Comment dit-on en français "ditch"?

What is it with people these days? You kill a couple of hundred of them on a plane and all of a sudden they can't handle a harmless aeronautical prank.

This story gave me a little bit of "been there done that".

Déjà vu, if you will.

Cinderella

I arrived in KL with only one shoe. The other one must be still in Jakarta.

This is not just any shoe. It comes from my favourite pair. Puma, by Jil Sander. I bought them in New York about 4 years ago for $295, at a store called Jonathan (I think), on W 14th St (I think). They have never aged or dated.

I told B about this on the phone and his first reaction was "What did you take and where did you go?".

I told M about this at work and his first reaction was "Ah ... yes ... my Grandfather used to regularly return home from the Serviceman's club wearing only one shoe".

How can I describe how it feels to have all this respect? 'Blessed' comes to mind.

I checked my bag 3 times to be sure.

Oh I know. I'm sorry. This is really boring. But I'm just so disappointed. I need to let it out. Bottling this up inside, burying it deep, covering it in a layer of beer ... it's too dangerous. Who knows when or how it will come out? I can imagine myself 65, one day suddenly putting on bright red pumps and heading off for the train and never realising why. Never even realising how the pumps got into my cupboard in the first place. This is known in consulting as a 'suboptimal outcome'.

This was not misadventure by valium. Or drinking. This was poor packing.

I packed this bag on the evening of 9/11, which would be the morning in NY time. This date is now responsible for two significant New York related tragedies in eight years.

Drag Me Away (Please)

I've just heard SuBo's new single and I like it. I really like it.

I'm so ashamed of myself.

Four Grand in the Hole

5 star hotels breed a special strain of Stockholm Syndrome that preys on seasoned business travellers. Outside work hours they don’t venture out from their hotel room, their luxurious prison cell. The standard cells like an overfurnished cell inhabited by a tranny serving life for murder. She who has spent many years resourcefully redecorating her cell with the random spoils of her lot. The suites on the executive floors are more like the type of cell that Mike Tyson occupied. Either way, give in to this syndrome and Room Service becomes your bitch. The Wake-up Service becomes your Vinegar Tits.

So I often go out to restaurants by myself.

[Cue violins.]

I don't often feel like a loser ... only when I' m been relegated to a table near the toilet; or overlooked by the wait staff. It only lasts about 10 minutes though, as I've either gotten used to the toilet trail or complained the other problem away.

I’d still rather sit at the bottom of the restaurant food chain than be rotting in the tranny cell. I don’t mind eating alone but I hate the boredom of being alone. So I always ensure there is a book, laptop, document or phone to keep me company.

This brings me to last night. I was sitting at a bad table in a great reastaurant, working on my laptop until the meal arrived. When it did, I put the laptop aside and started shoveling red wine and satay into myself. I no longer had a free hand (cave man that I am) and was left to my own thoughts. This time my thoughts wandered to my grandparents. All of them.

I don’t think about them very often but I haven’t forgotten them.

Resurrecting them all together like this made me feel both sad and warm. Possibly it was the wine (sad) or the chilli (warm) but I think it was me.

They're all long dead by now.

These grandparents were always going to die on me, of course. It was their lot. I remember being a kid and looking at my grandparents with a mixture of love and suspicion. I think they looked at me the same way but the years would have taught them not to think about it like that.

But even as a toddler I somehow understood that they were … well … kind of on their way out.

Ours was a friendship with an expiry date. The date wasn’t disclosed but its terms and conditions were clear. They would be going first. Both of us knew It. And neither would have wanted it otherwise.

So here we were, co-conspirators staring across at each other from opposite ends of life’s chronology.

As far as I was concerned though, these were not normal people . They were a breed of grey-haired humans with unironed skin. I imagined them hearing our car pullling into the driveway, causing them to quickly crawl from of their laundry basket and out the back door to wave hello. No time to iron.

This cult was brimming with kindness and stories, of course. Its members had a patient yet confident view on most topics, whether they chose to share it or not ... and they functioned and participated in life ... all the while slowly and knowingly being drawn to their deaths.

