True Love

And then Frenchie proved his love to me by swapping his business class seat with my cattle class seat.

For long haul flights, business really is a different world...

The food is better (yes that is foie gras) and there's more of it, the beds lie down almost completely flat, you get a pointless pouch of toothpaste and ear plugs and the air hostesses are kind and gentle to you, even if they can tell from a mile off that you don't belong there when you get into a panic trying to locate the table for dinner, stare dumbfounded at the amuse bouche and alter your neighbour's seat instead of yours whilst they are watching a film because you get confused about the controls.  So embarrassing.  I literally held the button down for ten seconds, scowling and thinking, 'Why is it not working?!' as Mr. Tax Lawyer next to me slipped awkwardly down his chair, legs flailing at the unexpected disruption.

My only regret is that I missed the midnight snack of Hagen Daas because I was too busy sleeping deeply on a flat bed.

Operation Heart Attack

I have always wanted to kill my sister. For a long time now I have been very kind to her and eyed her extensive shoe collection enviably, reminding her that none of her friends have size 7 feet, which is a shame because many of the shoes stay in their boxes for months.  Four years ago when she moved to London, I persuasively convinced my sister that it was a very dangerous city indeed, especially that Brixton area she had chosen to live in and the only sensible thing to do would be to insure all her worldly goods in order to ensure emotional compensation for me, her only sister in the tragic circumstances of her loss.  I then provided her with a list of the stuff of hers that I liked: shoes, digital music collection, 'cello, make up, framed pictures, clothes, piano (technically half mine anyway), GHDs (though pointless in the tropics), long coat...  She was thus cajoled into the signing of her last will and testament and all that was then required to avoid my indictment was an ingeniously subtle murder masked as an accident.

Thus I hatched the Operation Heart Attack whereby I stole stealthily into London having convinced all close friends and family that I was planning on surprising my sister with my presence for her birthday.  Since she has no other siblings, her love remains undivided and therefore, to all outside observers, this act was simply one adoring sister demonstrating the extent of her love for the other. Fools. 

Imagine me, then, creeping off the Eurostar (very comfortable and civilised) to a dissonant soundtrack (with accompanying percussion of luggage wheels on a variety of surfaces), slipping through the underground like that snake thing in one of the good Harry Potters and then sleuthing along the streets of St. Paul to her posh office next to the Mayor's house.  The scene was slightly ruined when I got a bit lost and had to stop sleuthing to consult a bus stop map, but at least I didn't have to ask a passerby, 'excuse me, where does the Mayor live?'

To be honest, by this time I was quite excited by London looking so pretty in the sunshine so I skipped rather than sleuthing at all and got a bit carried away, so by the time I walked past the fishbowl windows of my sister's office, I had forgotten all about Operation Heart Attack and was concentrating more on Operation Charlie Chaplin Mime as I tried to subtly catch her attention by walking back and forth in front of her window as if I just happened to have found myself next to the Guildhall.  I also did the going up and down the escalator walk, and then the descending elevator, but she didn't notice. 

Eventually (it took at least two walk-pasts and I am quite an impatient person and cannot understand why the whole world's attention is not on me and me alone at all times), my sister saw me and put on an acceptable performance of rushing-out-and-crying-hysterically, which was most satisfactory and I remembered that I was rather glad that I hadn't killed her because Frenchie and I were hoping to stay at her house and eat her food. 

Since London was looking so pretty and I am officially a tourist in my own country, I decided to explore further afield to Places I Have Never Been and had a lovely time frolicking between friends and family and enjoying the liberty of the hire car in the Cambridge and Cotswold countryside. On my first trip to Ely (I saw a BBC documentary about it once that involved Irish princesses and the spread of Christianity and battles and armour and other stuff that made it look v. cool indeed), my old friend Classic FM were playing some fantastic choons and so I zipped along the A roads getting very lost and  singing all the parts (especially the viola and bassoon parts) very loudly out of the open window. 

Look how pretty Ely cathedral is. All should visit and drink tea and eat scones as I did, despite apparent gluten intolerance. I flash the intolerance the vs whilst in England, Kingdom of Cakes and France, Republic of Baguettes and Pastry. 

In Ely, women have awesome names like Etheldreda and Sexubia (inaccurate - I wasn't listening properly to the tour guide) and get married and run away from their husbands and become nuns at the mention of marital fornication. Prudish, but doing it for Team Female, I feel. 

After Ely, there was a brief trip over to the West Country to see some spry grandparents and act as chauffeur to the Grub who, now that she has her name appearing in the credits of films, demands a beautiful on call driver for all long distance travel and lunch stops at gorgeous Cotswold villages.  Even the doors are pretty in this part of the world:

Then I took Frenchie to Cambridge to show him how clever we all were over in the UK, but since everyone had informed me, miserably, that one did not drive into Cambridge, one took the park and ride, and if one were stupid enough to drive into Cambridge, one would never find a parking space, and if one were to miraculously find a parking space, one would have to saw off their left leg in order to pay for said parking space, I decided instead to live out my Downton and I Captured the Castle fantasies by visiting Wimpole Hall, where there were lots of delightful British things like the National Trust, and wasps and long grass on relatively flat land and crumbling follies and sheep. 

