Tag Archive | Hong Kong

Bad transport in Hong Kong?




Bad transport in Hong Kong? 



First of all, please observe the photo above, that was taken while stuck in a traffic jam.  You have to zoom in to see the kids slumped over in their seats, not a single one awake.

I actually turned to the Captain, who was once again on his mobile phone, and said “Check those kids out!  They’ve been drugged!”  Every single child on the coach was out cold. Their heads either resting on the seat in front, on someone else, or on their own laps/backpacks (the yoga generation).  The Captain, who was busy on a “business/social call” turned to look and started laughing his head off.  Every child was asleep.  These kids were knocked out cold with gas/over-exertion/boredom, asleep.  It’s a good thing the driver was still awake (just about).

Speaking of public transport…. I HATE the taxis in Hong Kong.  Actually, I pretty much hate Taxis anywhere in the world but I really really hate Taxis in Hong Kong. Why do I hate Taxis generally? Well, some drivers think they have some God-given right to drive like they’re part of a Formula One team, despite being totally shit and having numerous near collisions.


The Captain was recently in a Taxi that span out of control on a wet road, while driving to the Southside of HK. Now for those of you who know those roads, they are windy and mostly single lane along the Island road. Imagine losing control and by sheer luck, another car wasn’t coming in the opposite direction.  He was lucky not to have been killed.  He then admitted he thought the Taxi driver had been drinking.  What the fuck gave it away?  The stench of booze under his breath? Or the fact he could barely speak when he picked you up and almost swerved into a lamppost?

Now last year, I took a Taxi to the airport with my 1.4 year old twins, while pregnant and our Helper, heading back to my beloved London.  Our Taxi driver fell fast asleep behind the wheel while it was raining.  FAST ASLEEP!!!  I started shouting at him to wake up and stop the car as he was veering off the road.  Seriously…. I hate Taxi’s here.  The guy then acted as if nothing had happened and wouldn’t stop the car.  I almost head butted the twat when we got out of the Taxi at HK International Airport.  I never feel safe with these idiots.

Just recently, two young chefs from Heston Blumenthal’s famous Fat Duck restaurant (UK), were killed when their taxi collided with a bus in Hong Kong.



I’m fuzzy on the background, but the poor guys got killed because of the dumb idiots who transfer hundreds of people daily by public transport.  The accident was caused by a Bus Driver who “fell asleep” for 10 seconds or something, and rammed into another bus and the Taxi with the two young Chefs, crushing them.

If you see some of the Taxi drivers who pull up, eyes half-shut (and no, not for obvious reasons), head lolling from side to side, GET OUT THE TAXI!  Don’t be fucking stupid.  The annoying thing is that I’m so scared to let the kids get into any Taxis that I have to drive them everywhere myself, everyday.  Can you imagine?  The Captain won’t even discuss a Driver…. selfish git.  I mean…. ok, that’s my only job here really (childcare) but it really does interfere with my week day drinking as I need to be able to get behind the wheel of a car and drive the kids to school the next day.

So, I’ve told my Helpers that if they suspect any Taxi driver is under the influence of drugs/booze/glue/simply sleepy…. when they have my kids with them (I mean, fuck ’em if they’re going on their own and they’re dumb enough to sit in the Taxi) they need to stop the car and get out immediately.  My one Helper then told me that one of the few times she took my kids to school (one morning when I was abroad), the driver fell asleep behind the wheel while driving along the windy Tai Tam roads.  Did she get out the Taxi?  No.  She said she proceeded to talk to him in order to keep him awake. IDIOT!!!

I told her and Number 2 Helper, from now on, if there is ever an issue, to tell the Driver one of the kids is going to be sick or needs to shit and get the fuck out of the car immediately.  They’ll want you out anyway if they think someones going to puke or shit on the back seat.  I mean, you “spoke” to the Driver to keep him awake, with my toddlers in the car?!  Fucking idiot.

Anyhow…. a few chats have recently revealed, The Captain, doesn’t think my “drunken state”, is the right way to talk about HK Life. So…..I am writing this sober… Does any housewife/girlfriend LOVE HK?

I’ll tell you why I suspect not all of you do (and those who do…lucky fucking you. I bet you’re single & out sleeping around. Bitches).  I get told pretty much every time I go out with friends/new people/women, that you hate it here.  It’s always a drunken conversation, but these are not imagined chit chats.  You can’t even put your finger on it. You just don’t like it. How ungrateful are we?

So here’s the coup….

We arrive in HK. 2 months ago. 1 year ago. 5 years ago.  You make friends.  You hate them.  You want new ones.  We get domestic help.  We feel…. redundant.

