Where There's Secondhand Smoke ...

I returned to work this morning after a week off and am going through hundreds (literally) of unread emails. It's a tough job but somebody ... well ... anyway ... let's just say ... that by the 40th email I was feeling a little overworked and overwhelmed.

Until one particular email walked into my Inbox and into my life. It is from our National Security Manager, Giang. You may remember her from such emails as the Mean Chinese Streets of San Francisco. Giang has been at it again. In the process, she has tied some very loosely related concepts into a very tight knot.

Dear colleagues,

Fire is one of the most destructive and disruptive catastrophes to people, facilities, assets, and businesses and fire can be ignited by just an incompletely extinguished cigarette. Businesses have long recognized the danger of fire. This is the reason modernized commercial and residential buildings are equipped with fire alarm sensors, smoke detectors, fire extinguishers, and fire sprinkler systems.

As seriously as fire, secondhand smoke is proven to be hazardous to our health.

Our policy states "it is our intent, in response to employee concern, to provide an environment that is smoke free for its employees. Unless state/local laws provide otherwise, a smoke free environment can be achieved by prohibiting smoking inside the building..."

Please restrain from smoking inside the office area at anytime. If you smoke, please go to the designated smoking areas.

Thanks and Best regards,

Giang

Good to see she's not blaming the Chinese this time, mind, but Giang's associations are becoming a little too abstruse for my liking.

I don't ever recall hearing that second-hand smoke had caused a residential building to burn down. Or wiped out a village in a bush fire. Or badly-scarred a well-behaved child. Or necessitated skin grafts and helmets. Or was prevented via ceiling sprinklers. To my knowledge, second-hand smoke has never been linked to Sophie Delezio - a logical first stopover for any self respecting disaster.

Sure. Fire can cause harm and injury to people. Even death. But so can a meat cleaver (especially if brandished by a Californian Chinaman). So can stress. So can a fall from a ladder. So can a wrecking ball at a building site. So can a loose bolt on a ferris wheel. And so can second-hand smoke. And so what?

Sure. The occasional barmaid pops up on the telie reeking of lung cancer ... having never smoked a cigarette in her life (apparently) ... shedding a few tears on 60 Minutes ... blaming her customers ... obscuring a couple of ugly gormless teens on the couch ... but I ask you:

a) Is it any coincidence that she also happens to be poorly dressed? I think not.

b) Is it any coincidence that her hair is badly cut and poorly dyed? I think not.

c) Is it any coincidence that her make-up gun was set to "5" (Whore) this morning? Doubt it.

This retired barmaid's lung cancer is swimming in a pool of so many potential causes that I'm surprised we can even see it. I blame the lung cancer on her hair.

Secondhand smoke is an easy scapegoat, while the immutable link between cancer and bad hair goes largely unacknowledged. Her body is clearly (clearly) protesting against the wiry peroxided tangled cloud it is forced to live under. Her body is simply revolting.

And so is her hair. (Boom boom.)

I have never met someone with both cancer and nice hair and that's all I've got to say on the matter. For another 40 emails at least.

In the spirit of non sequiturs ... please remember to vote my potato up (and the competition down). If I need to bend my neck for a medal, I want it to be gold.

Total Member

Vietnamese people in white collar jobs have complete confidence in their bureaucracy ... an absence of doubt that only Communism could create. Or Germany.

Sometimes it feels like you are constantly being dealt a hand of random rules. If you ask about a particular rule, you will not be given any further detail or explanation. The other person will assume you didn’t hear them the first time, and restate the rule verbatim. Then restate it. And restate it. And restate it. Until your exasperation has been emulsified into compliance.

“Sorry sir your form is using blue pen.”

-- “Oh. OK. But it's OK then?”

“No. You must use black pen.”

-- “You won’t accept this form because I used blue pen?”

“Yes. No. You need to use a black pen. This is blue. I cannot process this.”

“But why?”

-- “Because it is blue.”

“No. I mean. Why can’t I just use blue pen? Why black?”

-- “Our policy is black pen.”

“But I used your pen. The blue pen. That one." [Points] "Over there. On the counter. The counter with the forms." [Walks over and picks it up] "It is attached to the counter with this red string." [Points at the side of the pen] "It has your company name on it." [Puts it down and walks back.]

-- “But that pen is blue. You need to use black pen. Next to it.”

“But WHY?”

-- “Because it is black.”

“Oh. OK Kevin."