The day threatened to be over too soon and my mother suggested going home for a cup of tea, my sister for a nap to recover from her night before, and my Li Hi persona (albeit dressed in floral and pastel colours and wearing an oversized white sun hat) stomped its foot and demanded more from the day. More!

I thus suggested we drive until we see a brown tourist sign and then we explore said tourist sign.  All agreed, somewhat half-heartedly and then promptly fell asleep in the back of the car, but this was okay because it gave me the chance to laugh a dastardly laugh and ignore all the brown signs until I woke them up yelling because of this:

Mother: what did you do?

Me: I followed the signs to Cambridge!

Sister: urgh... we'll never be able to park here. 

Frenchie: what is a... 'Cambridge'?

Me: LOOK!  A PARKING SPACE RIGHT OPPOSITE THE CASTLE!

Unfortunately, it was a space that required parallel parking, and I have not driven properly for six months and probably wasn't much good at parallel parking even when I was driving frequently. The voice of The Patriarchy laughed haughtily in my ear and told his friend, Oppression, that a mere woman like me wouldn't have been able to parallel park in a warehouse let alone this space (probably true) so, upon hearing this voice, I slammed on the breaks (fuck the queue of traffic behind me, this was a feminist issue I was dealing with), did a very impressive 3-point turn and sped back to the space with a vengeance.

There was a tense moment where I almost lost heart and three voices in the back of the car and the passenger seat had to coax me encouragingly into the space.  Little to the left, full lock now, Ems, keep going, you've got loads of room, stop, stop, stop!  And, tadah!  Emma 1-0 The Patriarchy. 

Then there was the matter of parking, which cost 50p every 10 minutes. I read the instructions three times and then called Frenchie over because who better to confirm instructions in English than the Frenchman?  Was I correct in understanding, I asked him, that the instructions said, '50p every 10 minutes up to 2 hours, except on Sundays when everything is free and there is no time limit'?  Yes, Frenchie informed me.  This too was his understanding. 

Hahahaha!  Emma 1-0 World!  And how pretty Cambridge is, also, and how filled to the brimming with clever people. 

In another life, I feel like Cambridge would have been My Kind of Place, but since that time is over now, I have vowed to live vicariously through my children and force them to attend Oxbridge whether they like it or not, since it looks like I won't be eating for the next twenty years whilst I save up to pay the fees for any UK university. £9000 plus inflation, just for course fees?!  Wtf UK, have you not realised that rich does not equate to clever and that universities are for academic excellence, not the wealthy elite and that a child is more than capable of getting four A*s at A level without habitually wiping their arses on £50 bills from potty training to aged 18. How phenomenally stupid. Urgh.  The sooner I am in charge of the world, the better. 

After that socialist rant, it was back to Paris for me where I ticked off some tourist to-dos including the Musée d'Orsay, which was very pretty and full of Impressionism, but where I ultimately got museum fatigue and had to sit on a marble bench for a while until I recovered; the Petit Palais, which was free, thank goodness - a lot of Paris is not - where I took photos of food whilst recovering from a relapse of museum fatigue, and the Opéra de Paris, where the Phantom of the Opera lives. This was very pretty and full of gold. 

Where is My Beret?

So.  Once upon a time I went to Paris and proposed to Courtney up the Eiffel Tower and she said no. It was a bad time for me, especially as I had proposed the year before on the plane to Dublin and she had also said no. I didn't ever really get over the trauma: I had to move to Asia and despite her constant attempts to heal the gaping wound between us - seeking me out in Vietnam and travelling half way across the world to sing and bridesmaid at my wedding - the first cut is the deepest and I'm not sure I'll ever love another American girl in the same way. Sigh. 

Paris, therefore, is not a city of romance, culture and beauty for me, but a cesspit of bitterness, broken-heartedness and rejection, especially as Courtney is absolutely gaga about the place and goes on and on and on about how romantic it is, how full of style, how historic, how packed with drama and passion. Whatever. 

Thus, when Frenchie and I had our first board meeting to discuss my new role as Expat Wife and define my job spec, and he informed me that 'accompany on work trips to Europe' was a 'desired' quality, and that by 'Europe' he meant 'Paris', I was understandably a bit upset. I had to request a personal day to reopen the Facebook album of The Trip (in fact, there were two Paris trips with Courtney) whilst listening to sad music and drinking American wine. 

However, always keen to Do A Good Job in any position I acquire, I quickly rallied and informed Frenchie that an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris would be acceptable and that I would pack stylish and elegant clothes, stop eating for a week and practice my 'air of bitch' to better merge with the feminine culture of the locals (joooooooking! (but quite an accurate joke)).

First, there was the long haul flight: Frenchie was allowed to fly Business Class, but despite my very nice conversations with the check in man, Air France caught a whiff of my eau de poverty and perpetual grubby student and refused to move me from Economy where I really belong.  Thirteen hours later, therefore, I emerged, notably inelegant but having perfected a very precise 'air of bitch'.

