Going slightly mad...

You know something's very very wrong when you resort to doing household chores to warm yourself up.  You know, ironing: heat source in itself; washing-up: mmm hot water; hoovering: gets the heart-rate rising and a small brow-bead does form.  And it would be wrong enough to be doing that in England and its Baltic winters, but in Hong Kong??  Isn't this supposed to be the Land of the Rising Sun?  Or am I confused with the House of the Rising Sun?  No, that can't be right as everyone knows that's in New Orleans.  But, I digress.

You'd be forgiven for thinking, especially with the blog just 2 weeks ago, that I'm somewhat obsessed with the weather.  Well, to a certain degree, I am; I wouldn't be British otherwise, young chap.  But it's more than that here.  The climate is absurdly integral to life down Honkers way.  It affects pretty much everything and so when the temperature drops to 7°C, as it did today (and has been hovering around 10 all week) it's cause for much alarm, as the majority of the year it's 27°C (not forgetting the supremely comfortable humidity of 80%+; this week it's down at around 45%).

Now, I can hear you all "pfft-ing" from here - shaking your heads thinking I've been over here for far too long if I'm moaning about a trifling 7 degrees being cold.  What you folks might not know or have not remembered, is that these buildings have NO HEATING WHATSOEVER.  That's right (in case you didn't get it from the capitals - I am one of those people that means to do it ;) ), no radiators, none of those little pre-central heating vents in the floor, no lovely open fireplaces, not even a column of stone that heats up (a la apartments in Krakow).  Plus they are generally fitted with my least favourite kind of windows.  That's the 'pretty crappily installed so they don't fit properly' kind.  It's howling an absolute gale in 'ere, I tell thee.

So essentially, I have spent every day this week when I've not been out, making a kind of nest for me and the kittens in our bedroom and only venturing out when one of us absolutely needs something.  I've put on all the warm clothes I have - including two pairs of socks, plus a hat and scarf; cranked up the only pathetic little fan heater we have which isn't actually powerful enough to take on the draft from the windows, a gnat's fart would probably be more effective; and more often than not, I'm to be found under the covers of the bed.  As I am now.

So spare a thought for me, Pies and the kitties (about whom I will blog soon, I promise) when you're stoking the old fire or whacking the thermostat up to 30 - clearly the building developers didn't spare a single one when planning these high-rises! 

The symbol above is the Cold Weather warning that they display on the Hong Kong Observatory's website to let people know it might get a bit parky.  Its official (and hugely resourceful) instructions are: 

1. Members of the public are advised to put on warm clothes and beware of low body temperature due to the cold weather

2. If you must go out, avoid prolonged exposure to wintry winds

3. If you know of elderly or persons with chronic medical conditions staying alone, call or visit them occasionally to check if they need any assistance

4. Make sure heaters are safe before use, and place them away from any combustibles

Phew - good job they wrote those, I was just about to go out in a bikini and stand about for hours.  However, I do love how you're only advised to check on the elderly 'occasionally'...

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Take some time to smell the cheese - part two

Clearly taking my wine with me was the smart idea after all, as, while Massimo got cracking with the Cheese Soufflé that was dish three of the evening's four, wine dude made himself useful and brought me a refill.  I did feel marginally like the only alcoholic in the room - is it normal to drink on a Tuesday night? - but it went so incredibly well with the cheese, that it would have been rude not to.

Whilst the soufflé was cooking, Massimo didn't waste any time in showing us how to make Parmesan Cheese Fritters, and the sex-starved loons wasted no time in questioning him over the recipe we'd been given which didn't remotely detail the method he was using.  Hmm...maybe I'll allow them that one.

The fritters didn't take very long at all and were served with the Italian equivalent of the 'Colonel's' KFC sauce: Massimo's 'secret recipe' tomato sauce, the ingredients of which he point-blank refused to divulge, no matter how many coy or coquettish looks they threw his way.  It went super-well with the cheesey pancake thingies though, so I didn't much care.

Soufflé, schmoufflé.  Waaay too much effort for a so-so-tasting result.

And then, with the last mouthful swallowed, that was it.  As if everyone had collectively and simultaneously remembered they'd left the gas on, I had to finish up my wine and stuff my recipes in my bag sharpish, or risk being left there alone.

As luck would have it, the ferry ride home was mercifully calm.  Much as I did feel slightly uncomfortable from all the cheese-eating (and mayybee the wine), I wasn't too keen on seeing it in reverse.

PS If you want any of the cheesey recipes, let me know.  However, you might want to contact Sainsbury's or the Ocado man in advance: if you plan to cook all four dishes on the same day, you'll need a whopping 21 eggs!

