A Mommy & Mimmie Day

                                                               We call moments like these-

photo credit- SF, Hummingbird Bakery, Summer 2012

A Mommy & Mimmie Day.

Before school begins, we walked a different route through the park, for a different perspective of things.

We talked about how beautiful nature (in England) is.  We called out to each other to look at this tree and that.  We paused and savoured a fallen leaf.

We wondered aloud about Queen Victoria and Prince Albert.

Then she got hungry and wanted to try someplace different.

I took her to Jak's on Walton Street.  

Bruno and I eat here often.

It's casual, cosy, on a quiet street with taste, serves food with an organic, Mediterranean slant. 

She was pleased.  She ordered a chicken pie with penne pasta and mozzarella salad as sides.  We shared some cake.  Then we crossed the street to look at art.

Gosh, I said, It's Murakami!

Who is Murakami, Mom?  She asked.

Inside the gallery (no photography allowed), she pointed out, Banksy.

Who is Banksy?  How do you know of him?  My turn at asking.

Oh, he did ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOP and there was a lot of press, she said.

I listened to her in wide-eye wonder.  What's not to love about a Mommy & Mimmie Day?  Spending time resting in each other's company, few words are necessary, and yet the day always ends with a memory for keeping, and the learning of something new, from each other.

The Dark Horse (& Her Bad Attitude)

Once upon a time, there was a dark horse.

At 10am when everyone else stood on stage in a neat row, taking their turns to show feats of agility, she stood waiting in the wings, trying unsuccessfully, to stay dry in the pelting rain.

At the end of the 1st Act, ribbons were given out, and she noted the winners-

photo credit-  WVS

In Act 2, she was the last to go.  She watched fully alert at what the others were doing as she had never in her life, been in such a situation.  One of the lead riders charged towards the set of jumps on his big horse, and she watched the horse trip, knocking the poles down.  When it came time for her to get on stage, the Judge very gently told her that there was no need to do any jumping, even though a set of jumps (not terribly high), were laid out.  The idea was to show the horse off- put it through its paces, move in partnership.

***

The dark horse felt the animal beneath her on fire.  She felt his determination and speed, and courage.  She felt the rain beating down their backs.  She knew the ground was muddy and slippery.  

But her moment had come.  Showtime!  How many times had she gone on stage and charged from her heart?  

photo credit-  Ethos Books

How many hours of her life have been spent devoted to practice and repetitive work for just that one glorious moment on stage, where she feels simply, alive?

photo credit-  S Goh- Practice, practice, practice

Daily practice.

The dark horse instinctively knew that without some kind of pizzaz in her routine, she would not stand a chance up against the Top Guns.  So she focused on riding as neatly and perfectly as possible, and with absolute faith in her little pony, added the jump right at the end of her presentation.  It didn't matter that she had never jumped him ever, nor that the terrain worked against them.  The dark horse went on sheer belief in herself and her little pony.

So off they went, soaring.  

photo credit-  WVS

And tasted a sweet second of triumph.

***

Act 3 began with more rain, and the Judge explaining what the objectives were.  She listened carefully and made mental notes.  The rain poured harder, and each rider went with more grit, more determination.  The routines got fancier, longer, stirrups were removed.  The dark horse waited and watched, waited and watched.

The rain froze her limbs.  Her mind started to drift.  Her teeth began to chatter.  Worse, she had to wait in a straight line, unmoving like a statue.  She was again the last to go.  She thought of Petipa, and Swan Lake, and Les Sylphides, and Giselle.  And how horrid it is to be part of an unmoving corps, whose purpose in these ballets were to frame the ballerina.  She felt her interest wane, rapidly.  She began to ponder about lunch; specifically that Thai special for 10.95 pounds in the village.  She wondered if she should order corn cakes or vegetarian spring rolls as a starter.  She decided on fried rice and tofu as her main.

An eternity later, the Judge called her name, and kindly told her how very much she was looking forward to watching her.  The dark horse in planning for lunch and surrendering to boredom and cold, forgot a rule in theatre- that is, the last thing you do, or the last dancer that goes on, is what the audience remembers first/most.  She forgot the other golden rule- where if you raised the bar of expectations with the element of surprise and skill, you are going to have to deliver more in the final act, or else.

