Caps Lock Voice

This is when a normally calm person raises their voice and attempts to use an authoritative tone.

"Sara tried to give me some attitude yesterday and I had to turn on my CAPS LOCK voice and put her in her place."

"Chris was being over-run at work, so Jason told him it was time to turn on his CAPS LOCK voice."

Coward's Way

A couple of disparate events from yesterday:

1. Recovery, not rescue

Yesterday I took a coward's approach to chasing up my abandoned shirt and tie: I sent an sms to the number I was given weeks ago for the boss, "Matt".

I accidentally sent him the sms before finishing it, so all it said was: "Amici's?" Such brevity is usually more indicative of a drunken booty call; or perhaps an impromptu dinner invitation to someone who is busier and more popular than you.

Nevertheless, "Matt" returned said sms by saying he worked for a company which manages the Amici's coffee franchisee on my street. So I sent him another message asking for information on how to escalate a "major" complaint.

I how realise how unlikely it is that my little hostages will ever be released. Indeed, they may have already been terminated. I can see them now, being filmed while kneeling in front of hooded baristas and reading their "confession".

I haven't heard back from Matt yet but I feel it's going to be quite embarrassing when I finally detail the nature of my complaint and my subsequent actions and concerns. It is going to be a very difficult tale to re-tell to Matt with any degree of dignity.

So what did I do? I begged R to call Matt directly and pretend to be me. If it was someone else's indignity I would have no problem making this call myself but when I am directly involved it seems easier to outsource.

Be that as it may, I do realise that there is little hope my shirt or tie will ever be worn again. This search is fruitless. I know (exactly) what it must feel like to be in the Brazilian airforce at the moment.

2. No one wants to play with Hitler (any more)

In Vietnam, when little kids decide to pick on another kid or generally exclude, they point their pinky at them and call them Hitler. Basically, this sounds like "Hit Lair"

When I learned this on the weekend I took much delight in this fact because it's now become my new nickname at a local bar here. When I walked in this evening, the waiter smiled, pointed his little finger at me and said "Chau Antoni! Hit Lair!". To rub it in further, he switched to R and put his thumb up, said "Hi R - friend! Come and play!" and then turned back at me, switched back to pinky and said "Hit Lair".

It was actually a lot sweeter than it sounds here in playback.

So I guess that's it. Hitler. Oh well ... there's quite a ring to it isn't there? I see no reason why not to embrace my new nickname.

The Edwina Monologues (Part Time)

On average, Edwina likes keeps herself about 15 seconds behind the rest of the room. Last Monday we were talking about Vietnamese food and someone didn’t understand my pronunciation of the word “fish”.

It was just one of those things that happens sometimes with a word … this person’s English is excellent. So I repeated it. “Fish”. Then she nodded “Oh, fiiiish!”. So we continued with our conversation. Except for Edwina. 

Just as we all started continuing with our conversation she ran up to the whiteboard and drew a picture of a fish. It was like one of the christian fishes. “See? Fish? Fish! This is a fish!.” She was so pleased with herself that she nearly licked all the skin off her lips.

We all sat there like stunned mullets.

Edwina Monologues Part X

R: Hey Edwina - who was that you were just talking to?

Edwina: Dunno. They all look the same.

The Edwina Monologues (Part L)

Loose Lips

When Edwina is pleased with herself she licks her lips. This usually happens mid monologue, while she is working up to an important point. She often does it between the words “and” and “then I”. Out comes the tongue for a quick whip around the lips before it is sent back inside. 

There is no sign of any lipstick (or other makeup) that could get in the way. The effect is quite creepy … more reptile creepy than paedophile creepy.

SUMS

Spudupmanship

The process by which a potato tries to demonstrate his superiority over other potatoes. This can be manifested in many different ways such as: daring food choices; overt use of language skills; motorbike prowess; knowledge of history; or interesting stories based on direct experiences with locals.

This term was coined this morning, while I was being overtaken by a potato on the way to work. This guy was weaving in and out of cars so daringly that he must have been overcompensating for a weak chin that must be constantly getting in the way of him looking cool. I'm sure he saw me up ahead and that having a potato in his sights provided extra motivation to be extra daring. At least ... that's what I would do ... I'm that petty.