They talked about themselves as children and I would think to myself” ‘How could this old person have once been a child, like me?’ I accepted their childhood stories but could not completely commit to them. I believed them in same way that I believed the universe was infinite – it has to be true but it doesn't seem quite right.

Sometimes their story would crop up from nowhere and be told so naturally and easily that I suspected a rehearsal or script was involved. I being very young and trying discretely (mid story) to spot some hidden cue cards. My eyes … narrowing, disobedient and beady … darting sideways in the hunt for clues. This predated the stage when I wondered whether all the people around me were paid actors and part of some elaborate hoax. I’d forgotten all about this until I read a book a few years back where someone described having these same childhood theories.

Back to the dead people.

I didn’t go to the first 3 of their funerals. For two of them I was overseas. For the other one I had to play in a tennis tournament in Wollongong. Spent the admission money (and the afternoon) playing pinball at a parlour in Wollongong, in my tennis whites. During that afternoon, and the months following, I wondered about my consequences from Heaven. The fact that I didn’t believe in heaven was irrelevant. I wondered if she could see me smoking, or swearing, or wagging school and what she would think. Mind, it didn’t stop me doing them. Just made me wonder.

Back to the dead people.

I enjoyed taking time to remember them, collectively and individually. These are the four people who are responsible for my DNA, even though I don't think I turned out to be much like any of of them. However, if I lay down and allowed each of them to reclaim their own part back out of me, maybe there would be nothing left?

These are the four people who made me. Maybe they are all still inside me. Maybe I am their Sybil – without the bedwetting or carnal outbursts. I prefer to think of it more like Charlie Bucket’s house … with four dormant old people sharing the one bed, occasionally interrupting.

Maybe I don’t miss them because I still have them.

[Cue Gene Wilder]

Later on I sat down and tried to remember things about each of them and will post each of them separately. Most of you can stop reading now. Go away and think about your own grandparents (the ones you knew) for 15 minutes. You won't be disappointed.

The First Grandfather.

I don’t know why we called him Grandfather. No other name was ever suggested. It certainly wasn’t considered posh and nor was he. He wasn't a Pop though. A Pop is something which springs out of a box,.

I knew him the least out of all the grandparents and spent less time with him than the others. But I also remember being constantly curious about what he was up to. If there was a group of people, it was usually him whose movements I chose to track. His unlikely stalker.

When I hear the word farm I think of him. I have never thought of him as a farmer. I have always thought of him as a farm.

Very short and very thin. His hair was extremely white and thick with no evidence of pattern baldness. Lucky duck.

The reason I thought lungs were two huge sacks which get filled with air. He’s only got one lung, they said. The other was taken out years before, they said. Cancer, they said. Amazing fitness for a man with one lung, they said. How could an old man like that let us in through the front gate and then run up the hill beside our car as we drove to the house, they said.

Referred to the pigs as his “piggies” and was very fond of them even though he killed and ate them. A strange relationship. He used to brew this pig slop on the fire in the loungeroom. It would be cooking all day and all night. You could smell it on arrival and it made you feel a bit hungry. Look inside the pot and it didn’t look like anything. It smelt of bacon - actually not really bacon; more like ham hock - and I used to wonder whether he was feeding them their own. They didn't have a choice though - much like a porcine version of the Rugby team's tragedy in the Andes.

When he was a postman in the 1930’s he earned £4 per week.

As long as I remember he slept in the enclosed verandah of the house. When we came to visit, Pete and I would sleep (and fight) there and he was sent back to the marital bed. He once came to intervene in our fight while I was stabbing Pete in the forehead, a heinous (but non-veinous) attempt at lead poisoning.

Reheating Grandma’s cooking (uninspired frozen meals) long after she died. 3 years long.

Calling Grandma “Mother”.

Probably not a good farmer because he had decent land and no money.

A recovering alcoholic who never admitted the problem. This is how I learned that true alcoholics are often skinny. Beer only puts on weight to the hobbyists. The stalwarts stay rail thin.