Or else, the descent to being average and mediocre is as swift, as it is steep.

The dark horse made the very costly mistake of presenting too safe, too short, too dull a routine.  When she took her bow, the Judge did not even bother concealing horror and immense dismay.

photo credit-  WVS

There was a encore of sorts to be performed.  The dark horse (extreme left) was right behind, with the winner (extreme right) leading the way.  She didn't feel too upset with herself, as she was too drenched and numbed by the cold.  Last place though, sucks.  Especially when everyone else is saying, well done, well done!  The dark horse did not end well.  Period.   

The rosette she received for last place, has the word, Special, printed on it.  Once she changed out of her wet jacket, the word Special made her laugh.  

photo credit- WVS

The green rosette gives her hope.

So she took her hope and her laughter, to lunch.

Bank Holiday Bliss

                                                           Bruno and I have run away.

I am feeling restful.  I am feeling, relaxed.  I am thinking, I could really just live long-ish term, in a hotel, especially when the interiors of the room I am given, color-coordiantes with my wardrobe!

Foreground- black & white dress, Background- black puppy, in a room clothed in black, white, yellow and grey.

No cleaning, no dealing with neighbors, repair works, and speaking to 100 people on the phone.

The 100th person...

There is even proper temperature control, internet services that work within my room, and not just one pair of sash windows, but three.  Oh, and a bathroom bathed in natural light.

photo credit- Number Sixteen

Bliss.

It's Bank Holiday, and if I avoid Exhibition Road, I don't even have to walk into a tourist!  

No tourists in sight!

Bliss.

On the very same day in Singapore, my Baby Cousin got dolled up and married.

Beautiful Baby Cousin Bride & Groom with Popo

When she invited me, she told me it would be a low-key, intimate affair.  I'm only inviting XYZ, she said.  How I wish I could have been there on such a special day.

I looked at my brother's photographs and my heart swells for my Baby Cousin.  I looked at Popo and my heart swells larger.  I can feel it in my throat.

Popo is pushing 100.  Her mind is like a tide, receding.  But here she is, ever glorious, with bubbly in hand.  I know she is happy and lucid today.

Bliss.

*All photographs of Baby Cousin's wedding by S. Wong

Cloud 7 Dog Carrier

                                            Pre-fall.
                                          Of course Bruno absolutely needs a new bag!

(I hope this helps someone else out.  I couldn't find a review for the Cloud 7 Dog Carrier on-line.)

photo credit-  Cloud 7

   Cloud 7 is a German-brand, based in Berlin.  Recently they teamed up with Tumi to create a new in-flight dog carrier- which is how I found out about the brand.

photo credit- Cloud 7

  I figured if we didn't like the carrier, I could just send it back.

I'm not sending it back.

We're so not sending it back.

It comes in 2 sizes.  I ordered the smaller one (H30cm, L40cm, W26cm) for Bruno.  It's made of very hardy, heavy-duty like cotton-canvas, washable leather straps, has a side pocket on one end, and an adjustable belt thingy on the other.  Unlike the Mungo & Maud Pod, the bag holds its shape even when empty; there is a removable, washable base, and is lined with plush, natural wool.  In terms of dimensions, it is actually quite similar to the Pod, but I think the lining and the base makes it bulkier.

Pod on the Right.

The Pod was an awesome buy.  I am hoping this carrier will get as much mileage.  I like that the straps have an attached buckle to hold them together.  I think with a winter coat on, it would be trickier than the Pod to carry on my shoulder. 

There isn't a window of sorts for Bruno to peer out of.  But perhaps the idea of this carrier is to make the puppy feel cocooned; which I suspect, is such a comforting way to travel, come fall, come winter.

cloud7.de

Bruno/Pre-fall/Matches

                                                                     Bruno is home.

He received a glowing report!

A huge thank you to all the wonderful ladies who take such excellent care of him in my absence.

It helps make London feel more like home for us, when we know there is support we can count on.

He's put on a bit of weight, is very exhausted, but otherwise in good spirits.