And Buddha Help You if you make a mistake on a form, not matter how minor, and attempt to cover it up or cross it out. Because you will never get away with it. It would be easier to wriggle your way out of murder charges. The minute you make a mistake, tear it up and start again. You have killed the form ... so the quicker you can destroy the evidence the better.

People with only a smidgen of authority will apply their rules strictly. Parking attendants are the worst. When you park downstairs at work you will be given a paper ticket. The tickets are flimsy and non descript and generic. Like entering a school raffle for a Xmas hamper.

Just. Don't. Lose. It.

If you lose this ticket you will be forced to wait in a little office for half an hour until the supervisor arrives. He will sit you down, smile and offer you iced tea before gently interrogating you. You gently sip the tea and answer his questions, you gradually realise that this may be the Good Cop. You will provide your passport number, home address and phone numbers. You show him your business card, which he accepts with both hands. The little finger nail on his left hand is perfectly manicured and long, while his left nails are filthy.

You are then told that his manager will now need to come down.

Bad Cop arrives soonafter. If you had been offered a cigarette, he would have knocked it out of your mouth as he swooped in and down into the only unoccupied chair. Bad Cop tells you that your bike is going to be impounded. No questions. He points across to a roped-off area of the car park where you can see a few bikes already sitting there glumly, yours now included, like teenagers on detention. Bad Cop tells you that you need to come back tomorrow with a photocopy of your passport, a photocopy of your driver's licence, a completed form (which he hands you) and a copy of the registration papers of the bike. If the bike is rented, you need to come back with the owner of the place where you rented the bike. You ask if that is necessary, and he simply repeats all of this again.

You tell him that all his staff know you, most of them by name. That you park here every day.They wave to you when you arrive and leave. The key you're holding even fits the ignition. You have a business card with an address at this building. Bad Cop will have none of it.

Later, if you explain to a local about this lost ticket drama and the silly rules and effort involved they look at you incredulously while you're telling them the story ... you start to think they’re on your side, you tell them more and more ... then when you finish you get a “Why did you lose your ticket?!? You shouldn’t lose your ticket!”.

The same happened when R had his iPhone snatched out of his hand while sitting on the street texting. Someone drove past while the passenger leaned out of the window and grabbed it. When R was at work the next day and recounted this to a local, they said "You shouldn't send sms on the street. You should be more careful." This in a city with bugger-all crime.

People in decent jobs do not try very hard, if at all, to “sell” their product either. For example, if you walk into a fancy motorbike shop and you will be either ignored or gently stalked. But at no time will anyone offer to help you understand what you’re looking at, or (Buddha forbid) persuade you to buy it.

Outside the tourist areas, or markets with flowers, people will not attempt to sell you their product ... an absence of marketing that only communism could create. Or an engineering degree.

These learnings became relevant when I finally decided to join the Hanoi Club.

First up, I walked up to the reception desk and asked if someone could show me around. No problem. The main drawcard for me is the gym. They also have a driving range, a swimming pool, upstairs they have a restaurant, some meeting rooms, the occasional patch of threadbare carpet and some boarded up corridors. There is a crap library that smells of granny and a mini cinema. There is also a rusty speedboat that you can hire, no questions or licences asked.

They are also incredibly inflexible. You need to pay your yearly membership up-front and there are no refunds. As we were slowly walking downstairs I asked her about this policy:

“Is there any circumstance where I would get a refund? What if my job makes me leave Hanoi after 3 months, can I get any money back?”

—“No. No refund.”

"What about if my mother dies. If I pay you today for 1 year and my mother dies tomorrow and I need to leave, do you give me the money back?"

—“No. No refund.” [Genuinely smiles.]

“OK. Do you don’t care if my mother dies?”

—“No” [Genuinely smiles again.] "One time we had a man who paid for 3 years membership. After 1 month his family had a very bad car accident and he had to leave Vietnam. We did not give him any money back. 3 years. 3 months. No refund.”

“That’s a lovely story, Sharon. Thanks for sharing it with me.”

She nodded and smiled back at me as we descended the stairs and walked back to the desk. As I shelled out the dosh I winced, caught myself, and tried to make it look like a smile.

Gotta get me some o this

Look where I've been invited:

http://truotco.com/imgdetail.php?lst=25&tenthuvien=Khu%20trượt

In 3 weeks' time I will become a customer of Grass Ski Vietnam.

... and I will choose to be the 3rd from the right.

Customer Servers

I was reading today that Shanghai is trying to clean up its English signage before the World Expo.

I hope it doesn't spell the end of restaurants such as this:

The Chinese characters say "restaurant". While the English translation beside it tells us that the online translation tool wasn't working.