Always off doing something, but not often around the house.

Us going “into town” to put on bets for him at TAB for him. Returning back to the farm to see him in the verandah, listening astutely to the “wireless” as it played in the Verandah or elsewhere. The radio playing in the verandah. Only horse races.

He owned shares in a horse - a trotter which I think sucked up lots of time and money but never won a race. He looked like a thinner, poorer version of Tommy Smith

Once everyone went down to Melbourne for a horse race he was associated to. We didn’t get to go, but I remember thinking how glamorous it was for the adults to be going interstate for a function. I remember Cheesel packing her gold, black and white slack suit.

Most of his children hated him deep down for what he used to be, but still looked after him to the end.

Seeing his eyes well up with tears when the colour TV was unveiled during their 50th wedding anniversary. I thought at the time that Grandma was genuninely surprised but that he already knew that something was a-brewin'.

Whenever a foreigner asks me whether we have different accents or dialogues in Australia, I use him as an example. The last time I saw him. We dropped in for a visit in the middle of the afternoon. He was still in his pyjamas and in bed.– a stopover on my way to Perth – I couldn’t understand a lot of what he said except for the part where he told me not to marry a coon “like Bob Hawke’s son did”. And I never did. Can’t say the same for him.

Being a world-class shot with a 22 rifle. Hitting ducks in mid flight, right in the neck. I think that this was a fluke but it was repackaged as a rare skill.

He knew his rabbits. How to kill, how to spot miximetosis, how to skin one quicker and better than anyone, how to cook them (with bay leaves). He would tell us – ernestly – that Kentucky Fried Chicken would occasionally use rabbit and not chicken. He could tell.

Used “Tricia”.

Was “unbeatable” at tennis via a particularly fierce back spin that made the ball hardly bounce. Never saw any evidence of it and never understood how it could be done but used to practice ... my ticket to Wimbledon.

Retained the outdoor “drop” dunny years longer than they needed to. It was a lonely walk out there at night to that infested little shed and I can still recall the stench of human excrement that it exuded.

As a younger man he would come home drunk and use the same whip on his children that he used on his dogs. Looking at him now, you couldn’t believe he was a cruel father. But I believe he was because some of this behaviour weaved its way down the family tree and into my childhood.

Did he put rope around his pants to keep them up? I think so.

I think that education and opportunity would have created an entirely different person.

TransAmerica

This one's a keeper.

Different Strokes

I had an important meeting in Jakarta this morning and arrived last night.

Like most of my meetings in Indonesia, this was finalised with very short notice. This meeting was with a very, very senior marketing executive in a large organisation here. So it required a lot of preparation on the flights, the transit and in the hotel. I actually walked to SQ966 with my bag slung over one shoulder while my laptop was open and cradled in the other arm so I could read my notes while I was walking.

Woe is me.

My Indonesian colleague and I were the presenters. He's a notoriously tardy person, especially in the mornings. Even his local colleagues joke about his reputation for lateness ... quite an accomplishment in a country that is already running late for everything.

He's more of a night person I suggested that we meet up in the evening after I arrived. A 9pm meeting is OK by him.

I tried contacting him on arrival at the airport, from the cab and on arrival in the hotel. I couldn't get through to him for the next 1 1/2 hours, until finally he answered the phone.

He was out, he hadn't been sure my arrival time, he wondering anyway why haven't I called him until now? He suggested we should try 7am in the hotel breakfast room.

Me: "7 am? Are you serious?"

-- "Yes of course!"

"Come on! You don't have a 7am bone in your body. I know who I'm talking to."

-- "Mate we need to prepare."

"Yes but I don't believe you can make it. We have a lot to do. Let's make it 7.30. Can you commit to arriving at 7.30? On time? We will have enough time before we leave at 9.15 for the client office."

-- "OK. Fine."

"Promise you'll be on time?"

-- "No problem!"

"OK. I'm counting on you."

-- "OK. See you then. Man you worry too much. You're in Indonesia now so just relax ..."