There was lots of exploring of Paris to be done to convince me of its merit. I informed Frenchie very clearly that he should not get his hopes up or expect me to love it instantly. In fact, I would probably only leave feeling luke warm about the place, and it would take another three weeks of nostalgia to convince me that I'd actually enjoyed myself. 

Then Frenchie introduced me to my très jolie vue of the Eiffel Tower, as seen from our hotel balcony:

And here it is at night time:

Oh... Paris is GORGEOUS.

So.  Paris is gorgeous. So beautiful. Everywhere you look there's something pretty or pituresque or historic or perfectly French.  And there are just so many opportunities for me to destroy elegance. Allow me, please...

Hèrmes - Frenchie's Big Boss and fashion house of great and historic renown, as destroyed by Emma the Gimp:

Oh yeah. Next, that bridge that everyone talks about with the locks on it that symbolise true love forever and unending commitment... Destroyed by Emma the Jetlagged:

After that, Frenchie disallowed the Selfie and instead we got back to some serious business, namely drinking tea in famous Satre and de Beauvoir drinking hole, Cafe Flores.  You can see them both, musing feminist and existentialist thought in the left hand corner there, whilst the waiter thinks about serving us, but doesn't because he's Parisian and what would be the sense in customer service?

It was also Patriotic Day of France, also known as Bastille Day, but since Frenchie's spent the last eleven years being unpatriotic in Asia, he didn't see why he would have to start being patriotic now so we fobbed off the parade, slept through the fireworks and haughtily avoided the Champs Élysées. However, I did manage to get a photo of the remnants of Les Arrows Rouges from the Jardins de Luxembourg at a moment when I was temporarily distracted from some adorable ducklings and a remote controlled sail boat that Frenchie was trying to use to explain to me why the Luftwaffe Boom was not my enemy:

 

Let's have some more prettiness in the form of photos to which I made minor adjustments...

So, Paris, I admit, Courtney, is as beautiful as you have always said it was. It is especially pretty when you are not an impoverished student and you don't mind spending €14 on breakfast, when the sun is shining and when your travel buddy has already said yes to your proposition of marriage and has to pay for your coffee. 

It is also conveniently close to London where I am about to give my sister a heart attack by turning up at her work unannounced...

Secret Culture

Beware, all ye prepared for a blog full of action and excitement: today's is not the blog for you. We are in Singapore, after all... and this is not a post about sailing.  It is a slightly guilt ridden celebration of the culture that Singapore has been hiding from me (or, dare I say it, I haven't tried very hard to look for). I was going to write a mean blog making fun of cultural differences like this:

Wtf?

And this:

This is hilarious to me, and most Brits. Not a laughing matter in Singapore: read the entire poster carefully.

But that would have been the ignorant colonial in me, sulking at having been transferred from the Department of Awesome and Inspiring Teachers to the Branch of Purposeless Expat Dependants* so I am glad I didn't hit the negative 'publish' button, but instead ran away from Frenchie's cleaning lady, Susan, in a panic of awkwardness at having actually come face to face with the lady who is not too lazy to do aaaaaaaalll my ironing (and is not my long-suffering, saintly mother)... urgh... I despise myself...

ANYWAY.  What this fleeing achieved was a small mission to a café I have been trying to find since Tet, but which was too hip to be open on public holidays, which looks like this (see that Nutella tart, guys - this is what you miss out on when you have a job. Too bad...)

On the way there, though, which involved missing the bus stop and the prospect of a very sweaty walk, I made like a 'Frozen' princess and let it go, wandering instead round the back roads, caring not for the sweat attractively soaking through my underwear and pooling and rivuleting in all those places delicate women such as myself pretend don't exist.  And thank goodness that I did, for here, in the back streets of China Town, I discovered the inner Lifestyle Magazine photographer in myself via the delights of these beautiful shophouses. What follows are all the photos I took on my uber professional iPad camera, later touched up to look arty and authentic like those kids on the Instagram do... Enjoy!

Keats' Peranakan cousin was actually a mechanic. Probably lived longer and made fewer A Level students miserable...

I want to live here. And I want somebody, preferably a multimillion Euro company that probably owes something ethical to the world because of the extortionate price They charge for hand bags to pay for it.  I want Them to owe this ethical debt to me in the form of this house. I will be a happy recipient of Their displaced guilt. As long as I can live in this house. Do you think They can hear me?

This house. Look how gorgeous it is when you put the 'Fade' setting on it. 

THIS ONE. 

And then, when we need to upsize and be less young, trendy and professional and more serious and Victorian and adopt ragamuffin children off the street to continue to assuage Their guilt, this one, please. 

 

And of course, Emma's photo album is never complete without a picture of a bicycle leaning against a wall. Singapore was on form today...

Ah!  Thank you Singapore!

*NB Not all expat dependants are purposeless, but I have been very purposeless of late and the baking and talking to fish just isn't filling the void previously crammed to the brimming by students, lessons, service learning and assemblies... : (