it's raining, it's pouring

Hello, it's Sunday night and we haven't been swimming all weekend. Why not? Because it looks, spookily enough, as if the Monsoon is finally upon us (of course, Hubby can say 'the monsoon has started', using the present perfect, in his tip top Nepali, because he is a big fat swot. I can't, because I would rather spend my evenings reading short stories and quaffing white wine).

I say spookily because it is yet another incidence of religious superstitious nonsense being proved right. Remember I told you about Rato Machindranath, the red goddess, who brings rain, and how her chariot was currently in procession around Patan, where we live? (She stopped for a bit because her chariot broke and that's when we had the whole constitutional crisis thing). Anyway, she finally finished her slow and halting procession through Patan on Friday, finishing up near Jawalakhel roundabout (near the zoo). Her chariot is like a huge wooden farm cart, with a little hut on top containing her, and on top of that is a huge Christmas tree-like structure, topped with flags, about fifty feet tall (which has, in the course of her procession, chopped off electricity and telecom wires for half the district - luckily not us). We drove past her chariot on the way to school on Friday and I asked surly Vasu our (soon to be ex) driver whether the Monsoon would now begin, and he assured me that it would. Then on Saturday it did start to rain, not a huge downpour, but persistently throughout the day (enough to make it feel almost like Northern Ireland, but cheerier). All of Saturday the streets were jam-packed with people and traffic. It felt like there was a festival starting. Honestly you would have thought Coldplay were headlining (or some other much cooler band - you have to remember that I'm nearly forty and therefore utterly out of touch; I watched 'Never Mind the Buzzcocks' the other night and the only person I recognised on it was Phil Jupitus, so I hardly have my finger on the musical pulse. My excuse is that whenever we put any music on at home the Twins insist on it either being Barbie Girl or something by Tchaikovsky, so that they can do their really-graceful-and-almost-exactly-like-Darcy-thungumy 'ballet dancing') except that I don't think many Coldplay fans wear saris and carry brass bowls containing rice and flower petals for their puja.

Then at about five thirty some pundits did their religious hocus pocus, and lo, it's been hammering it down all day today.

Of course, like a numpty, I've lost my new raincoat (the one which Hubby cycled all the way into Thamel to buy me only a couple of months ago), which is a really stupid thing to do, just as Monsoon is about to begin.

Do you think there is a god or goddess of lost things that I can go and do puja to, in the hope of finding my lost coat (and also lost marbles, which disappeared around the same time I had kids and got varicose veins - perhaps it was some kind of swap? In the same way as people sell their souls to the devil in return for stuff, perhaps I got Son and Twins and the trade-off was giving away all my - admittedly limited - intellect?)?

Anyway, wine glass empty now, must go and refill. Take care xxx

spread the love, stone the crows

I'm trying to be nice and culturally sensitive, I really am. Nepalis don't do public displays of emotion, of any sort, so we are not supposed to snog in public, but equally we're not supposed to lose our tempers, either. Ideally, we should at all times be calm and smiley. I've been trying this out (which is probably why our car still hasn't been booked into the workshop, because I don't think being calm and smiley necessarily makes it a priority job). Another ex-pat out here advised me to just think "spread the love" every time things get a bit frustrating, and smile and take a deep breath, etc. I have been trying to put this policy into effect, honestly I have.

However, yesterday as I was walking down the main road to get a taxi, I happened to pass a building site, which was just thronging with young oiks. Now a wolf whistle I could cope with (actually I'd be quite grateful for, given my age), but no, it wasn't a wolf whistle that zoomed through the air and hit me on the head, hard, just above my left temple. It was a sharp bit of aggregate. For a moment, I briefly contemplated spreading the love, and being culturally sensitive, but I'm sorry, you can take the girl out of the comprehensive school, but you can't take the comprehensive school out of the girl. I shouted "F**k off!" as loudly as I could and stomped off, muttering darkly under my breath.