The best part ... is that even this computer error message was grammatically incorrect. If it was my on-line Chinese/English free translation tool, I would have the decency to word it as "Server translation error".

Translate server error. I'm gettin' hungry just thinking about it.

It reminds me of this photo I took in Jakarta at a local Pharmacy. Just yesterday, in fact.

Just what was going on during their Marketing workshop?

Who decided the condoms should be called "Virgin"? Whose idea was it to have a coloured symbol on the front of the box which looks like a pair o legs? Whose idea was it for the legs to be spread?

What is the advertising strapline? "Virgins. One more fuck won't count."

What are the target customers saying to each other after the purchase? "How's about we grab a pack o virgins and go find ourselves some sluts"?

There's also this brand, below, which I found in Hanoi. It sits in the "suggest sell" area at my local supermarket, next to the chewing gum beside the checkout. I imagine this Marketing workshop was run quite differently.

"Buy 12 Long Shock Condoms and -- well -- expect something unusual to happen." Fuck knows what.

The Humble Potato

If you want to learn a foreign language you need to do a lot of guessing. In the beginning, it's easier to understand than to can speak. Understanding requires less words.

You don’t need to catch every word. You don’t even need to catch every sentence. You just need to gather enough evidence to reconstruct the events for yourself.

Native speakers can comfortably hear (and use) each of the words in a sentence: they can even play around with them. The rest of us spend our time trawling for key words, fishing them out, then placing them back into a meaningful sentence of our own.

Here in Vietnam I still need to use English throughout much of my day. I also need to adjust my language appropriately so that I can be easily understood, eg:

“Please … lemon juice … one.”

Even at work, where English proficiency is mandatory, I make adjustments to enable efficient communication, eg:

“Deadline … tomorrow … OK?”

This is not unusual: we all do this in a foreign country. It’s ignorant to expect them to follow your natural speech. On the other hand, it’s condescending to talk to them like they're morons (Edwina facial expressions being a prime example of the latter). These traps are easily avoided though. There’s plenty of room between ignorant and condescending ... it’s just a matter of knowing where you’re allowed to play.

(I do realise that technically I'm the foreigner in the above example ... but big whoop.)

Broken English is bloody difficult to master and mine has come a long way in a short time. I would now probably now call myself fluent. After a few months here I have slowed down and stripped out many colloquialisms, idioms, big words, games, mumbles and puns. ]I know the words to leave in, which ones to emphasise and the best word order. I can even translate for new potatoes without them feeling inadequate or bulldozed (ones needs to be very discreet, while remaining discrete).

I have added some new words, too. I no longer get back to you, I "revert". A friendly but firm "stop" works much better than "would you mind pulling over here" and "I haven't finished my order yet".

Certain words are much more likely to be understood on the first attempt:

- It is better to “google” something than to “look it up”.

- Questions which begin with “What time” outrank those which begin with “When”. Statements which suggest the time are even more effective.

- Jokes (which are kept to a minimum) must include a childish sight gag or an immature sexual innuendo. They don't need to be funny.

- Exclaiming "Bingo!" (with both thumbs up) continues to be very well received.

But all this is not enough. I also assemble my (unhurried) speech into clusters of words, with pauses between them. I keep my facial expressions and hand signals respectfully in tow. I have a closet full of “humble foreigner” faces which can be worn to suit any occasion: Dopey Grin, Confused Toddler; Village Idiot and Overzealous Gratitude to name a few.

So here I am ... Mr Broken English. Where I go from here? Where does this little potato take these new skills? I have found somewhere but I don't think it has a name. I think I'll use Elsewhere for now.

Here in Elsewhere, the little potato has started adding other words back in. New words. Special words. Words which do not benefit the listener. These ones are for me.

I figured that because I now know how to identify and use the right key words for people ... I have the freedom to put any other words in the spaces arond them.

It started with Nancy. I started saying “Thanks Nancy” and “Hi Nancy” to people in service situations which involve English: mostly potato cafés, stores or restaurants. It’s perfectly harmless and the extra bit is never understood. It also doesn’t matter if the other preson is male or female. As far as they are concerned I could be saying “Thanks Heaps” … they get the “thanks” and ignore the unrecognised syllables that followed it. I haven’t stopped at Nancy, either. Sharon and Kevin get a run as well.

There is something satisfying about having a friendly young waitress put your coffee down in front of me, ask if there is anything else she can get me, only to have me respond with a “Nothing. Thank you, Kevin”. She smiles. I smile. Win win.