We like AND hate it at the same time. WHY?  Well…. we are free to go out BUT…..This is our ONE job.  The men go to work, we oversee the house.   We are barely doing that.  We feel redundant.  It makes us feel like shit.  Good times?  I think it IS a shit hole for marriages.  Mine is fine but I hear all sorts of horror stories since we arrived here.  The “grave-yard for marriages”. I thought of Nancy Kissel A LOT when we first moved here.  How SHIT can your life become that you bludgeon your husband to death?  Ok, a shit conversation one night maybe, where he admits to anal sex with a dude in Taiwan… but really…. you kill him?!

I’m telling you… it must have been pretty shit.  There’s never just the one side to any story.  I’m not saying (ever) that she was entitled to do what she did.  I can’t even comprehend sleeping in the same room as a dead body for two days, forget the Father of my three kids….that’s…well, its got be mental illness on some level…eventually… with a good lawyer.  The point is, this place….it’s not good for marriage.  It really isn’t.  Men, change.  They don’t think they do, but they do.  They think they have become GOD (funny how that’s spelt “DOG” the other way around?).

I have spoken to many a housewife who is fed up, bored, and… we have decided one thing…..all of us, moan.  We are not enjoying any bit of this experience.  We are… ungrateful, moany, miserable, credit card spending, pedicured weekly, alcoholics.?  Are we??!

I will tell you what the HK wife is like.

Ungrateful, unappreciative, angry the whole time our husbands work (convinced they are cheating in Wan chai or at some Happy Ending Massage salon you can get back home too). ALWAYS cheating apparently. Some people I speak to actually smirk when I assume my husband is faithful.  They’re like “You dumb bitch, he’s been around the block since he moved here”.

Yes, they have ACTUALLY SAID THIS!  For the record, The Captain has not done  a thing.  He’s ugly and bald.  Unless he was a millionaire no one would wanna touch his penis (not that that would make any difference when you pay for it).  Ok…. I’m kidding. Do I sound like the kind of woman who’d end up with an ugly guy?  He’s not ugly. In fact, he’s annoyingly attractive (“a catch” some would say) and women flirt openly with him in front of me because he’s so fucking brilliant, and, they think they can (which I don’t like).

Actually… this just reminded me of a story.  The Captain and I, about 8 weeks before our wedding, went Cake tasting in a lovely little shop in Putney, SW London.


The girl who “looked after us” was ALL over The Captain from the minute we arrived in the front door. ALL OVER HIM…. in front of me.  Tight jeans, tight arse, tight top.  The Captain pretended not to notice.  I did, because women always notice.  We would notice because we have, at one time or another, done the same thing.

Anyway, she was too obvious. I mean, embarrassingly so, and actually KISSED him goodbye (on the cheek) when we left.  Me, she shoved out the door with a clenched fist whispering “whore” under her breath in her Irish Gypsy accent.  I, may, I hasten to add, had just been “face-raped”earlier (its the only way to describe it) in Harvey Nichols by an over zealous make-up artist who was trying to impress me with Ghetto/Drag Queen wedding make-up (she didn’t understand the “natural look” I was going for). I did my own in the end anyway as I’m pretty good at that shit.  The point is we turned up, me looking like Bozo The Clown and, the Captain may as well have been Tom Cruise (a straight version obviously).  This woman, the cheeky bitch with chutzpah, flirted openly with my man right in front of me.  What would I do now…?  Probably ask her if she wanted a date just to get a reaction…. cheeky fucking bitch.  My wedding cake tasting… not my “18th birthday, oh we might never stay together”, cake.

This is how confident I must be…. that even with Bozo the Clown make-up on…. I didn’t think for one second, my soon-to-be-husband, was remotely keen. I did think, what a cow!!! At my wedding cake tasting! What a fucking cow actually.  But… nope…. don’t care.

Women are mean.  Men don’t even understand how vindictive, harsh and mean women can be.  That’s why we sometime’s go a little “nuts”.…. we know… when someones trying it on, and your Man is all “Oh, Babe, get a grip. You’re so crazy.”

You’re like…. “Hell no…!”   We on the other hand know, “She’s a woman… we are worse than men.  Oh he’s married?  Who give’s a shit?” Women are worse. Bigger cheats. Bigger players and we look more innocent.  It’s the biggest myth in the book.  Women are bigger players than men…fact.


Going back to the point of the whole cheating thing…. we begrudge our once best friend of their ideal role here.  They are working, trying to be great at what they do.  I, just feel, well… like a 1980’s housewife.  Drunk, coked up, leaving the kids with a nanny…. and suddenly, not even caring any more.  Thats when you know, its bad.  Thats when you feel guilty.  And we do…. I’ve had soo many conversations about this since I moved here with women at home, who HATE who they have become.