On Thursday he came with me to the lawyer's, and then we had a quick lunch at his favourite restaurant.

 Lunching with him, I thought how very much I appreciate living in Europe, and being able to go just about everywhere with him.

 I also thought, much as I appreciate being spoilt rotten and driven around in Singapore (thank you, Baby, S, G, YL, TJ!!!), I do also enjoy, a more active, physical way of living.

Alas, a more physical way of living after my sedentary Singapore summer, meant that my legs were in some serious pain for the week.  Then suddenly, we had, HAIL.

And some kind of storm that flooded parts of South London.

Hail and rain and sun = pre-fall.

A new riddle- how to dress for the transitional season?  

My gnarled, bunion-ed feet are cold in my birkies, but too hot in my boots.  I am thinking- loafers.

I am thinking, Jackie O.

photo credit- googled image

And because I quite dislike shopping, I simply make a list, pop into my neighbourhood Matches, and hand the list to M, who gets me.  M then checks through the stock, while I rest my sore legs.

I am guessing that most fashionistas would already be familiar with Matches, as they have an on-line presence.  This summer, I learnt that my SIL is a devoted customer, and according to her, service is good, shipping reliably/speedily to Singapore.

If you come to London, there are four stores- Notting Hill, Wimbledon, Richmond, and Marylebone.  I can only comment on the stores at Notting Hill and Wimbledon, where service is excellent.  I'm always made to feel very welcomed, Bruno fussed over, and there never is any pressure to buy anything.

8 pairs of shoes and 15 minutes later, I find what I am looking for.

Matches, 60-64 Ledbury Road

www.matchesfashion.com

Writing Purgatory

The early bird catches the worm!  Make hay while the sun shines!

In other words, I have been stumbling since Sunday, in Writing Purgatory.

Dear God, please help me.  I promise to eat my carbs...

She gives me her research paper for reading and re-reading.  I comb through it and send it back to her for writes and re-writes.  I tell her, that's just the way good writing is- there are no shortcuts.  Rewrites, edits- the process is tedious and possibly, not fun.

Worse, I have to curb my writing instincts and learn to think in a more "British" fashion.  Especially when it came to reading her Personal Statement for UCAS.  I sprouted a migraine.  Hell, I think I even sprouted horns.  Because today, I made her cry.

Arrrgh.  Bad Mommy!!!  Arrgh!  British-style Writing!!!

Back in the day, all I did was lug her around everywhere I went- to work, to play.  We've even crossed continents with my work.  I'd set her up in a corner of the studio with her toys, her books, a snack, a meal, something to drink.  Sometimes we packed her blankie for her to rest.

As she got older, we packed homework along.  She liked her pencils in a row, and her calculator powered up.

 Once when she was about nine, she asked me why I bothered working so hard.  She compared me to X, a woman of extreme leisure.  I told her then, as I tell her now, because women CAN work, and because I want to teach you and show you, what it means to be a woman exploring her potential, through work.

And then there are the essay prompts for College Applications to the US.  I read through what's required, what's suggested, and I think to myself, damn guns, gangs, ghettos, state and federal taxes, the constant bickering of republicans and democrats, earthquake, fire, smog, traffic on the 405 and 101.  Because if life paves a way for her to receive an American tertiary education instead of a British one, I would move us, in a jiffy.

Consider-  "Little pigs, french hens, a family of bears.  Blind mice, musketeers, the fates.  Omne trium perfectum?  Create your own group of threes and describe why and how they fit together."

As opposed to-  "the Personal Statement should analyse your experiences and skills and relate them to the course or subject."

Or my favourite-  "In the sprit of adventurous inquiry, pose a question of your own.  If your prompt is original and thoughtful, then you should have little trouble writing a great essay.  Take a little risk, and have fun."

Then she asks if she can apply as an undeclared major for school A,

School A

                                      but apply to study human biology/pre-med at school B.

School B

                                                    Ah, the great American way- options!

Surely, I tell her, beaming.

Late afternoon she shows me more writing work.  

A fog lifts from within me.  My headache dissipates.  

We just have to keep plodding on- mother and daughter, every step of the way.  One day, we'll get her there, where she can and will and must, finally walk alone.