This technique is also useful when narrating a situation that’s not going so well. It’s venting, but without the venting.

“One soda water please? Thanks. That’s great. Do you mind touching the top of the straw with your grotty hands? Excellent. I think you missed a bit … nope. Got it. Thanks Kevin.”

Or being seated at a restaurant:

“Where? I Go there? The crap seat by the air conditioner? OK. Thanks.”

Or even subtlely at work:

“You want me to do it? Dump it on me? No problem. Thanks for flicking.”

Or when someone tries to rip me off:

“I know you’re peeling me.” and on departure, when they have succeeded ... “Thanks. Got peeled. Bye bye.”

I would like to think that this is far more sophisticated than Cheesel and me in Moscow, calling people fuckwits to their face and giggling behind their backs. This potato would like to think that he has now rolled far from that patch.

I'm finding that this little habit is now working its way onto forms and documents. For example:

- My Marital Status on my HSBC Account lists me as "Estranged yet Hopeful" (there was a lot of space beside the þOther box).

- After years of describing myself as an E N T E R T A I N E R, My Vietnamese Arrival and Departure Cards NOW state my occupation as "F A N C Y M A N" or more recently, "F A N C Y P A N T S".

Didn't we all, as kids, say that we grow up we want to be a Fireman, or a Nurse, or a Doctor or or a Fancypants? I certainly recall hearing Lisa say it at the pool.

I don't know why I'm doing all this but I see no signs of it abating. Although I do see signs of it ending in tears. Or arrest. Or cardiac arrest. Or Winter.

seen just now

old, frail vietnamese man wearing a t-shirt with an image of a 6-pack of beer on it.

the slogan says "i've got six appeal"

i doubt he's got either - the joke or the appeal.

John Malkovich

Don't get him. Don't like him.

Ditto Rowan Atkinson.

Tossers.

'sall I'm saying.

Man's Desiring

I've been really busy at work the past few weeks and my unread email count is slowly mounting. The counter is constantly staring at me: a bolded number book-ended by smug little parentheses. He's propped himself up there, next to the Inbox label, ensuring he's visible from all angles.

Lately my counter has been undergoing quite a growth spurt and like any teenager in similar position, he is becoming more and more annoying. Most of the time he just sits there, slackjawed and unimpressed and constantly staring at me with disapproval.

He's saying: "You're never going to get all this done by Saturday" and "Do you realise how many things you need to do?" and "I'm not sure you've got your priorities right".

Sometimes I look away for a short while, then look back only to realise that he's grown another couple of inches without warning.

And I'm thinking: "Oh God ... where do I start?" and "I'm never going to get all this done by Saturday." and "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!".

He knows that I know that he knows what I'm thinking. And it's not helping matters.

There are some people who don't seem to be concerned about this. Their unread counters can hits the thousands, yet they seem to trot along just fine with not a care in the world. I've met these people. I'ved worked with some of them. Sometimes when I'm looking over their shoulder at their screen and they don't even attempt to cover up the counter with their hand, or a plant. Impressive insouciance. Maybe there is a breaking point with the unread email counter.

However, for me, the knowledge of unread email creates a dry sense of unease. It lives with me permanently, about halfway down my throat. Behind the oesophagus. Maybe though, just maybe, once the counter reaches a certain number the dam walls burst and we all stop worrying about getting wet. Or maybe some of these people never even worried in the first place.

I don't think so. I don't think they are happy or unconcerned at all. These are the same people who have 700 Facebook friends. It all seems great on the surface, so wonderful and chirpy and social and busybusybusy. But back at home, late at night, lying in bed, alone with their own thoughts, they privately worry whether they have any real friends at all. Surely there is nothing more lonely than having 700 Facebook friends.

Back to me.

This morning at about 10am I was in a multitasking frenzy - emails, conference calls, document reviews, PowerPoint presentation updates. All these little tribulations that take up such a large chunk of my working life. Oh, what a life. I can't wait until I'm about 90 years old, looking back on my life at all the things I've done with it. All the PowerPoint. All the email. These will not be the reflections of Mandela.

At about 10:15am I was looking for a recent email I had already read (take that, counter) but hadn't yet replied to (OK I take it back). I couldn't find this particular. I looked for another. I couldn't find it either. Then I looked up at the unread email counter and it had halved. Where did everything go?