We are not the women we set out to be.  We are, quite frankly… selfish.  I feel so horrible, moaning the whole time the Captain goes out to work.  I feed us, cook for us, I’m a “Homemaker”.  I still hate that I don’t do it right. IF, it was the other way around, I’d be like “Bitch, where the fucks my dinner?!  I work 12-16 hour days…. the least you can do, is fucking feed me, iron my shirts and suck my cock on demand.  Not that tough really….”

It’s not a satisfying role here.  I can’t put my finger on it.  We  (the women) just don’t “do” anything here. We are redundant.  You have too much friggin Help!!!  The guys find it amusing “Oh… my Helper cooked dinner yesterday…”.... we stand there, wondering…. why didn’t I do that?  (if you can’t cook, then that’s fine)?  We are finding it too easy, and yet, very painful/shameful at the same time.  I am using every ounce in my body to accept that for the next few months, I don’t care. I don’t care what anyone thinks.  I never did.

The Captain recently told me.  “You are accomplished.  You are smart. You are funny.  You are sexy.”  So why??? Why?! Do I not, in this environment, feel so great?  Because I have TWO women also helping me in the house.  These women have in effect, chopped my tits off.  I say “Help” but I use this term very loosely.  I think I may actually be sabotaging one of my staff indirectly.

I don’t NEED help.  None of us women here do.  If you are not working, why the fuck can’t you collect your own kids from school?!  I do. its painful.

What are you doing?  Charity stuff??  Ok… some people here are actually using their time wisely and properly (I know them… one is a very dear, straight, non-lesbian friend)… but the rest of us… we’re not doing shit.  We are recovering from hangovers, doing drugs, sleeping late, and basically feeling like over-grown university students, with C-Section scars from The Hotel Matilda.  Shame on us.  This does not make you feel good.  It makes you feel like a fucking idiot here.

Everyone here is either, walking, trekking, dieting, botoxing, raising funds for Cambodia/Vietnam/Tehran, going on 38 hours treks in the wilderness, kayaking, Dragon boating, starting up a new business…… SOMETHING.  When you DONT do this… you look retarded. Especially on the Southside where all the Yummy French Mums are starting up businesses involving …. well… anything you didn’t think of….usually involving pastry or pate (I’m not generalizing or anything).

Who are these women, these “Helpers” with limitless energy when it comes to our kids?  I hate that our children connect with them and at the same time, I’m so grateful.  I’m tired!

My kids are all under three years old.  Do you even know how exhausting that is!?  Not physical… I mean, mentally.  I am the Mum who sits there and says “ Sit up straight. Don’t talk with your mouth full. Don’t hit your friend. Don’t answer back…” G-d the list is endless and very, very boring.  You think I want to do this? Day in, day out?  My shrink told me, I “manage a department“.  “A department!”  Genius.  No one listens to me, it’s all hormonal women with issues who want to kill me, they don’t listen when it comes to feeding the kids, child safety, food shopping, attitude etc.  Sooo….. this evening…. I sat down with Helper No.2 and talked our shit out.  I’m too fed up of it.

We sat in the kitchen and I asked her, straight out, Do you have a problem with me? or us?  “No Ma’am”.  My response? “Ok then, why are you doing such a mediocre job at the moment?  You don’t, food shop, clean well, cooking is ok, you have 2 sometimes 3 hours off during the days for nothing. So… why with all of this, do you insist on walking around with a miserable face that make me sooo uncomfortable in my own house, that I want to sent you out, just to be away from that face?  If you want to leave, fuck off now.  Otherwise, the minute you wake up, treat this like your office and stop walking around like I owe you.”  We’ve got on great ever since.

I hated working for assholes (and boy, did I work for some real racist bitches in London) BUT, I earned good money, I paid my way… I lived how I wanted to live. Facial, yep!  Hot stone massage? Hell yes!! New Christian Louboutins…. yep!  Three or four (or five) kilos of coke for a quiet weekend at home… ok, why not, I’ve got some cupboards that need organising?  It’s your money!!  * Also, the photo above was taken of a lamb before he was dressed and ready for photos.  The problem?  I got drunk and forgot to photograph him (Norbert, The Lamb), before and after cooking.  He was friggin delicious though… all breadcrumbed with nuts and herbs and cooked to perfection… just a shame, I forgot to take a photo after….I was drinking while cooking.  I’ll do it next time as I cook lamb loads.

I’d be fab for a cooking show!?  Before, and ….. AFTER, she gets drunk…

Anyway… I went to Toys R’ Crazy Us today and bought everything they had on sale. Including this kitchen that took nearly 15 hours to put together (the instructions said 15 minutes).  I decided while making the damn thing to open a bottle of Rose.  It are it more fun, for me.

Thats it for this week folks.  I’m running out of shit to say to be honest.