Other Worked Example

R and I demonstrated some spudupmanship yesterday when we invited another potato to breakfast and she ate cornflakes beforehand because she can't stomach chili and noodles for breakfast. She demonstrated spudupmanship on arrival to by parking her motorbike expertly in a tight spot while we floundered for larger spaces. We fought back by taking a backstreet on the way to work. She fought back by bringing in cookies that her cook had baked the previous day. On so on and so forth.

Other Worked Example

Those fucking people who tell you about interesting facts they learnt at obscure museums in small towns. Of course I think I want to be them, but the fact that I'm not makes me hate them all the more.

Tourists generally don't attempt spudupmanship with the same vigour as an ex-pat. This is because the expat is used to being shoved down the social ladder that he will do anything to scramble up off the last rung, even though the only things available (that far down) to use as leverage are other dull-witted spuds. This must be what it's like at the bottom of the ocean, with all these odd looking creatures fighting it out for the penultimate rank.

Superboob

This today, from a walk on the Skype side.

A: i need to tell you about something quite disgusting.

R: what?

A: when i left the meeting just now i went back to the fifth floor to my desk and realised i'd forgotten my badge.

A: so i waited for someone to let me in. so guess who came out?

R: michael?

A: edwina.

A: firstly she asked me where i had been the last couple of weeks ... then chuckled as she asked whether i was hiding from her ... hahaha ... where had i been “hiding out” etc. she made the inverted commas, not me. anyway so i just made a joke about being busy and working for competitors.

R: and?

A: then i said to her "could you please let me in? i've forgotten my badge."

A: ... and she replied "alright".

A: ... and then ...

R: yes?

A: ... and then ...

R: what? what?

A: ... drum roll ...

R: oh come on.

A: then she leant over to the door, pressed her right breast against the touch pad, then i heard a click as she reached over and opened the door with her left hand.

A: she keeps her building access card pass in her bra ...

A: ... and uses her breast to open the door.

R: eeewwwwww

A: i gets worse.

R: it couldn’t.

A: it did.

R: go on.

A: as she opened the door, she licked her lips and said "super boob" as i walked past her. 

R: you're not serious?

R: she didn't!!

A: did.

A: i didn’t know what to say. so i told her (with eyes downcast) that the word for "tits" in vietnamese is “vu” and ... that it’s the surname of a colleague and ... scampered away bookishly.

Wikipedia has Gone Atkins!

It's gone, innit?

Just like that.

I will damn Wikipedia to hell in a hand basket, whatever that means.

They've pulled the spud.

We only get 15 minutes of fame and has mine been already used up on a now-defunct Wikipedia entry? Susan Boyle used hers on Oprah. My fame has been squandered on a deleted—sorry, removed—Wikipedia page.

What to do? I blame SuBo, actually. Her beady eyes have made the world a meaner place. I will probably deface her Wikipedia entry. Give her a past. ("It is rumoured that Susan Boyle once had a brief lesbian relationship with Linda McCartney.")

This is worse than grief. At least if you lose a relative you get to have a funeral then gradually start forgetting about them. (No offence Cheesel but you can't argue with the logic.)

Goodbye, sweet potato.

Slangtastic

"Going Multiball"

A synonym for going mental. Literally, a state of flux; as in the multiball stage of a pinball game wherein the player must keep two or more balls in play.

"The project deadline is tomorrow! I am totally going multiball!"

We have a strain of this growing on my current project. It is called "MultiBelle", after its inventor, and a style of convoluted problem solving. Firstly, you overhear that there has been a problem. Secondly, you do not allow the speaker to finish their story so you don't get the full story. Thirdly, you prematurely call it a disaster. You force a whole bunch of people to solve one small problem (usually via a Sunday workshop) and in all the panic, everyones ends up running around in different directions, bumping into furniture and tripping over each other.

37°2 l’après-midi

I told you it was humid this morning. My internet weather report said it was 89%.

By this afternoon, this was the scene outside my office.

 

But there's no point letting a little water get in the way of places to be ...

... or indeed, from doing so in any direction you choose ...

... because flood is in the eye of the beholder.

Weathered

Hanoi is finally hitting its humid straps and I noticed something coming at me this morning through the rising heat. I now know it was a worst case scenario.

Step 1. 

As I got dressed for work today I realised that they are shrinking my clothes. Everything is progressively getting tighter and smaller. They are shinking them at the laundry, they are shrinking them in my washing machine. I don't know how they did it but they even managed to shrink my belt when I wasn't looking. Shrinking, shrinking, shrinking. I feel like the British Empire. 

So I am wearing uncomfortably tight clothes. The relevance of this will soon become apparent.