sorry

Oh no, I've upset everyone and the fun police are out. I think my children and their friends have just caused too much hullaballoo at the swimming pool, and now apparently there is an email winging its way to Hubby's work computer telling us all that we can no longer have more than two guests in the pool, wear face paint, or wear see through swim suits. Most of these rules are, I suspect, down to me inviting friends round for a swim after school (although I'm not sure where the see-through swim suit thing comes in? Mine is a sensible matronly black - although the rebel in me now wants to go out and buy a white stringy thing, but I don't think it's fair on anyone to see any more of my dimpled flesh than they already do). Sorry, sorry, I have upset BGN. I can only apologise for having too many kids and for asking too many people over for a dip and for being generally lax and un-military about the whole pool-use thing. 

I am contrite (although secretly I want to get a gang of people over for a face-painting and skinny-dipping party, but I must put these subversive and frankly unsafe and unhygenic fantasies to one side for the sake of the greater good). Goodnight x

venting

Right, I just have to have a moan about this. I love living here, I really do, but I think even Mrs Patient from Patientsville would be a bit pissed of about this: I went to the post office this morning, to post something, natch. The post office on camp says it is open between 8.30 and 12, Monday -Friday, with a half hour tea break at 10. I went at quarter to nine today, and it was shut. When I asked around, I was told that the postie would be back from PT at around quarter past nine, and the post office would be open for about half an hour, as the whole camp is going on a museum trip this morning. 

You would be annoyed, wouldn't you? Tell me you would. Its not unreasonable to want to be able to post a letter during the post office's stated opening times, is it?

Yes, so the whole camp and his/her wife/husband are off to visit the ex-royal palace this morning. I decided not to go. It sounds quite interesting, but I can't face the bus trip and group photo thing. Hubby isn't going either. He says he has too much work to do.

Our boycotting of the museum trip has probably sealed our fate as being known as anti-social non-participating grumps, hey ho.

manic monday

Another monday, another band (general strike). Managed to get the kids to school, though; the police just waved us through. This band seems a bit lacklustre, certainly over this side of town - no tyre burning or anything. I sent Vasu home with the car, straight after school drop off, and I walked home after my very important trip to the spa (emergency reflexology). Lots of the little shops in side streets were open, they just had their shutters down, so I was still able to buy (almost more important than reflexology) strawberry and banana cornflakes.

Not quite sure how I'm going to get the kids home from school though, as Vasu has the afternoon off (yes, I know, he is always taking impromptu bits of time off at no notice and I did have to have stern words with him this morning, which made him look even more Kevin-the-teenager-ish than usual - the thing is, he is studying for a degree in business management, so he of all people should understand the concept of asking your manager for time off in advance. When I said, "Vasu, why am I paying for a driver and then paying for taxis as well?" his expression pretty much said, "Whatever". Pah! Students! Of course I was never like that when I was a student...). Anyway, unbeknown to him, he's on borrowed time, because Twin 2 will be able to use the school bus after the summer holidays, which pretty much makes him redundant, unless he pulls some 'added value' out of the bag, which I very much doubt.

Right, must get back to my irritating heroine, who does seem intent on snogging Mr Wrong, the silly bint!

he is necessary because I have no money

I learnt how to say: "I'm unhappy because my husband is short and weak, but he is necessary because I have no money" in Nepali. I think that will be a far more useful sentence than: "I like mangoes", which is about all I've managed so far.

Went to partners' club (one husband, forty wives) dinner last night. There was of course lots of smiling and telling people how nice they looked. I found someone who had brought her car, hurrah, and managed to sneak off after dinner, rather than going along to the disco. Good job I did as shortly after I got home, Twin 2 started to cough and have hideously high fever so I slept next to her bed to be on hand with damp flannel/cough medicine throughout the night. Turns out she has a bit of a chest infection, which is very good news so far as she's concerned as she gets to stay home and watch Disney films all day.