On a separate note, guess how much this packet of Walkers crisps is in HK?

Go on the British ex-pat lot…. guess….

HKD $9-10  depending on where you shop! ….that’s like 75 UK pence for a packet of fucking crisps?!  Plus…. I’m not a chocolate person.  I’m more cheese, ham, crisps, champagne…. This shit costs money in Hong Kong.

What a fucking liberty…


Getting fat…

So for those of you who have experienced the joys of being pregnant, you may recall watching in sheer horror when you got on those bathroom scales, and noted you were officially a FAT COW.  Now, for someone like me, who I have to admit, is slightly obsessed with staying thin after gaining 14 pounds in their FIRST year of University (trust me…. it was not a pretty sight when I’m only 5 ft 3 & usually a size 6-8 UK).  The fear of gaining any weight since I shifted it all, is always there.  I worked out (in between visits to a pub/bar/lunch with an alcoholic friend), I watched what I ate and if necessary, I didn’t eat and simply drank (yes, yes…shoot me).

Ask any fat person whose lost weight and is determined to keep it off what their fear is and they will say you just can’t let it creep back because before you know it, you’re doing midnight runs to MacDonald’s (or any open Petrol station) to get a junk food fix.  I do have to admit my incredible weight gain at University was not because I was about to star in the next Bridget Jones movie, but due to copious amounts of  smoking skunk (oh go judge elsewhere if you’re going to turn your nose up at this now as I LOVE SKUNK, or loved… not had it for a v v v long time now), which was followed by the munchies (usually Chinese takeaway or a greasy Kebab at 3am), and an INCREDIBLE amount of beer.  I actually thought I was one of the guys.  In fact, I still do but as I now have a sensible Husband to keep me in check, this side of my personality gets cut short very quickly when he sees me even attempting to join a drinking competition at any party/bar/pub/wedding.  I just can’t help myself… especially when there’s Vodka, Wine or Champagne.  He just knows I’m like a moth to a flame and tries to steer me away from any potential scenes later that may include dancing on a bar (Coyote Ugly style), getting into a street fight or falling in my 6 inch YSL’s that I only wear on very special occasions.

Therefore when this pregnancy began, I initially walked around all smug (ok, and depressed because I was missing white wine) as I had barely gained any weight and in fact, no one noticed I was pregnant (at first).  Well, fast forward 6.5 months (YES IM ALMOST THERE!!!) and I suddenly felt my arse jiggle as I walked to the shops to buy some ice cream yesterday (it wasn’t for me honest).  ARSE JIGGLE?! What the hell is next?!?!  Turkey chin?  Bingo wings?When I gain weight, my face starts to fill out first and I HATE it, simply because I look like I’ve stuffed 2 ping-pong balls into my mouth and grown an extra tire around my neck, Kimora Lee Simmons stylie (I love her so that’s not me being mean, but I feel like I’ve developed that horrid “sausage neck” effect).  Plus, as the Twins are only now 20 months old, they still don’t seem to get what the hell is going on with Mummy.  I mean…. I’ve gone from being Yummy to Fatty and they havent even batted an eyelash.  Does this mean that (a) There’s something wrong with them? in which case, I’m going to have to start looking for a Specialist pediatrician, or (b) Is this what they mean by “unconditional love”, that they havent even noticed that Mummy has turned into a fat cow?

During all my moaning, where has The Captain been? Well, lucky for him, he’s had loads of travelling to do which means, I’ve been able to sleep in the middle of our bed, with the air con on while it is now considered “winter time in Hong Kong” (this is Summer time in London) and I’m not trying to hammer his ballsack to the wall every time he speaks.  I appreciate that pregnancy hormones make women crazy but I think his lack of “doting” on me this time round (I mean, ok, I’ve had twins so this really should be a breeze…plus its Baby No. 3 so get over it already) but I expected him to be a little more…. I dunno….. pandering to my every whim maybe?  

When that doesn’t happen, I now just beat him verbally/emotionally until I burst into tears screaming “I JUST CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!” while he stands there, in disbelief, unsure what I’m actually talking about.  He just thinks I’ve lost the plot and keeps saying “You were nothing like this last time you were pregnant!?”  which winds me up even more. I mean, purrrrlease!! Last time was planned and clearly controlled with a number of IVF drugs!!  This time was not only a huge shock (we can’t recall when the deed happened but are sure it involved Vodka Jelly shots) but I’ve got toddlers running around (one of which head butted me yesterday right in the middle of my tummy while attempting a hug) and I can’t bloody sleep even if I wanted to.  I was expecting to spend afternoons leisurely watching “E Hollywood” and all the crappy TV one can find (seriously HK has SHIT TV) and yet, nope… none of that’s happening.  I don’t even know what’s happening with The Kardashians for christs sake!!!?!

