’d come home to our turkey lunch. (Present giving took place in the afternoon.)
So I’m sitting here by the window, Husband’s doing his Thai on the balcony and I’m wondering what I’m doing to my children by encouraging this flexible and nomadic behaviour. Will they ever come ‘home’ for Christmas when they are adults? Will they always come ‘home’, or will they search out something else?
So I’m sitting here, on my fourth Christmas, overlooking the Andaman Sea. (Don’t hate me: it’s raining and yes, I do know how lucky I am.) I’m writing this on my laptop on the 25 December and questioning the irreverence of such behaviour. I won’t post it on my blog today because I know you are all having Christmas… I will post it sometime when you are back. (Are you back yet?)
I look back at my childhood Christmases and I only remember one house: the house that my parents are still living in now. We moved there 9 days before Christmas in 1972. I was six. There’s a story in that move, but not for now.
Every Christmas morning we would wake to stockings on our bed. Downstairs would be the Christmas Creatures: they were started in this house and I believe the first one was a snow man. After breakfast we would, as a family, climb into the car and drive … not to church … no. We would drive to the West Kent Hospital in Maidstone which was one of the hospitals in which my Dad was a doctor. The West Kent was a stunning building. As you walked in the front door two huge staircases would sweep up in a curve on either side of the hallway and meet in the middle as a balcony. I’m sure it was desperately ill-suited to being a modern hospital, but I still mourn its demise*.
First we would visit the wards in which Dad had patients. I guess he was here as a doctor, but as a child I hardly noticed this because my sister and I would be fed crisps, nuts, chocolates or biscuits and given fizzy drinks by nurses decorated with tinsel. We would wander through the ward saying happy Christmas to the patients and their visiting families. After we’d done Dad’s wards, we’d have two vital places left to visit. The first one was the maternity unit to see if there were any Christmas babies – this really was the highlight of our morning and I hated it if there were none. I always worried if there were two as well; what about the baby that came second?
The second crucial visit was the children’s ward. Sister T, a wizened little woman with a severe grey bun, dressed in navy blue with a big silver buckle on her belt, ruled. She had a mighty personality: loving and strict. She welcomed us with open arms. Father Christmas would visit – mostly we’d be in time for this – after all, this is what my sister and I were here for! If we missed him, he would still have left a present for us. (In 1976 my sister spent about six weeks in Sister T’s care in this very ward. She had a broken femur – thigh – in traction.)
All over the hospital we’d bump into Dad’s colleagues and their children. On the drive home we’d stop at Linton Hospital, a geriatric hospital, in which Dad often had patients, though I was less enamoured of this place. I’m not sure if it was the old people that frightened me or the lack of Christmas babies or Father Christmas.
*Later on a new Maidstone Hospital was built at Barming, where it is now and the old West Kent was knocked down. A mixture of my age and change perhaps, but the magic began to fade for me then, despite the fact that Father Christmas would arrive at the new place in a helicopter.
I loved these hospital visits: They were my Christmas traditions. In the old days, my two grandmothers would be cooking while we were out and we’d come home to our turkey lunch. (Present giving took place in the afternoon.)
So I’m sitting here by the window, Husband’s doing his Thai on the balcony and I’m wondering what I’m doing to my children by encouraging this flexible and nomadic behaviour. Will they ever come ‘home’ for Christmas when they are adults? Will they always come ‘home’, or will they search out something else?
Friday, December 26, 2008
In memory
Today is the anniversary of the 2004 Asian Tsunami.
Son and I walked a mile or so down the beach road to Noppharatthara Beach – Phi Phi Islands National Park. Just off the road, through a winding wooden pathway, is a sculpture by Louise Bourgeois to commemorate the tsunami.
I forgot my purse and we brought no water, so when we got back to the hotel we stopped at the bar for a cold drink. The bartender asked me where we had been to get hot and bothered. I told her we had been down to the memorial ... and then she told me she had been working on Phi Phi Island during the tsunami. She said 'I had to run and run; up a hill.'
Son and I walked a mile or so down the beach road to Noppharatthara Beach – Phi Phi Islands National Park. Just off the road, through a winding wooden pathway, is a sculpture by Louise Bourgeois to commemorate the tsunami.
I forgot my purse and we brought no water, so when we got back to the hotel we stopped at the bar for a cold drink. The bartender asked me where we had been to get hot and bothered. I told her we had been down to the memorial ... and then she told me she had been working on Phi Phi Island during the tsunami. She said 'I had to run and run; up a hill.'
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Christmas Day
Now for the final in the Christmas series. These are my favourites. I made it my virtual Christmas Card this year.
I discovered these trees walking past Siam Paragon, past Siam Discovery and onto the Siam Centre (I might have got those last two the wrong way around - I get their names confused.) Anyway I saw this beautiful red tree up ahead and being blind as a bat - yes, even with contact lenses - I was almost on top of it before I noticed what it was made of. After stopping and taking pictures I walked on and saw another gorgeous tree coming up. Again, I had no idea what it was made of until I got right up close. It just goes to show that recycling doesn't have to mean inferior. There is nothing 'less' about these trees.
I love that they are recycled and still funky and urban. I love that my pictures have the concrete skytrain structure in. I know I am at the beach right now, but there is something about these trees that encapsulates Christmas in Bangkok. I just love them.
Wishing you all a very happy Christmas.
(Scheduled: I am not really here but want to finish the Christmas series.)
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