I thought it was about time that I wrote another blog post. Actually, my mum thought it was time that I wrote another blog post. I don’t know if anyone else knows that this blog exists.
The reason I haven’t splashed my new, wonderfully exotic life on here in the past month, or, wait a moment, TWO months, is because I have been fabulously busy.
Dabbling in copywriting, dabbling in journalism, dabbling in a bit of blogging for our flat’s food blog and then I’m furiously trying to improve my score on Dance Central.
Oh, and I went to a silent meditation retreat on an island for ten days, as documented in this grainy pic of me (in pink pedal pushers, purchased from an MRT station) and my new Latvian friend Zanete under a tree.
Yep, that’s a story in itself. You can read about it in ANZA (Australian and New Zealand Association) magazine next month. On another page in the magazine you can Kieran Nash’s lyrical masterpiece, ‘first impressions of the big city by the small town boy’. It has a much better headline of course. Roll on November 1 when it hits letterboxes.
I’m a month into Mandarin lessons. I can say I feel hot, tired, cold and fat. I can say the coffee cup is big. And I can say that I am not an Australian, not an American and not a Brit. All very useful.
I’ve fulfilled a life-long dream and bought some red “auntie” plastic slip on shoes to wear around the house. They have raised bumps on the upper sole, which make for a great foot massage, or “massase” as we like to say to reference the girls we (Kieran and I) met in KL earlier this month. It was my first time in Malaysia’s boisterous capital and I loved every minute, other than the moment during which I gulped down a few spoonfuls of an indescribably revolting, cold, meaty, noodly sludge at a backstreet hawker. It was more than counteracted by the best Mee Goreng of my life at a wee place called Instant Restaurant run by a very chirpy lady named Ping. I felt I made the most of my 24 hours in the city. (See? Yummeh).
And despite the other 50 or so days in Singapore dripping off the calendar like beads of sweat, I feel I have made the most of almost every moment. I experienced my first air-conditioning-induced cold after spending a few days in an office that had cranked the aircon down to what felt like about 16 degrees, I have eaten my weight twice over in dumplings and basked in the glory of being asked for directions by a local. Despite my “localisation”, I am proud to say I have pulled out the NZ patriotism in the weekends, covering my skin in All Black’s inspired eyeliner-tattoos and swilling beers in support of the ABs in the Rugby World Cup. Couldn’t usually care less about rugby, but this is the most momentous sporting event for my country since 1987, eh. Or should that be, lah.