I guess the lack of alcohol has also made me feel like I’m in my own Chinese version of  “The Priory” (a well-known rehab clinic in SW London).  I’ve had all sorts of comments on my radiant, glowing complexion (now the crazy pregnancy zits/fucking awful boil-type pimples are finally going) and this is all due to a serious lack of, well anything naughty.  I’m bored to tears (literally) but also excited to see this next baby and get back to my old body, my old alcoholic ways and being fun again.  

Right now, when I actually see other people drinking and enjoying themselves over lunch, all I want to do is go take a massive dump  (AKA. shit) in the middle of their table and tell them to piss off.  Yep… pregnancy hormones clearly make you crazy.  


Life …. can we have it all?

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about Life and happiness in general.  After, everything that’s been going on in mine over the past 5 years, I would never have believed, for one millisecond, that I would end up in Hong Kong.  Plus…. I was holding out for Miami or New York (unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen in my “real” life).  This post, before you start reading, is a bit of a mish-mash.  Tit-bits of my life, religion, family, death, but mainly, it’s about finding some peace and happiness … even when your Husband pisses you off and the kids don’t ever seem to stop screaming.  And, no, I haven’t turned all hippy on you, although this is mainly because I can’t find a decent enough drug dealer in HK that sells my beloved skunk.

Anyway, this weeks post is about a bit of everything, but mainly its about being true to ones self.  Something I’ve started doing more and more.

So, to begin with, have I ever mentioned that I converted to Judaism not long ago? Probably not.

Why? Well… lets face it.  There’s a shit load of bigots out there and my folks weren’t too impressed either.  Especially as I shamelessly did it to marry The Captain (not because I woke one morning after watching “Sex & The City” thinking… “Hey, that shit looks like fun!”).  I also turned to the Captain after we married and laughed “I lied!  I just wanted a rock on my finger.”  I was joking, of course.

Actually, I say my parents weren’t too impressed but, well, my Dad is pretty much a born again Jew.  He’s an Iranian chef who left home at 11 years old (no, seriously, he did), having grown up in the Liverpool equivalent of a hard-core Estate (a shed in Kashan, Iran, with a Cow they used to get their daily Milk from … unless it was on strike)  I lie not.  He ended up in London, originally as a Butler for a British family who lived in the Little Boltons, Fulham, SW London (dahling) at the tender age of 16 years old.

When Dad arrived at Heathrow Airport, all he had as proof of his new job, was a piece of paper with information of the family he was going to work  for.  The paper had a scribbled note with their name, number and address.  He didn’t speak one word of English though but had a big grin.  This alone, made my heart break for him when he told me this story, as Dad, well , he looks like a cuddly cute Teddy Bear (just as any girls Dad should)…. even if mine was a bit of a cheeky swine from time to time.  He sat there, all those many years ago, in Heathrow Airport, for 3 hours waiting for these people to collect him.

He was terrified, well, Dad’s exact words were “I vuz fakin vurried as deese Ineglish peepol cud ‘ave been  fakin bastard, u no?” … imagine an Iranian accent (*nb. Iran is not an Arabic country, before you start getting confused. In fact, it’s the only country in that part of the Middle East with no Arabs… unless they live there.  Not a huge deal but its like calling an Irish Protestant, a Catholic).  Anyhow, Dad had approximately £5 in his pocket (we’re talking 1947 era) and was shitting himself that they were going to put his tiny bum back on a plane to Tehran, if no one came to “claim him” …. like baggage.  This is the same man who stood and screamed, and cried, when I passed the UK Bar to become a Solicitor as no one in his family, including my criminal brothers, had gone to this level of any profession (I was also chuffed I’d managed to pass “The Bar” and not stop off for a few glasses of Vodka en route to the Ceremony).

So, after a few years, Dad left this “fakin luvelee fameleee”(his English had got a little better, clearly) and worked in many restaurants and Hotel kitchens as a washer-up, and, eventually, he learnt to cook.

He was soo poor, that at one stage, they (Dad and some other mates) actually went to Trafalgar Square and took Pigeons home to cook them.  Dirty skanky PIGEONS!???   ** RSPCA people, please don’t contact me about this.  We are talking dirt poor in London, in the 1950’s  where people were having a pretty crap time (a bit like the UK now, although with manners & less teenage pregnancies & chavs).   It’s no bloody wonder he told me to “piss fakin off” when I wanted to travel the world at 18 years old.  “Travellll, de facking werd?! Get a fackin job you silly cow!”, in an Iranian accent, even after 30 years in the UK (despicable really).  My Dad, to me, is very soft, kind and gentle and although he swears like a right old c%$t, he’s unbelievably kind and very very sweet, to me. Anyone else who crosses him though….well lets just say he’ll rip your fakin head off.