Step 2

My job is business dress so I wear a long-sleeved shirt and a tie to work. This doubles the ill effects of all heat and humidity. The relevance of this will soon become apparent.

Step 3

When I wake up I am supposed to put on my apartment air conditioner, so that I can dry down appropriately before work. I forgot to do it this morning and left the apartment a tad moist. Nothing visible, but still teetering on the edge of sweaty.

Step 4

The local breakfast. I meet up with R and we drive to the local streetstall. It's pretty full so we need to crouch on a short plastic stool at a table by the dusty road in this hot weather with tight pants and no more than 20cm off the ground. By the dusty road means that my back is about 50 cm from various car and motorbike tyres ... it's a challenge.

Step 5

I put too much chilli in my soup. This starts me sweating even more. Combined with the dust from the road, I am sweating, coughing and sniffling. The dust soaks up some of the sweat in the short term, but before long the dam walls burst and my shirt is quite soaked around the middle. I grab some serviettes and do my best to mop up my brow and eyes. I roll up my shirt sleeves but it's too late: the sweat has already started to pool around my elbows. My plastic chair is contributing to the sweaty mêlée by sticking to my pants and am thankful that they are black: hopefully no one will think I've had a granny accident when I stand up.

Step 6

I finish my meal and go to get up off my plastic stool. It gives a little bit, my wet hand slips on the edge, and I take a little tumble into the dirt. I fall onto my hand and shin, but luckiliy the fall is broken when they land on a bed of discarded limes and paper serviettes; descendents from customers past. I ask R to go up and pay as I steady myself and peel a lime off my forearm.

Step 7

I walk back to my motorbike and stupidly check myself in the rear view mirror. My shirt is now completely soaked in the middle, my face (apart from looking miserable) is dripping with sweat and I'm making the final attempts to brush wet dirt away from the obvious spots on my pants. This is not the styling of a fresh office worker doing his final glance in the mirror before heading out at 8:15. And I do appreciate that I'm a potato and I'm in Hanoi and it's summer and all that ... but sweet baby Jesus come on!

Step 8

So on goes the helmet and I start up the bike. It's parked in a bit of wet dirt, which cakes around my shoes and refuses to do anything but move slowly upwards. As I go to turn onto oncoming traffic my laptop bag tips off its spot without warning and falls into the dirt. I suspect a suicide attempt or at the very least, a cry for help.

I rescue my bag, wedge it between my knees and head off into the traffic. The stand is down so I need to stop embarrassingly in front of "my local" as I hold up a road full of noisy traffic. Their horns alert all diners that I'm in awkward trouble, just in case no one noticed. Just to complete the scene, I lurch and stall as I attempt to make a hasty exit.

If this was Austria they would all be lying on the floor laughing by now. I think of this and am thankful for the sea of gormless looks that is my audience.

The drive to work is relatively uneventful. I take on a couple of potatoes, somewhat successfully. There is no feeling more triumphant than overtaking a potato in traffic and none more humiliating than the opposite. There can be no worthier road death.

While it's still very hot and humid, the exhaust-scented breeze is helpful and I dry off a bit on the trip to work. I pull into the basement carpark and queue for my ticket with the other motorbikes. I imagine that I'm still looking like shit, but somewhat recovered. The carpark is like an oven and the longer I sit there in the queue the worse it gets. A couple of long transactions occur ahead of me in the queue and this adds at least 5 minutes to my wait.  I feel my granny patch returning and my shirt is replenishing its reserves. The dam walls are cracking. I pay the attendant, park illegally near the lift and pull of my helmet. A wave of heat pours off my head and I feel like one of those deep sea divers as they are pulled back onto the boat. My hair is completely wet and matted to my scalp.

The elevator takes forever to arrive. It is not so much broken as refusing to come to me. It knows.

So I take the stairs and as I emerge onto my floor get a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Shirt sleeves are crumpled and messy and unfurled ... like a paper bag which has decided it no longer wants to hold onto the sausage roll. My hair is appalling (and I mean toddler-at-a-swimming-pool appalling). Black pants are still hiding the sweat but showing every grain of dirt. The mid section of my shirt (not my best section) is completely drenched and transparent through the patches which are sticking to my skin. There are other islands of sweat in mysterious little places like the left shoulder . There is mud caked around my shoes and inexplicably, a little piece has worked its way up onto one of my knees. There is nowhere to run and nowhere to dry. So I walk in through the automatic glass doors and greet our receptionist, Linh, who is visibly shocked by what she sees. She quickly gets up and opens the door for me: a gesture of kindness in stark contrast to the climate.