A few checks and searches later and I realised that I had accidentally deleted about half of all my emails. A few more checks and I knew they weren't coming back. I didn't know how or why it happened but they were gone. I just stared blankly at the screen, incredulous and gobsmacked. I thought about all the things these emails represented - I had such a catalogue of things which were not yet done ... so much to reply to ... to update ... the calendar invitations to accept ... general reading to keep myself abreast of what's going on ... the wording reviews I had promised ... the emails I read and roll my eyes through ... the ones about evil Chinese people in San Francisco. Midway through all of my gurning at the screen, an overwhelming feeling crept up on me and circled for a while and moved over me before then descending down to engulf me. It pinned me into position and stayed there for a while. It released me to get on with my work, but I could still feel the lingering after-effects and I laboured through the remaining half of my workload. I don't know what it was but I think it was joy.

Star of David

I've only managed to complete 3 of my language lessons. This is due to my recent travel schedule. That's what I tell myself and what I tell Hoa (my teacher). Hoa she doesn't seem too fussed. Hoa has done her fair share of postponing. In the past 2 months I have received about 5 late-landing sms's along the following line:

"hi anh anthony. am tired 2day so maybe not possible 2 do lesson".

The sms has to be written in English, which reflects poorly on both of us.

Nevertheless, I've been reading ahead in the book. Hoa's course is full of dialogue practice. She features as the primary Vietnamese character in most of it. This makes each lesson feel somewhat homemade - on the sweeter side of twee. It does, however, make me wonder how the University of Hanoi has found itself on the cover of the book and in the header of each page. Has the University of Hanoi really sanctioned Hoa to produce her own plays, photocopy them and schlep them out to potatoes for $9/hour? If things go sour between us I think I'll dob her in. Let her face a different type of sanction. I don't think that will happen because we meet so infrequently that there is little opportunity for a falling out. And besides I like her, even though (especially because?) she gets the giggles when I make mistakes.

Nevertheless, I've been reading ahead in the book. I am looking forward to lesson 6, which ends thus:

Anh: David, I'd like to introduce you Hoa!

David: Hello, Hoa, nice to meet you!

Hoa: Hello David, nice to meet you too! How long have you been in Vietnam?

David: 3 months.

Hoa: Are you here in Vietnam for holidays?

David: No. I work here.

Hoa: How is life in Vietnam?

David: Quite cheap.

Planting the FO squarely up SFO

Sometimes I get something so bizarre that it makes my day. This email was sent to our entire Vietnamese organisation this morning ... all 500 or so peeps.

Subject: San Francisco China Town versus Vietnam

Dear all,

Have you ever been in San Francisco, the beautiful city by the bay?

How about China Town in San Francisco? Exciting and Fun, is it?

You may ask the police and people there and they will not admit it; but the district of China Town has been skillfully, stealthily infiltrated by the underworld crime lords, their secret societies, and notorious street gangs.

Long ago... due to my line of work, I often mixed in with them, understood them, and realized how fascinating, disciplined, and organized their world could be. There were unwritten laws and rules to be followed, and access control codes to be obeyed by all members of a particular gang, which have absolutely no tolerance, but only brutal punishment to its violators.

Fortunately, our own access rules and procedures are much more respectful, gentler, and easier to follow.

I am sure you agree with me, by reading the attached document, that delicate, law-abiding, and well mannered people like us can outperform those wise guys from the mean streets of San Francisco.

This email was sent by Giang, our National Security Manager. I thank her for sharing these details of her former life ... learning, living and lurking in the darkest corners of San Francisco ... wilfully lowering herself into the dirtiest abyss of humankind. I also feel secure in the knowledge that Giang is racist against Chinese people and was prepared to look as far as San Francisco to find an example of their nastiness.

Like many such emails, the wording is intended to introduce the attached document and give ALL employees a reason to open it. Worked for me. The document itself is a 6-page procedure on how to gain access to a company building:

Part 1 shows how to enter the building. It tells you how the swipe cards have inbuilt chips. They must be held up against rectangular panels in order to open automated sliding glass doors. The image shows a woman's hand (French Finish) inserting an ancient metal key into an old wooden door.

Part 2 shows what your employee or visitor card could look like (6 different types, 3 different colours). Lots of images across 4 pages.

Part 3 outlines the procedure for signing in visitors. This must be the part where we stop Chinese people from entering.

Sweet Vali High

All this careless talk of Valium and Stilnox and Margot Kidder must make me seem a little reckless. Possibly feckless. Certainly not Heche-less.

In most cases, these types of behaviour are clear signs of a mid-life crisis ... except in my case where they are neither recent nor out of character.

In Indonesia they are already onto me so no eyebrows raised there.