Anyway, apparently, Pigeons, well they taste just like chicken, if you add some nuts, salt/pepper, raisins and Basmati Rice (Iranian staple to every meal…especially if you add Saffron).  Now, when I was in the South of France a few years back with the Captain, I ordered “Pigeon” and I kid you not, it tasted like shit.  It even looked like a Pigeon (yes, hypocritical) and I like my meat to look like it never came from a live animal, you know!?   Anyhow, as my Dad learnt to become a Chef, I discovered the art of cooking, especially meat, which is odd as my best friends are all bloody vegetarian.  I tried it once (being a veggie) … highly overrated if you ask me.  I lasted 3 days, by which point I was sooo hungry, I think I ate a human being as I got off my bus in Clapham Junction.  My Dad, gave me, or should I say, indulged in my passion, for food and this is where I learnt to get angry if someone wandered into the kitchen mid-cooking…. it drives me nuts!!  I need space to work and if someone wanders into the kitchen to “help“, well …. you’re just asking for a bitch slap.

Anyhow,  Dad ended up owning a well know “Continental restaurant” in NW London for many years, full of 80’s pop-starlets too, open until 6am in the days when everyone else back in the 80’s couldn’t get a licence for booze at that time, throwing one very well-known celeb out whenever he got drunk…. it was the usual story.  He certainly saw some partying in his time too.  When Dad tells you one of his restaurant day stories (cocaine being snorted off the dinner tables (they had a back room and thats where shit always happened, sex in the loos etc), even now, I sit cross-legged in front of him like I’m waiting for a story during “show and tell” at school.  He also had a huge autograph book that all the famous people used to sign when they went to his place for drinks or food.  A couple of months before he sold the restaurant (after 20+ years), someone ran in and stole this book from behind the counter.

So, my Dad should really have been a Jew, which, if you know ANYTHING about religion, its pretty much the same thing (in my opinion) s being a Muslim… or recently, I heard the genius term, “Muslish”.   Circumcisions, arguing non-stop (with anyone) about everything, family forever involved in all that you do, fasting on religious holidays, bla bla bla … but he did none of the religious stuff…. he liked the “community” Jews brought with them and has lots of Jewish friends himself. He liked all the togetherness.  Shit I hate. Why? Despite this site… I’m actually very private (go figure).  I hate being in huge crowds or groups (unless I’ve been drinking) which makes me go into overdrive where I have to talk in short-sentences, then I talk bull-shit and if all else fails, I drink away my fear to give me confidence (yes, even at very boring pointless functions… actually, any excuse for a drink).

I recently feel, well, bloody fed up of always being polite when I dont want to be.  I’ve stopped doing things I dont want to do. I wanna have fun!! When I die, I’ll know I wasn’t a hypocrite – I didnt say “Yes” when I meant to say “No”.  I can’t do that fake shit anymore.  Plus, its boring.

The Captain on the other hand … well… this Man… he has my admiration for being himself 24 hours a day.  I would give my arsehole for that alone.  He’s my idol in so many ways and the man doesn’t even know it.  He’s true to himself.  If he thinks something, well, he just goes ahead and says it (sometimes I call it “Captains Tourette”).  Amazing shit as I was always told to be polite and keep my gob shut unless spoken to.  Basically, I grew up being a polite, nice, errr… mute.  I also always got seated with Parents at functions (obviously when I was a teenager as now… Im’ kept away from anyone elderly) as I was considered“Parent friendly”.  Basically, I can charm the arse off you if I have to.  Not always of course, as there are people out there who just dont like you.  Fact of life really.   One of my old work colleagues HATED me.  She was a real cow too.  I went home once, telling The Captain, “this bird just really doesn’t like me”, from day one.  She STOLE my pashmina from work once, going “ooh sorry, I didnt realise it was yours”.  What a bitch right!?  There were loads of stains on it too. When the Captain eventually met her at a wedding, he said “yep… she hates you”.  I don’t really care, but thats life.  I can’t stand certain people for reasons unknown, even to myself. And as it turns out, people can also hate me too.  Go figure!

Anyway, the Captain is THE most honest, open, doesn’t give a shit who says what, person I know.  I mean, there are times I’m like“Babe, seriously…. tone it down!”   If he’s just insulted someone or done something soooo unbelievable, I apparently always give a “nervous laugh” to apologise for his atrocious, albeit, honest, behaviour (sometimes, I actually think he’s my 3rd child).  He’s also the person who always pushes to the front of an entire queue as he can’t wait for anything… and I’m usually in tow, covering my face from the shame, until we get away with it.   He recently drove past an entire queue of cars on Chinese Bank Holiday, a queue that stretched approx half a mile for a car park in Stanley (south side of Hong Kong and a massive tourist place).  He over-took every car (I thought he was driving on), and then TURNED into the grass car park and literally parked the car.  The poor Car Park Attendant, not trained in this crazy English mans actions shouted “NO!! NO!!! THERE IS QUEUE!”.   The Captain, in the meantime, started pulling the Twin buggy out the boot, while I was sat in shock in the front of the car, as the Twins watched this crazy Genius at work.  The Captain shouted back “I’m NOT MOVING. Sorry.  I have Twins and they’re hungry”.   I’m amazed he didn’t pull me out the car too, saying “and she’s an alcoholic…. I can’t queue”.