There is no remaining spring in my step. In fact I feel somewhat surreal as I limp along past the rows of desks. Some colleagues notice me as I pass them and have a look of guilty relief on their faces. I recognise this as the face I pull when reacting to someone else's bad news. 

This is not the entrance I had planned.

This is not a fresh, well-dressed young manager arriving to work ready to inspire and impress. This is not even Melanie Griffith, allowing her miniskirt to ride up suggestively as she takes off her sandshoes. This is the final scene of a spaghetti western and I am halfway through my twenty paces.

Went to Market

I ride past Truc Bach every day on my way to work and on each occasion I think of the images of John McCain being ... umm ... let's call it "liberated" from its depths. 

Truc Bach is actually a very small lake quite close to the old quarter of Hanoi. It's so bizarre to think that the Americans were able to get so close to Hanoi and bomb the fuck out of it for ... umm ... some good reason or other.

Yesterday as I was driving along Truc Bach lake I had a different purpose. I was trying to catch this guy in front of me so that I could film him. 

He was hunched over and weaving in and out of traffic, gunning it.

In case you're wondering, they're pigs. Lots of pigs.

Deflating the Doll

This new colloquialism from Urban Dictionary is fantastic.

Deflating the doll

1) Packing up a hotel room to check-out; or

2) Generally keeping your colleagues waiting in your hotel lobby

"Hey Bill, what's the hold-up? We're all waiting for you in the lobby to catch a cab to the airport!"

-- "Sorry Mike, just deflating the doll. Be right down"

Go All Blacks

I work with a Japanese girl who was telling me yesterday about her time in New Zealand.

Her first impression was that there was a high level of entrenched racism.

She kept seeing the sign "Go All Blacks" on posters and sometimes as graffiti on buildings.

She was surprised her that they would:

- group all black people together like that

- want all of them to go away

- be so open about it

Why Didn't She Just Wipe It Off?

"Hi - could I please speak to Ms Huong?"

-- "Who is this? Who are you?"

"It's Anthony. I need to talk to Ms Huong about my visa."

-- "She is not here."

"Oh. Will she be back later this afternoon?"

-- "No. She is not here. A little bit sick on the face today. Try Monday"

Here She Comes

I'm sitting in a cafe at the moment with gentle piano music playing.

The tune seemed quite familiar at first ... but I couldn't put my finger on it ... but the basic similarities and key changes definitely indicate that these are piano variations ... but what's the theme? 

Then I realised.

It's "Here Comes the Bride"!

I'm eating my lunch while listening to 10 easy listening variations on Here Comes the Bride. I'm tempted to suggest an 11th.

Displace we call home

Coming back from Brisbane after such a brief visit feels really strange. For one, Brisbane is not my home. I don’t even know the name of the main street but hope for Brissake it’s not Adelaide. I used to like the way so many ordinary towns and street names in Australia were derived from grander English equivalents. Even the insubordinate spelling of Surry Hills had a certain charm. But not any more ... I submit the following examples as evidence: 

a) I’m standing behind a 20-something English backpacker on the up escalator of Kings Cross station. Her pedigree is revealed via a cheap tangerine croptop stretched over a cheap bra. Her newly tanned hips are spilling out over her jeans and running into my line of sight. Coincidentally, her other hand is holding a muffin. She is boasting loudly on the phone (“I love the wevahh here in Sydney but everyfink else is 5 years behind London”).

b) I’m walking back home at 3am on a Friday morning after a very late Thursday night out. From a distance I see a 31-year-old Jordie in a suit, pissing on the stairs of my building. By the time I get to the stairs he is vomiting into his fresh puddle. I imagine that he works in a merchant bank and on Thursday night work drinks he is the first to declare loudly across the pool table that Australia has no fucking culture or history of its own.

This makes me ponder whether England is best experienced from within England.

Back to me.

I’m sitting here on the return flight and have come to a couple of conclusions:

a) I’m homeless. 

3 months in Hanoi is too early to start calling Vietnam home. Home needs to contain an address, a community, a minimum time period … and I’ve only just ticked the first box.

b) I don’t miss people. 