Last night we went to a local potato bar. It advertised unlimited food and drinks (cocktails, wine, beer, you name it) for the equivalent of $14 USD.

The food was a little limited but the drinks flowed freely as promised. An empty stomach and lots of wine does not produce my best behaviours, especially the cheap white that I was knocking back like Gatorade. As I handed my money to the demanding waitress ("Pay Money Now!"), I realised that my night had become riddled with potential hazards.

R happened to be carrying valium (now that I've hooked him on it he never leaves home without it) and offered me one when I was half tanked. To state the obvious, this was not a good move.

In case you don't know, Valium is a major muscle relaxant and makes the alcohol absorb quickly and deeply. So you just end up getting unexpectedly unpredictably drunk.

At about 11pm me and my best friends (whose names I now forget) bundled ourselves into a cab and headed off to see this guy, who was in playing in Hanoi for one night only.

I've spent today piecing the night back together. My flashbacks produced:

1. Lots of silly silly chat. I think I trapped a couple of people into quite boring conversations. It wasn't all one sided but I wouldn't let them go.

2. Spilling a drink on R. He laughed, I laughed; all signs of encouragement.

3. Accusing an Israeli of being a spy. (Not a good idea when you really do think he's a spy.) And based on our conversation I'm still sure he's up to something fishy.

4. Jumping up on stage and "getting involved" in the performance. This involved cramming in the middle of a very young ecstasy herd and jumping up and down with them. It included me convincing R to quickly grab the performers arse, just to see if he could. It was innocent, but unnecessary, so he did.

5. Asking R to give me a lift home long before it had ended. Unlike him, I know when it's time to bail.

6. Arriving at the venue with half a glass of wine in my hand and leaving with half a glass of vodka.

7. Insisting on R letting me use his helmet. Safety first:

Me: "If we have an accident it will be your fault so it's only fair that you're the one who dies, right?"

R: "Absolutely. I completely agree. Here."

8. Spilling the remainder of my drink on R while riding home. This time it was deliberate. He laughed. I laughed. When comedy is brilliant it doesn't date and it's funny every time. So I guess that deliberatly spilling drinks onto people who are giving you a lift home is comedic brilliance.

9. This flashback came to me on Skype:

R: "i just bought a new helmet"

R: "do you remember what happened to my last helmet?"

Me: "oh. wait ..."

Me: "umm ... yes. yes i do."

We were riding over the bridge on the way home. At some point, I removed the helmet and tossed it over the side while shouting out something about schackles and freedom. I think Ghandi may have even been mentioned. Possibly Aung San Suu Kyi. (Although my mind had abandoned me, it was kind enough to leave a few metaphors behind.)

I would have apologised if it hadn't been all R's fault. Which it was. I am the school kid with the slingshot in his back pocket ... preyed on by drug dealers lurking around the school gates ... asking my name and telling me that "just one" will make me cool.

I don't remember getting home but the door was locked (from the inside) when I got up. This is a very good sign. Relative to what the security guard must now think of me, it's excellent.

Speaking of relative, I'm sure that Cheesel is reading this and fretting more than this. No need, old girl. I'm on the path to righteousness

It's not how you fall. It's how you get up. Today's new rules are as follows:

a) Valium is not allowed to leave the house. She is grounded.

b) R's valium is also grounded.

c) I have committed to stop drink driving.

d) R has committed to try to stop drink driving.

I am finally becoming perfect and these are my first steps.

Prostrate Cancer

I have to join a gym. This is easier said than done. AndI'm not talking about your garden variety anti-gym issues like motivation, location, inertia, work, travel or life priorities.

This one is Hanoi's fault. Hanoi has not cottoned on to the whole gym thing. It doesn't have a McDonald's, either, and I don't see these two facts as completely unrelated. Once they start stuffing themselves with Big Macs and thickshakes they're going to realise they need to pray for their sins. I wish they'd realised all of this before I arrived. They. Them. It's always them.

It's not like I haven't tried. I have conducted several, thorough hunts on the internet and posted questions on the local potato website. This managed to unveil a couple of substandard options nowhere near my home or work, which is pointless because I'm not going to travel 30 min to get there.

I downgraded my expectations and sniffed out a couple of leads. For about $7/month you can join a local gym, they told me. Then they was warned me that there aren't very many around, it's full of hardcore body builders, the equipment is rusty, it's not airconditioned so the floor is all sweat and spit. Them again.