Despite the young mans protests, The Captain ignored him and carried on getting things out the boot (kinda like we were moving there, and with Twins, you always have a shit load of stuff to take to any type of outing).  With that, I literally got out the car and followed him.  The poor young Car Park guy stood there, mouth wide open, thinking…. “what the fuck just happened?!”  The Captain slipped him some cash (and I swear, a wink), and off we went. All the cars queueing must have thought we were (a) Diplomats, or (b) owned the bloody car park.  GENIUS.

Sorry… I’m digressing.  So back to converting to being a Jew, and my parents backgrounds.  So. My Mum.  Well, she grew up in a strict posh Muslim household in the Centre of Tehran (before the “Revolution”), where, drinking, no head scarves, bacon sarnies (not really), open fornication with the opposite sex, was ok (until it all got fucked up).

EVERYTHING, with my Mum is a conspiracy.  Everything.  From the Revolution in Iran which, I’m hazy on despite numerous discussions at home (personally I don’t want to get into it as there’s too much corruption, everywhere, and I just don’t get what happened!?)  For any Iranians, not in hiding (or, afraid to share…yes, afraid)….people don’t really chat about it. Unless my Mum arrives and tells you what “actually took place”.  My Mum seems to have worked for the CIA/FBI/Mums of Tehran Group and she told me NOT to, in any way, get involved when there was the recent riots during the Political corruption while voting and numerous students being killed in Tehran…trying to stand up against an archaic regime.  Innocent blood being shed as there were “insiders” among the Protestors, who pulled out guns and shot these innocent people.  Only people who live there, seem to know whats really going on, however, the outside world’s Media appears to be very restricted in covering these types of stories.

My Mum actually told my Hubby-to-be, on their very first meeting, ” Now listen sunny boy, you all stick together and my Daughter is too sensitive for you. Oh & BTW, your car’s a pile of shit’… he drove a nice sports car at the time.  I didn’t know until one year after we married that my 5 ft 2 inch Mum gave The Captain his 1st warning to literally take the high road, and piss off as he was Jewish, and well, I clearly wasn’t. When I say Jewish, I’m talking relaxed (basically he has a very loose understanding of his own religion until he re-learnt everything when I converted), so not strict (what you would call, a“Twice-a-year-to synagogue Jew“…. he only went during religious Holidays.  Kinda like my Catholic mates for Midnight Mass at Xmas… which we were all drunk for too, even at 16 years old.  Don’t ask me why I was there).   My Mum, to this day, defends what she did as she was soo worried I wouldn’t be accepted by The Captain’s family.  My Mum still clearly lives in a different era where crap like that still happens by ignorant arseholes who have no idea about, well anything.  For the record, she adores The Captain and always jumps to his defence whenever we have a row.  This wasn’t about religion, but acceptance.

My Grandma, whose favourite I will always be (my cousins argue about this very simple and yet obvious truth…. but its true), well, she went to Mecca three times in her life (always dressed in white) and believed in her Muslim religion. I love and loved that about her.  Depth, truth and belief.  She never ever faltered and I remember she once slapped me, on the hand (which fucking stung), for mimicking her while she did her 4am prayer in my parents house while she stayed there (I had just got in after a night clubbing in a shitty Disco/pub in Kingston, hence why I was awake). What a nob (am I)!?  I learnt immediately to show some respect to (a) our elders, and (b) people who believe in their religion.  She loved me loads too.  I was the only one she left 3 vintage handbags for when she passed away, one of which contained, her gloves, comb (she had fine black hair like silk), and a handkerchief….it broke my heart.  She also left me her Pearl bracelet.  My Cousins…. well they got bugger all.