“Missing” is what happens to a ball or a flight. Sometimes it happens to the point. But for me, the feeling of being away from people is more corporeal. When I'm away from people who are important to me, it feels like a piece has been carved out of my body and replaced by something unfamiliar. I’m talking about a real piece, too. Give me a black marker, a Stilnox and 3 glasses of red wine and I would draw a little island just under my left rib cage. 2 Stilnox and I'll vacuum the furniture at the same time. Notwithstanding all that, I think this is the place where my sense of communion lives and I can feel when it's not right. It also looks like New Zealand and lurks near the spleen.

So I sit here for hours on the plane, thinking about all this and wondering at times wherethefuckamIgoing and whatthefuckamIdoing. This feeling is intensified when an ageing flight attendant presses his penis into my shoulder while trying to avoid an old lady who is bulldozing past him in a purple Magnetic Island t-shirt. 

I shift my shoulder and the attendant moves on. I look around again and notice that this aircraft is being dominated by pensioners, frog marching along the aisles, waging war on thrombosis and leaving nothing in their wake. There are currently 7 tracksuits on aisle patrol so I decide to wait it out and hunt for a vacant toilet later  ... when my captors are fatigued ... so I lay back and close my eyes ... and mutinously pray for turbulence.

I flick through the in-flight magazines and consider buying (yet) another $200 pair of Bang & Olufsen earphones from the duty free catalogue. They are advertised in Green and White, both of which look quite ugly. So I tell myself – and a flight attendant with very bad breath – that I will only buy them if black is available. He comes back, leans over at near-point-blank range and tells me that black is not available and white looks nice. I nearly pass out and whisper “ok” as I recoil weakly back in my seat. Surely this intimate sales technique is not legal.

I hold my breath while the earphones are handed over while promising myself to love, honour and protect these earphones from misadventure; but knowing deep down that their days are numbered.

So here I am, a dirty white potato with ugly white earphones held captive in my chair by veiny pensioners. I’m missing pieces under my ribs and getting peeled by flight attendants with bad breath. Trapped and cored and peeled. By November I can probably be painted and hung on a Christmas tree.

The Art of Potatoes

Don't Look Left, Don't Look Right, Don't Look Bike. 

Here are some rules you could die fighting for:

a) When crossing the road, demonstrate your commitment by trusting everyone.

b) Even the easiest roads will turn against you without notice.

c) "Tight Squeeze" is the language of cowards

d) Never forget where you came from.

Taken. TO the Cleaners, BY the Cleaners, FOR the Cleaners

I received a new email from my building manager, Hang Nga. The email’s subject pun was quite sweet, making the sting in her tail far more painful.

20 May 2009 23:17 Subject: Clearing up your queries

Dear Mr Anthony,

We would like to inform you that:

Ms Hao (your cleaner) has been your cleaner since you came and lived here.

We only favour you with these such as washing dishes, folding clothes in short time. However, If you want our cleaner to do these, you shall have to pay for these. And the charge is as reported in last time.

Many Thanks and best regards

Lake side garden

hang Nga

If I can be of any help, please contact to me.

Well, well well ... yes I do remember this “charge as reported last time”. It was $100 USD/month. And I refused to pay. And I suggested alternatives. But I guess it’s just easier to go back in time to the part where I have to pay money.

'That fucking two faced fucking Bich Ha!*', I mused.

I think the subject of her email should have been something like:

Subject: Maybe you thought you were up 15-30? Well Anthony I’m still fucking serving!

[Either way it’s now 30-All]

10 minutes later I received another email. So we're calling it “trouble” now? What am I - Northern Ireland?

20 May 2009 23:27 Subject: My opinion of your trouble

Dear Mr Anthony,

 I tell following idea in a private capacity (I tell myself, Not on behalf of Lake Side Garden)

 In my opinion, You should give your cleaner (Ms Hao) improved item(incentive bonus)instead you have to pay for small things such as washing dishes, folding clothes monthly. I guess that you do not have to pay that fee.

If you want, I can talk to her. However, If you do not want, Please count that I have never concerned with this matter. 

[Let. First Service.]

Thank you very much! 

Hang Nga

Well I'll be. I think Hang Nga has just turned double agent. And I think I like it. I don’t know how to describe this feeling, but I’m going with “caramel”.

Of course this threw me into a complete spin. I had no idea what to do with this late-landing development. After extensive consultation with R on merits and ethics I decided on the road most taken: bribery. 

In the absence of any experience we agreed it would be best to offer just under $25 USD/month, which is about half of what R pays for his cleaning..