Of course I should be doing some writing - I've got to the bit where the protagonist is about to kiss the wrong man (stop! stop! I keep telling her; he's just a charming ne'er-do-well. But will she listen? Will she buggery! That's eighteen-year-olds for you...) - but I'm quite tired after my night on the Twins' floor so decided to do some very exciting internet shopping (for bread mix and yoghurt mix, since you ask) instead. Well it's either that or watch 'Ariel' for the zillionth time. And of course it means I have time to write to you, which is always a good thing xxx

Bangkok, oriental city

We're off to Bangkok (oriental city) in the summer. Don't think we'll be doing any chess playing though - apart from Son, perhaps, who is turning into a right old geek and beats us all at tigers and goats (except for last time, when he took pity on my uselessness and gave me some hot tips on how to trap his tigers, and then I won, hurrah, and what's more refused a re-match as it was past seven o'clock and thus bedtime, double hurrah). Hubby and I have both refused to teach him chess ourselves as we're just not up to the task, but he'll be joining the chess club at school after the holidays. It won't be long before he starts playing Dungeons and Dragons and writing his own software, I suspect. My prediction for him is a career in IT (unless Lego decide to take him on as a spaceship design consultant). 

Quite excited about the prospect of Bangkok. We're planning to get some kind of last minute deal on a suite in a posh hotel. Feel sorry for the poor hotel that ends up with us - it will take weeks for them to clear up every last Barbie shoe and Lego attachment after we've gone.

What I really ought to be doing right now is writing my book and doing my Nepali homework, but this blog is turning into an exercise in procrastination, soz.

Nepali lessons get scarier every week, as Hubby has turned into a right girly swot and practices all the time at work. I however, am too scared to attempt much with the disaffected youth who drives our car (Vasu), so I am the dunce in the corner, drawing stick men in my notebook and sneakily checking my watch.

Really must go now xxx

I have planter's fistula

I have Planter's fistula. Or something like that (the locum was Nepali and I may have misheard). It sounds very exciting, but merely means that my foot hurts. I wonder if it could be linked to the fat-busting shoes, which, I might add, have not lived up to their marketing claims one tiny bit. 

Wild excitement this week with the Partners' club farewell dinner planned for tomorrow night. I am just giddy with anticipation of the tasty tuck and scintillating conversation that the night has in store (my mother always said that sarcasm was the lowest form of wit - sorry, Mum). Ah well, at least I can tell lots of people about my Planter's fistula. Hubby is not interested, mainly because it will involve listening to me, and dishing out some sympathy, but also because it doesn't involve water treatment solutions or management strategies...

ps

ps - talking of fish...Son re-named the sole surviving goldfish 'Life' as it was the only one still alive. Sadly this turned out to be a bit of a misnomer as it died the next day. The goldfish bowl is now more of a gravel-and-shell-feature on the sideboard. If I were an interior designer (and not an aspiring tripe writer with the Fishy Express), I would recommend this in articles in glossy magazines: "Why not try putting an empty fish bowl on the sideboard in the dining room? Arrange the gravel and shells asymetrically around the plastic weed for a casual-yet-elegant feel. The bowl will not only give the room a focus, but provide a talking point at dinner parties (where are the fish? Oh, they're all dead; Life died yesterday so we flushed him down the loo - took three flushes as he kept getting stuck in the U-bend)...."

fishy express

The highlight of this week has been...hmm...getting a massive discount in the hairdressers by attempting to speak Nepali. The last time I had my highlights and hair cut, it cost me three thousand rupees, but I spoke not one word of Nepali throughout. This time, I breezed in, and asked the hairdresser how she was, in Nepali. I also said "I like blonde hair" in Nepali. She then made me say lots of complex things like, "yesterday it was hot in my bedroom because the generator doesn't work," which I can no longer remember, but I managed to say at the time. Anyway, when it came to paying, the bill was, miraculously, a mere two thousand rupees (about twenty quid, which isn't bad for a half-head of highlights, cut and blow dry - I'm sure you'll agree). I must try it everywhere - we need to find some way of recouping the absolute fortune we're spending on lessons at the moment. 