I imagined this place as suitable for an aspiring Arnold Swartzenegger ... when he was a scrawny teenager from Gratz with no money and limited equipment, making do with whatever he could find ... and figured that this is probably where once could buy steriods. Motivation indeed. So off I went, looking in a nearby alleyway for a gym I'd read about on someone's blog. It took me 3 sorties and 4 days to find it and as I pulled up they were erecting the "Massage" sign out the front and putting some final touches (strictly pink or green) to the interior.

I heard that 5-star hotels could be an option. So I emailed the closest hotels to me - the Sofitel and the Sheraton. The Sofitel said that they could do external memberships ... but when I went there the manager told me to come back tomorrow. I came back tomorrow and she told me that no, they don't do them. She didn't know why and couldn't suggest anyone who could. The Sheraton was an inadequate token room and the Intercontinental quoted me $2700 USD per year, non-refundable and paid up front. Crazy crazy crazy. R and I go to the Intercontinental sometimes for a drink and a club sandwich and we call it the 'Intercunt'. The hotel and staff are actually really nice ... the nickname was nothing more than kindergarten kicks. Now when I say it, I think of their gym prices.

Vietnamese people go to bed early and get up very early. It's the norm for a day to start at around 5:30 with half an hour's constitutional around the lake or in the park. During my ride to work I often see older people leaning against a rail or standing in a concrete square doing some very odd movements. If they were toddlers, you would think some of them were attempts to fly. If you throw some Alzheimer's into the mix then it's probably true. Mostly, though, it looks like a homemade Physical Culture video from the 50's ... I get to see the episode that was shot on location, at the lake.

During my ride home from work I see a whole other generation at work. In one part of the park you will see skaterboys pracitising uncomplicated tricks. Some of their friends sit beside them practising smoke rings. On the other side of the park rows of young girls face their leader and run through a series of synchronised hip thrusts and dance moves to some dated music being blasted out of some type of beatbox whose batteries seem to be running low. Their moves are also very uncomplicated and remind me of the cartwheel attempted by Olivia Newton John during the cheerleader scene in Grease. She should have been locked up. Other routines include hip gyrations which should have a minimum age. Think JonBenet Ramsay. None of this seems to require very much exertion or dancing talent so it's unclear what the end game is. Perhaps they are going to launch So You Think You Can Strip.

Anyway, by and large, the Vietnamese people have an active life and a healthy diet. Only some of the richer people get a bit tubby and even then, not much.

Back to me, though. It's getting ridiculous. I'm eating and drinking too much, I'm ordering pizza when a simple salad would suffice, my portion control is all portion and no control, I'm never walking anywhere, the couch is my second best friend (after pizza) and I spend far too much time at the computer. This must be what it's like to live in Kansas.

I got my secretary involved to help me out. This revealed two new items of information:

a) there had been a recent (unannounced) swap of secretaries; and

b) my new secretary is a fuckwit

So I asked my pre-swap secretary (who I've successfully bribed into loving me) to help me out. Her post-bribe personality has been a breezy mixture of bossy and fun. Ever since I started bring her back gifts from duty free, she has been promising to find me a Vietnamese wife, which is apparently a compliment, especially when it is accompanied by "You would be a very good son in law". I smiled and told her I was busy. I call her a "Suu Tu Ha Dong", which means a "Tiger from Ha Dong Province". Hanoi slang for Mrs Jessup, or Mrs Mangles for you younger folk, or Alf in Home and Away (ask Ben Fisher).

It started like this:

I went up to Mai's desk and she offered me a sweet. Some wrapped Chinese thing.

Mai: "Anthony. Here. Try this. Ngon".

[Ngon means Delicious and was sadly one of the first words I learnt in Vietnamese. I think I had crumbs on my t-shirt when I first said it ... obviously not from soup or fresh spring rolls ... more likely from behaviour which has a flu named after it.]

Me: "What is it?".

-- "From China. Very nice.".

Me: "Thanks. I can't. I'm too fat. Beo Qua"

[This was supposed to be her cue to disagree, tell me to stop being silly and reoffer me one of these Chinese delights. Mai's reaction was a little different than expected. She gentrly retracted her offer, her sweets and her hand.]

-- "Yes ... yes .... you are. [Screws up her face like she's eaten a lemon] "But Whyyyyyy?"

Me: "I eat too much. That's why I need you to help me find a gym."

[Good segue, I thought.]

-- "Yes [nods, then screws up her fact] ... so why do you eat too much?" [Smacks me on the hand on "eat"]

Me: "Because the food in Vietnam is so nice!" [I put on my humble foreigner face, to compliment her country and endear myself to her. Mai's reaction was a little different than expected]

-- "No! Tell me what you eat!