I turned up at 7.28.

He turned up at 9.00. Maybe 9.02.

For the next 5 minutes (maybe 3) he gave me a lot of good suggestions for what we could have done in preparation if we'd had time to work on it together. We left at 9.05.

I teased him later why he was late. This time. He said he had a big night in a massage parlour, which is where he had been when I spoke to him last night. He had run into some other colleagues from work. I asked some leading questions based around the massage parlour metaphor and he answered using other metaphors and some eye rolling. So I retreated out of fear of what I would find out, then got brave and asked some more questions, then retreated again, then asked, then retreated. I was like a small dog testing whether the hissing cat is really going to strike.

In the end of all that I'm not sure if we were talking about a blowjob or a handjob. But I knew we were talking about a job. Someone was doing their job last night. And it wasn't him.

Fakebook

Some hackers have all the luck. Others pick on Natasha.

This story is supposed to be about how unlucky Natasha Cann was when targetted for a little bit of FaceFraud. It is actually about how very unlucky Natasha is. Not just in Facebook but in life.

Here are the inputs to Natasha's recent crisis:

- she has 400 Facebook friends

- Natasha's Facebook profile is hacked

- a severe personal catastrophe is communicated to all of her Facebook friends

- an urgent "life or death" request for cash is made

- each friend asked to contribute $10,000 to avert possible catastrophe

- potentially, $4 million in contributions

These are the outputs:

- 400 friends contacted and begged for mercy

- 11 friends bothered to check with phone calls (2.75% uptake)

- 1 donation (0.25% response rate)

- $1000 raised (.025% cash response)

If I were Natasha, there is no way I would publish these results.

Corey Worthingtonette

Probably enough said.

But.

Also.

She doesn't look too guilty.

Although that skirt could get 25 years.

And.

My favourite quote is from her lawyer:

"It was wrong to 'lump' the factors of alcohol, speed and undress together as amounting to gross negligence."

Here, here.

Hair Today

If you are a potato living in Hanoi, every few months you will emerge with a very bad haircut. It's guaranteed.

It usually results in 3-5 days where you start conversations with a "Before you say anything, I don't need any comments about my hair OK?"

Not me though. I haven't had my hair cut here. I'm badly in need of one but I don't know anywhere "safe" to go.

After R's latest outcome from what is (supposedly) the best salon in Hanoi, I'm not convinced that any viable options exist for me. He strutted up to dinner one Saturday night looking like a 1950's schoolboy (side part 'nall). I was gobsmacked. I don't think his dopey grin or ugly shirt could be legally considered the hairdresser's fault, but I would still claim them as consequential damages.

Then again, I'm with Robert Louis Stevenson:

“Everybody, sooner or later, sits down to a banquet of consequences.”

Or Mark Twain:

“To succeed in life, you need two things: ignorance and confidence.”

But I am not R. I am left with but one hair option: my kitchen scissors.

I started this morning. I hacked a little bit off the back after my shower. I've decided that I am going to work my way through it gradually and see what comes out the other end.

Clearly, this is a plan that can't fail. Can. Not. Fail.

Either way, if I am forced to live with a bad haircut then I'd rather the money stayed in my pocket.

Dehors

My first tranche of visitors has finally gone home.

They have left with no more knowledge about Hanoi than when they arrived. I am currently lying on my couch thinking of all the things we didn't do and all the places we didn't see.

Me: "So what was your highlight, A?"

A: "Getting so pissed on Saturday night that I had to spend the whole Sunday in bed. Thank you for pretending I had the flu."

Me: "What about you, B?"

B: "Umm ... Season One of The United States of Tara? Maybe Season One of True Blood. Not sure. Heroes was pretty good. So many highlights to pick from, I don't think it would be fair to single one out. Did we end up finishing that Vodka? "

It's been really hard to say goodbye. Even to lazy visitors. Possibly especially.

Two sets of Crazy Eyes on my balcony

Two fat potatoes straining the tyres on a small bike.

Hangover at Ha Long bay.

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.