An endless day of surprises

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.
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Jazz: delicious hot, disgusting cold

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. 
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Separated by a golf of mysteriousness

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…
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Three pint special

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.
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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.
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A quick drink

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…