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Take some time to smell the cheese - part one

Mmm.  I do like cheese.  And thus, where better to schlep my ass than Wanchai, for a cheese cooking class - bearing in mind that this involves going to Central on the ferry for 25 minutes waiting, 20 minutes in the noise and pollution for a bus, only to sit in traffic for a further 20 minutes; I nearly missed the cheese!  But boy.  Was it worth it.

That’s not to say I wasn’t a bit disconcerted when, upon being ‘escorted’ up two flights of steep stairs (clearly your man had taken a look at me and judged I wouldn’t be able to follow the instruction “go upstairs to the second floor”), I found twenty or so people seated round two tables, looking like they were about to be served dinner.  Where were the banks of lab-style desks, complete with individual hobs and recessed sinks?  Why had nobody told me to bring a pinny and some ingredients?  Ah.  Because it’s not a home ec class, you nincompoop.  One corner of the room was a kitchen and one person would be actually cooking: Massimo, the Italian chef.  The rest of us had paid to watch him and eat whatever he cooks.  Oh, ok then.  If I really must.  *Sigh*.

So we got down to business.  Clearly some people had been before as there was a stampede akin to that on an African plain of wildebeests when a lion enters their midst, as the area immediately in front of the kitchen counter was filled with cheese-hungry crazies, brandishing - and using as optimum-viewing-spot weapons - their recipe clipboards.  Sheesh. Being super-nonchalant and laid back as you know I am, I sauntered over, and just to add a touch of rebellion, I left my clipboard on the table.  I know.  I’ll let you know when I’m starting my revolution.

Turns out there was another reason why these women were desperate to be at the front.  (There were two men there, but their approach to the cooking corner fell more in to my ‘well-styled amble’ camp.)  And that reason would be the Italian stalion that was Massimo - or at least if they knew the phrase, I’m sure that’s what they’d have called him.

As he got the cooking underway, they bombarded him with inane or banal questions, initially about the food - "how much cheese would you use, 350 grammes or 700?" Er, the recipe you're clutching in your grubby little hand says 500 grammes, so how about you try that, hmm? - and then moving on to more personal matters - "do you have a girlfriend?"  "No."  "Ohh; do you have a boyfriend, then?" - Titters all round.  All the while they were simpering and fawning over him, poor chap.  It was hideous.

The first thing he cooked us was Fonduta di Formaggio - that's cheese fondue to you and me - and it was excellent. The girl next to me loved it so much that even when she'd run out of toasted bread cubes, she continued to use the toothpick (that had been stuck in each piece of bread) to scrape more creamy cheeseness into her mouth - we were given individual pots of fondue, by the way.  Fortunately, it was at this point that some dude appeared at my elbow to ask that ever-redundant question, "would you like some wine?"  Surprisingly, the wine was pretty damn fine (I just assumed we'd be fobbed off with something cheap as most locals don't drink - mind you, I'm not sure that most locals eat cheese, either!)  So good was it, that when we resumed our positions to watch Massimo prepare Smoked Scamorza wrapped in Speck, I took my glass with me.  For some reason, nobody else did this...

(Oh, I couldn't find any pictures online of the dish itself, so these are pictures of its component parts - scamorza cheese and speck ham.)

After 10 minutes in the oven (an odd manner of cooking given that 95% of Hong Kong kitchens are lacking such a device), the melty cheesey ham parcels were ready and was by far my favourite dish of the whole night.  

I also forgot to mention, the scamorza was passed round for smelling prior to cooking, and it smelled just like bacon tastes!  Genius!

Continued in the next blog posting...

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Anyone have a child I can borrow?

See, this is the problem with not having produced offspring just yet; apart from them being irritating, smelly, whingey little blighters, they can also be quite useful.

Take yesterday for example, when into my inbox I received a jolly exciting email. It appears that from 9th to 13th December, Thomas & Friends are going to be "Live! On Stage" (their exclamation mark, not mine; presumably Thomas is going to burst forth from a cake or something, hence the ! for surprise…) That's Thomas the Tank Engine for you uninitiated out there, who has to be the coolest engine ever dreamt up by a Reverend for his son during a bout of the measles.

But of course, I can't go. While I might get away with it slightly more surreptitiously than if Pies wanted to see Gordon, James, et al, being a girl rather than a potential paedamophile, the absence of a child in tow (probably screaming that he wanted to see that big purple dinosaur - you know how ungrateful they can be) might alert the angry mob that something's amiss.

Same with the Picnic in the Park last weekend: could I go on the bouncy castles? No. Could I get my face painted like a tiger? No. Could I terrorise the patrons by tearing around on my scooter with wheels that light up? No. And all would have been (just about) acceptable had I been able to say, "Oh, I have to set an example for little Zia/Marcheline/Xanthe/Achilles; he/she won't do it unless they're copying me."