When she passed away, I didn’t leave our apartment for 2 weeks.  Even now, 5 years later (she missed my wedding by months after slipping into a sudden coma), I hurt.  When The Captain and I went to Miami a few years ago, we were walking through the hell they call their departure lounge, the lady who went to take my ticket (she looked Chinese/spanish/4ft 2 inches high), basically like my Grandma.  Well, I looked up, saw her face and walked away from the queue, in tears.  The Captain, walked over, peeved we lost our place in the craziness of horrific Miami airport (worst in the world for check-in especially if you look remotely Middle-Eastern)… and I started crying.  I almost threw myself into her arms and told her I missed her so much. Pathetic?  No.  We all do this.  I’ve had moments, like on the tube at Holborn station, where a 4ft 2 inch Muslim granny, with a kind, Chinese looking, button nose, sweet smiling face, gave me a look on the escalator (going in the opposite direction).  I gulped back tears and followed her up 2 floors.  I know she’s dead, but I love that I have this memory for life.  She was funny, strict, a Mum of 7 (well, 8 if you count, and of course you should, Baby one who she lost after 3 months…. fucking hardcore).  Her gift to me was a card that she had written when I got engaged, a few months before she died.  I have to put this into English, as in my language, I may as well be describing a dancing goat in a field with rainbows (but it has meaning).

She said…“Remember that when you have children, you are the Mother and leader of your household, you carried your children, you deserve to be looked after later on by them, by your husband, by your family.  Enjoy your life, never stop smiling and laughing, and always be you”.

The one thing people apparently notice about me right away, is that I’m always smiling (kinda like a crazy patient who needs meds).  I want to live happily though and now, I’m a Mum, I want to make sure my kids grow up in a safe, happy, secure house full of fun, laughter, great food and lots of wine (for me clearly).

Why all this chat about being happy?  Well recently, Ive had loads of chats with friends who are “un-happy” in their lives.  Something doesn’t feel right, or everything is crap.  I’m trying to be happy for me and The Captain. For my kids.  For my parents, who lets face it, thought I’d end up in Prison/unemployed, or shacked up with some arsehole, after all my school expulsions as a teenager.  I didn’t settle gals.  I’m sooo meant to be happy, so why, why why, am I still, missing a piece of the puzzle?  I will tell you why.

We are told to live life according to everyone’s bull-shit appearances.  You sometimes forget whats genuinely important.  The minute I arrived in Hong Kong, I realised, I suddenly understood what family and friendship was really all about, and how much it meant to me.

I WONT do the whole “living life according to societies rules” anymore.  I wont let people talk down to me, or make me feel small (I used to when I was younger, but not now).  I also stopped the minute I saw my Mum in intensive care after her stroke. And I was a pussy.  I didn’t go in to witness the tubes.  I sat outside all night and slept on a chair.  I told the Captain I needed alone time.  No friends, no family, just me and my Mums best friend who I adore.  Shes shares the same name as me (funny as they weren’t best mates before I was born).  She slept on the floor of her hospital every night with a bottle of Vodka under her coat and her 40 Silk Cuts.  She brought food, she held my hand because she knew, I literally couldn’t breath.  What the fuck was I going to do if my Mum left me?   Luckily, she recovered from the stroke.

Me?  I have to say, after being brought up in South West London and going to a Catholic School run by Irish Nuns, I am positive, I have always believed in religion (mine being the religion of wine/non-judgement/sex with strangers/narcotics) and God.  I don’t and never will, believe in being TOLD how to worship anything (unless they are Christian Louboutin shoes, in which case, tell me where/when/time/sale price), in any way shape or form.   I believe in God though.  Why?   He …. lets face it, God is definitely a bloke…. a female God would never put us through child-birth/periods/men.  Well this He-God, saved me during my moments of despair.  My Mums stroke, my fertility problems, when I have to check on my Twins every night (whether they sleep through, or not), just to make sure they are safe.  I also have a word with God from time-to-time and ask him to keep an eye on them for me (especially my Daughter who thinks her head is made for banging into floors and walls).

Now don’t get me wrong, or start judging me as some holy-shmoly weirdo, as I don’t sit there praying daily either (hey…I’m too busy drinking), but I do believe in being positive, in seeing what I want for my future.  If I ask for it, surely it will happen no?!   Of course, you have to work at it too.  Shit doesn’t just fall into your lap (unless you’re rich to begin with, or well, fucking lucky… in which case piss off now).  The harder you work towards what you want, the easier it will come to you.  I do believe in this.

Signing off now.

Ps. I’ve been bitten to shit by mossies (I have “Skeeter syndrome”) & woke this morning looking like, and I quote by our nanny, “Angelina Jolie”.  Shame the lips have now deflated though due to my batches of Clarytin.  I’m going to start sitting out on the balcony at night, covering my lips in Honey and waiting for them to be attacked again.

Where can I buy minced lamb in Hong Kong?

Does anyone know where I can purchase minced lamb? They have minced pork, beef and chicken but NO lamb anywhere and the butchers at Taste Supermarket in Stanley dont seem to happy about mincing anything!  Any suggestions?  Would Ap Lei Chau’s Pacific Gourmet have it?  Please let me know!!