Again, I woke today to the sound of my children gambolled around our bedroom, and then studiously ignored them and slept some more. All the gin I necked last night formed some sort of insulation against the racket of girls squeaking at me.
This could never go on forever, so by 9:30 I was accompanying them downstairs, to my current favourite cafe, where I drank coffee and they ate biscuits. I’ve been contemplating what it means to be a good father, and my conclusion is that it’s just slightly more than taking your children somewhere where you with glassy-eyed, pontificating on civilisation while your progreny run riot. That’s right, other parents, you need to remember to take a colouring-in book with you.
Continue reading “An endless day of surprises”
It’s the Singapore International Jazz Festival this weekend, and although the tickets are extortionately expensive and I’ve never been that big a fan of some old geezer parping on a saxophone or playing all the wrong notes on a piano or some sho-wop-a-booby-bop whatever or shooting up heroin in grainy black and white photos, my wife was super keen to go. So it was super fortunate that a friend got six free tickets from work, and so we were off to the races. Well, off to the jazz.
Continue reading “Jazz: delicious hot, disgusting cold”
Tonight I was going to write about some of the books that we got from the library, beautiful stories about arrogant frogs made with cardboard cut-outs. But instead, I went to the driving range and hit balls with a golf stick, to celebrate one of our team moving back to America.
Sorry, not a golf stick. What a silly name. A hitting stick, that’s the technical term for it.
This is much harder than you’d think. My arms and back are ok (for now) but I assume I’ll wake up crippled with pain tomorrow, as well as in a rage that I couldn’t hit more than 14% of my balls with a metal whacking thing. Or indeed, the surprise envinced that I, as an Englishman, didn’t have a natural talent for golf. Still…
Continue reading “Separated by a golf of mysteriousness”
I forsook the company Christmas party in favour of a quiet night at home, figuring that with jet lag and my cold, somebody else would enjoy the party more than me, and I could get a good night’s rest instead.
Which would have made sense if I then didn’t go out to the end-of-year Singapore Shufflers party, which consisted of a bunch of running types drinking increasingly strong booze at the hipster beer joint in Chinatown.
Note to future self: don’t drink Brazilian banana beer that’s 10% proof and completely opaque. Not even a sip. You’ll thank yourself in the morning.
Continue reading “Three pint special”
Today I went to a meeting in Jakarta. That meant taking a taxi to the airport, taking a plane (that was half an hour late taking off), and then a taxi into town that took almost two hours to get me to my destination. Frankly, I felt like I’d been taken for a ride. Tomorrow, it’s back to Singapore so I’ll do the whole thing in reverse, while reading articles about the problems with Jakarta’s mass transit systems.
Continue reading “Taking”
Tonight I went out for a few drinks. La Serpiente and Destroyer were screaming, but we had a babysitter and no guilt, so after an hour of La Serpiente mucking about, I hightailed it to Potatohead and drank a ridiculous gin-and -ginger beer cocktail, then drank beers and gin until almost midnight, when I had to scurry home.
This isn’t very intelligent as Saturday is going to be super busy, but we’ll have to see how that turns out…
It is always a low point in your drinking career when you’re told by somebody half your age to go home because you’ve had too much. At least now I’m older (although not much wiser) that means I’m being sent packing by 19 year olds, rather than 10 year olds, but it’s still not good.
Continue reading “Drunk in New York”