So I went through the whole thing. Typical breakfast, lunch, typical dinner and approximate meal times.

-- "Oh. Do you drink beer ...?"

Me: "Yes. Too much beer I think."

-- "Stop drinking so much." [Smacks my elbow on "Stop"]

Me: "Yes I must. But please help me find a gym? I still need a gym."

Mai's reaction was a little different than expected. She shouted out across the cubicles in a string of syllables with an "Antoni" in the middle of it. HR popped her head over and got involved. So did Facilities Management lengthy chat ensued across about 7 people. During this, as he stood there, Exhibit A did here the words "Beo" ("fat") and "Bia" ("beer") come up, sometimes with quite pointed pointing from May. If there was a special kind of pointing that could be referred to as pointed, then this was it. As all this was going on, I started thinking to myself if I ever get haemorroids I will not be asking Mai to find me the nearest chemist.

The upshot to all this was that the hopelessness of my gym situation was confirmed by the locals. It did produce a street where they sell exercise equipment. I have passed this street before and nicknamed it "Treadmill Street" so it was familiar territory.

I did a bit more research on the potato website for treadmill suggestions. Apparently the available treadmills are made in China and very cheap in Hanoi. There is one catch. They are built for Vietnamese. The website warns of terrible only affordable ones will typically not support anyone over 70kg. Violate this rule, and the belt will become sporadically hostile toward you.

I'm getting so lazy that my latest recurring fantasy revolves around this perfect job where I can lie in bed, giving other people instructions and not having to get up. I'm not looking for peeled grapes - just a couple of servants and lots of lying around. Like a reclining buddha with a laptop.

'If only I was more prostrate', I tell myself, 'I'd be happier if I was more prostrate'. I know the correct word is "supine" ... it's just that "prostrate" has a better ring to it and will make people giggle when they read this. And by "people" I mean Ben.

This is not a new fantasy. It has cropped up several times throughout my life. It's just becoming more frequent of late.

Just as well I'm not filthy rich, or this idea would probably start moving along some type of Howard Hughes trajectory. I should be spending less time with my head in the clouds and more time looking down as my feet slowly disappear behind my stomach. That will sort me out.

I have identified a last resort. It's called the Hanoi Club and is a fairly exclusive club filled with rich Vietnamese and potatoes with large budgets and stomachs [it doesn't seem fair for the plural of potato to get an "e" and not stomach] .

There is a decent gym at the Hanoi Club and a whole lot of other things I'll never use, like a driving range and a pool and BBQ nights for families. Jury's out on the jumping castle. Their rules appear to be inflexible and the price of gym membership is 3x the price I would pay for my gym in Sydney with about 1/8th of the facilities. It's going to hurt when I cough up this cash (USD) but it's my only viable option.

Conch Potatoes

There is something disturbingly familiar about this.

I don't know whether to describe it as amusing, inspiring or frightening.

I'll just stick with disturbingly familiar for now.

Night, life.

Looks like I'm going to be spending more time in Jakarta, which should be interesting.

My work hours should become a little less crazy so I can spend some time exploring the night life.

Ramadan starts next week. I heard that people fast all day and then go nuts at night. It just sounds like it's going to be so much fun at night.

Putting Maths in your Porridge

This guy was sentenced yesterday to 8 years in prison for drink driving.

His licence was only suspended for 6 years.

Does this mean he will be able to spend his last 2 years in the clink on the ride-on mower? Which other vehicles could they possibly have for him to drive in prison?

The irony is that by the time he gets out ... after 2 years ... without so much as a parking ticket ... his licence will clean enough to eat off. So will the prison lawns.

I'm MJ, You're MJ.

Just moments after discovering a convenient valium outlet in Indonesia, I've found a little treasure trove in my own backyard.

Hollywood has given addiction to painkillers and tranquillisers a bad rap and I want no part of it. (The rap, that is.)

Never one to pass a chemist without checking to see what's available, I popped in to the pharmacy next to R's mini mart for a snoop.

I asked for Stilnox. She offered valium. I asked for 20 tablets and avoided looking at her mouth: she is my gift horse and I know the rules.

A subsequent visit to the same chemist produced 100 valium, 60 "Stil-lux" and 100 panadeine forte for about $20.

Imagine the unnecessary tattoos I can get whilst under the influence of all this stuff! Or riding my motorbike through someone's front door. Possibly even being found on someone's doorstep or in their back yard, disoriented with twigs in my hair.

Vietnam is going to force me to like it. Or at the very least, tolerate it. With tranquility.