And speaking of spending a fortune - I am just about to book our family holiday in Thailand. We are having ten days on Phuket. It sounds idyllic, but as Hubby pointed out, there will be nobody to cook or wash up for me, as we'll be self-catering. I'm planning on taking paper plates and plastic knives and forks with me (no, I'm not joking - I'm not giving up the lifestyle to which I've become accustomed just because we're on holiday) and eating out as much as possible.

And speaking of eating out - we went to a new restaurant last night. Hubby has lots of colleagues out from the UK at the moment, so we had the obligatory meal out. Because of my vacant memsaheb-ish existence, I actually enjoy putting on a bit of red lippy and going out somewhere where the menu options are not determined by what I have left in the freezer because I haven't got round to going to the approved butcher's for at least a month (we're down to chicken livers and pork mince - any ideas anyone?) and furthermore, we're not interrupted halfway through the meal by Meena asking us what we want to eat tomorrow and why the children haven't eaten all their pork kebabs (I'm always far too polite to say that it's because they are dry, overcooked and tasteless, and merely say that the children have had lots of biscuits after school)? So anyway, at the restaurant they had various foodie magazines scattered on a side table, one of which was called "Fishy Express", which immediately begged to be read. The opening paragraph on the front page begins: "Chicken is the new mutton - one might say. However, if that were true, then would that make mutton the old chicken? Hmmm..."

How fab is that? I would truly love to write for this publication, not least because you could ramble about any old tripe (or even write a two-page feature on the merits of tripe) and get paid for it. Wouldn't it be great? 

I could write my new job under 'occupation' in my passport (a slot which is blank at the moment as I can't even bring myself to write 'housewife', given that I do no housework whatsoever). Occupation: 'tripe writer for fishy express'.

I should give their editor a call, don't you think?

bandas and boreholes

Not to be outdone by the Newars, the Maoists are having their own 'bandha' tomorrow. However, I have heard that they will be protesting up the road, near the shrine to Ganesh (remover of obstacles), so I figure that we can still get the kids to school, if we drive the other way to the main road. At least, that is the plan, as I'm not massively keen on another day catching worms and playing fire gods. I really want to get some more writing done. I've been thwarted a bit this week by having the kids at home yesterday, and needing some emergency reflexology to prevent my descent into a hormonal monster this morning. I was hoping to get a little bit done this evening, but Hubby hogged the computer all night. He seemed on the verge of euphoria after having discovered a type of pump that is perfect for his borehole. At least, that's what he said - perhaps so I don't get suspicious when I discover that our internet history is littered with searches for 'pump', 'hole' and 'deep penetration'. Armed with his revelationary details about aforementioned pumps, holes and deep penetration, eyes flushed with excitement, he passed me the laptop and said he was going upstairs for an early night...do you think I should be suspicious?

Bandha

Kids are off school today as there is a big 'bhanda' (strike) on. For a nice change it's not the maoists causing wanton havoc around the city, it's the Newars. I think the Newars were the original inhabitants of Kathmandu. Anyway, they are demanding their own autonomous region. I can quite understand any group thinking they can do a better job of governing themselves than the present Nepali parliament; however, fat chance of them getting their own way. Still, kids spend a happy morning collecting worms, making pink and purple hand prints on the driveway, pretending to be 'jungle boys' and, later on, 'fire gods' (this was very popular as it involved dropping lots of scarves off the balcony). As my cheeriness and patience had pretty much ebbed away by eleven I suggested we go to camp for lunch. We had a very very early lunch in the mess, but still managed to coincide with an important colonel, who would probably rather not have had to share dining space with the chip-munching jackals. I suggested a Star Wars DVD when we got home because they tend to last a very long time...which is why I have had the time to have a cat-nap, a tasty peanut butter sandwich, and write this.

Think I now have the energy to be cheery and patient for another hour or so. I might even suggest some painting and sticking later - only if I have a strong cup of coffee first, though.

Anyway, should really go and check up on Yoda, Princess Lea and Darth Moll. Tootle pip!