Here is my email response back:

21 May 2009 00:50 Subject: My opinion of Re: My opinion of your trouble.

Dear Hang Nga

Thanks for your suggestions. This is very little work but what do you think if I left 400,000 VND for her on the table every month?

[30-40]

To which I received the following:

21 May 2009 16:08 Subject: Re: My opinion of Re: My opinion of your trouble.

Dear Mr Anthony,

If you want, I will tell to her. 400,000 every month, I think it is too much. You can reward less than

400,000vnd every month. However,it is great If you left 400,000 vnd for her. 

[Deuce]

Thank you. I shall tell to her on tomorrow morning.

[Ace!]   [Advantage Server!]

Thanks you and best regards

Hang Nga

Whoa whoa whoa whoooooooa there ... Hang Nga! 

Let me be clear: this all started with me not wanting to pay anything at all. Now you think I'm the one insisting on paying above market rates?  And while it’s not about the money ... it’s about being fair on all potatoes past and present. I will only be peeled so far.

I sent the following email:

21 May 2009 19:37 Subject: Re: My opinion of Re: My opinion of your trouble.

If it is too much then I will leave 300,000.

I don't want to pay too much - just a fair price.

[Deuce]

To which I received the following reply:’

21 May 2009 20:42 Subject: Re: My opinion of Re: My opinion of your trouble.

Dear Mr Anthony

It depends on you. I have prospected for view of some people. someone reward 300,000, others award 400,000 and some reward 500,000 to their cleaner.However, I think 300,000 or 350,000 is hightly appreciate.

[Advantage Server]

I shall talk to her about this in tomorrow morning.

On behalf of her, I thank you very much.

Have a nice trip!

Thank you and best regards

Hang Nga

Whoa whoa whoa whoooooooa there ... Hang Nga! 

Oh, so now I’m a scab???!!?! If you and your private thoughts know what I should have been paying, then why aren't you telling me?

At this point I imagine myself scuttling along the bribery sea bed, squinting through my darting beady eyes with my sour mouth and my 300,000 VND tightly grasped in my hand. I also have a forked tail.

Oh - and another thing - Hang Nga also knows I’ve gone away today. How does she know? I didn’t tell anyone.  The security guard must have told the cleaner who told someone who told someone who told her. 

This is some of grapevine and I think to myself,  'I bet everyone also knows I’m a scab.'

One last email to salvage my tarnished reputation. This time I added lowercase to appear groovy and skypey.

21 May 2009 20:45 Subject: Re: my opinion about your trouble

hi hang nga

i think 350,000 is fair then. i will leave this amount every month.

thanks for your assistance.

[Game to Ms Hang Nga! Ms Hang Nga leads 3 games to Love ...]

At this moment I imagine Hang Nga in a tennis dress, gulping on her Coke-branded water bottle before getting up from her chair to change ends.

21 May 2009 20:53 Subject: Re: my opinion about your trouble

Dear Mr Anthony,

Thank you very much

I shall talk to her.

have a nice trip!

Many thanks and best regards

Hang Nga

On balance, I should also see this as a win for me. Deep down, I think HN was guiding me away from her rip-off building owner and into a more suitable outcome for all.

It’s not always so easy to hit the right notes when you’re singing in the Key of Bribe … but I think this little birdy just found its voice. I'm going to buy people's love and friendship via a bribing campaign.

* There is someone in my company whose real name is Bich Ha. Regrettably (for her) she is also a bit of a Bich Ha. She occupies one of those anonymous admin jobs which you never knew existed until one day, it reaches up out of an email and bites you hard on the nose. I recently received one such introductory email from Bich Ha, where she highlighted some process violation which delayed me getting expenses paid. Something along the lines of saying I should have used cash and not used a card. A card is for hotels, not transport. So explain yourself and don’t you dare do it again. No it’s not documented anywhere but you should have known. I quickly settled matters with an apology which was both outwardly heartfelt and inwardly detached. From then on, R and I have used the term Bich Ha to refer to any person or admin event which is unnecessarily cold. Mostly it’s along the line of “I don’t even know what this email means – what a Bich Ha”.

Somewhat Legitimate Potatospeak

The potato lives on urban dictionary, under potato definition number 21. 

Some of its urban neighbours are less than wholesome but we may just need to draw from them later so I'll reserve judgement.

Please go in and do a thumbs up for me ... it may improve my potato position.

Oh, and the wikipedia entry has survived its 10th day on death row.