Mr. Monkey's Many Adventures

Today's blog is filled with many exciting things, of Li Hi and Li Hi Wannabe proportions as I haven't blogged for a good long while and there is a lot to catch up on!

Firstly, and most excitingly, our assembly this morning was lead by an Arctic Explorer.  Wow.  What's even more wow is that he is 23 years old, and by this age has already been to the South Pole, set up his own business about the ocean and written a book about his trip to the South Pole.  I sat through the assembly, and even though I was chuckling at his numerous penguin jokes and photos of him in a penguin costume, I did ask myself: I am 26 - what, pray, have I done with my meagre and insignificant life?  Admittedly, this was slightly depressing and un-Li Hi and now I am trying to figure out how to organise a form trip to the moon.  I shall market it as 'Year 7: Space Exploration', and we shall tie it in with many cross-curricular activities including sci fi literature and Science and Geography lessons, and each child shall play an instrument to perform the 'E.T.' soundtrack as we are taking off.

Yes.

Then I shall travel around international schools empowering them to lead similar trips, and I too shall write a book, except mine will include lesson plans and pictures from outer space.

Back in reality, Risk or Death and I have had a rather relaxed few months, stretching our Li Hi desires to far less than their full extent by taking up yoga and by travelling to Singapore on our long weekends. Our visit to Singapore was very exciting and hedonistic and a great chance to meet and get to know RoD's new friend, Mr. Monkey, who, it turns out, has a number of things in common with us:

So we got along splendidly!  Mr. Monkey is a barrel of laughs, and we get away with taking pictures of him in public places and at national landmarks by explaining hat RoD is a primary school teacher and thus needs to create a 'Mr. Monkey Goes to Singapore' Powerpoint to show her five-year-olds.  I'm not sure if this presentation will/would ever have existed, but there is enough truth in it to help us sound convincing - not enough to get a picture with passport control, but enough to get us FREE SCARVES from the wonderful people at the Skybar on the top of the Marina Bay Sands Hotel.  How cool is that?  A lovely waiter man (Tristan) had his photo taken with Mr. Monkey, and then, as Mr. Monkey was posing in front of the skyline, he literally ran up to us, sweating and panting and gave us scarves!

Tristan: (panting)  Where is your colleague?
Me: oh!  Mr. Monkey?  He's over there, having his photo taken against the night skyline.
Tristan: please, take these (offers scarves) and wish the children all the best from us at the Sky Bar and Marina Bay Sands.
Me: thank you!  I shall take them.  For the sake of the children.

Cool.

I have seen this fo' real, yo.

Whilst that was an indulgent and exciting weekend, our new yoga hobby (which is often followed by gin, since we are now embracing the whole expat housewife lifestyle) is a little more Li Hi.  Every week we stroll in, trying not to be noticed, we shuffle our bottoms into our yoga mats (mine is purple, like all the others; RoD's is pink with flowers on it because she brings her own from home) and we chat about y'know, stuff and the weather and whatnot and then stern, slightly camp yoga man demands that we breathe really loudly and stretch and contort ourselves and RoD and I assume out serious faces and inhale exhale.

Our serious faces don't last for long because yoga, just in case you are unfamiliar with it, involves lots of very amusing poses like that 'lie-on-your-back-and-spread-your-legs-apart' pose, which I personally like to call the Position of Women's Oppression, or the 'sit-half-way-down-and-balance' pose, also known as the Really Reluctant Poo Position.  Some of the most upsetting for us are the more simple of poses, like the one that requires you to stand straight and then bend over and hold onto your ankles.  I approach such positions with a bit of a smug 'at least I don't fall over on this one' attitude, and even peek a look at myself in one of the three way mirrors to see how flexible and bendy and awesome I look in my leggings and baggy t-shirt.  Alas, I am only to be greeted by the sight of the lithe and supple Vietnamese ladies in the class who can literally - no exaggeration at all - bend themselves in half and touch their forehead to their knees.  It shouldn't be humanly possible to do this, nor should it be in accordance with the laws of physics that a sixty something year old Vietnamese woman should be able to do the splits in a straight line and then lie flat on her face with her hips, stomach, boobs, chin and forehead touching the floor.

Not photoshopped.  I've seen it with my very own watering eyes.

My comparative whale-like voluminousness sets me giggling in embarrassed shame: I am not flexible; I am not bendy; I am stiff and rubbish at yoga and I'm very sorry.  I try to stifle the laughs.  I look up to the ceiling.  My chest begins to shake as much as the muscles in my poorly toned legs and my abs whilst doing the plank.  I think I can keep it under control, but then I catch RoD's eye in the mirror and hear her make a weird snortsnuffle sound and suddenly, as the camp yoga man comes around and pushes down on my bum to make me stretch, I burst out laughing, really loudly in a guffawing kind of way and I spit in his face a little bit by accident.

He looks at me, disgusted.  I am horrified, but still laughing.  I am so very embarrassed.

"Come on!" he says, "At least try!"

What he doesn't realise is that I've been expending all my mental and physical energies for the past year on this (chorus of cherubim a and angels, please):

WOW.  Look at the GOLD letters!  Look at the RED RIBBON book mark!

...yes. That is nail varnish remover on my desk.