Lame. Guess I'll just have to remember I'm thirty, and should really start acting like an adult.



Hee hee hee...

Photo © Keith Packer circa 1987 (and contrary to popular belief, I am not pregnant in this photo!)

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Picnic in the Park

Only in Hong Kong would you get lackeys emptying (well attempting to anyway) the bins when they're not even half full...what a waste of time and resources.  Especially when these bins are clearly designed to be emptied by a big truck - not a couple of numpties who ended up tipping the bin on its side to get to the few things at the bottom, and then left the black bag behind!

This was Discovery Bay's 4th annual Picnic in the Park where the rich and the even-richer gather in Siena 'Park' - we had more grass in the garden at the house in North Cheam - with their myriad offspring and even myriad-er dogs (I've told you before, us writers are allowed to make up words when the sentence calls for it) to fill their faces with processed food from polystyrene dishes and warm beer from plastic pint glasses - kind of like Glastonbury but with less mud and more children.  Hmm...yeah, you're right, it's nothing like Glastonbury.

But I am making it sound terrible, which it wasn't. Some of the acts were good, The DB Big Band being particularly superb - love a bit of In the Mood - until they did a ridiculously out-of-genre cover of 'Knock on Wood' where they employed the non-existent singing talents of some loser woman - maybe just don't bother with that one in the future, yeah?  Clearly they were hoping that after 6 and a half hours of the PiP (oh yes, there was an acronym, and no it didn't stand for Performance Improvement Plan, Accenture peeps, though after Knock on Wood, it possibly should have) everyone would have drunk enough to think it was well cool.  And sure enough, some people were vigorously jigging up and down.  People who definitely should not have been jigging up and down.

It was good to have a day of entertainment (obviously using the term loosely) right on the doorstep, yet far away enough from our actual flat that I didn't have to listen to it constantly, and as I'm sure most of you know, I'm a big fan of outdoor drinking - made even better by the free entry and the 'free' beers which I brought from the fridge.   Half the reason we moved here to be honest; it's nice to be part of a community.

Plus, the one good thing to be learnt from the day was that there are still some nice, polite children out there, which I discovered when I saved a very small child from falling off the kerb I was sitting on and the slightly bigger child who was running after her thanked me profusely.  Well done that child; or more to the point, well done those parents.  I'd just assumed all the kids here were ill-mannered brats.

PS don't ask me what the tents were for - this thing only went on from 11am - 9pm; did people really need an afternoon nap?  Mmm...now there's a good idea.

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Summer in November

Finally. Being in a tropical climate has paid off.

Today, due to a northeast monsoon over the South China Sea, the humidity has dropped to 50%, the temperature is more like 20°C and there are breezes, the likes of which we never get unless a typhoon's coming and that usually involves lashings of rain and the battening down of hatches! (Does one ever batten anything other than a hatch??) 

So, on 3rd November, we have got weather like the British summer days of old. Keen to reminisce on the lazy times oft spent on the Common back in England, but mainly to escape the incessant and skull splittingly-loud drilling from next door's builders, I brought notebook and pen to the local landscaped gardens as the deadline for a short story competition I'm entering is today! It's glorious here: I can hear birds, the water spouting from the fountain, the wind in the palm trees and the occasional plane taking off (though fortunately, the good people that plan these things put the airport on the other side of the island we live on so it's fairly muted). 

Now I'm back in the flat, I need to crack on with editing said short story so I'm afraid I'll have to leave you chaps there. Here's a couple of pics (pretty lame quality as they were taken on my phone) so you can imagine me on my bench, scribbling away, at one with nature. 

PS Don't worry too much chaps, it's heading back up to 29°C and 90% humidity next week. Can't wait...

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Goodness

No blog posting since 22nd February. Think that's a personal best. (Or should that be worst??) What the dickens happened to drag me away from writing for you fine people (I can hear you cry)?

Well. Although the glittering writing career has yet to leave the runway (hmm..possibly the hangar, come to think of it), I have been writing - namely entering short story competitions and progressing with the assignments for my distance learning course. Much as I thought I was able to multi-task, during the months of April, May & June I entered six or seven competitions, and the blog just fell by the wayside as I was getting into writing fiction. Which oddly, was something I never thought I would be especially interested in.

Anyways, since I last wrote a blog posting, a number of things have happened: various people have come to visit; I turned thirty; we've moved flat in Honkers and adopted two kittens. However, by far and away the most exciting, the most thrilling and the most doggone gleeful event since then happened just over four months' ago:

Packer and Pies got engaged!

Now I'm fairly certain that won't come as much of a surprise to you - particularly as so much time has passed since it happened, I think anyone who used to read this blog will have been told by one of us personally/attended our engagement drinks. (Unless of course you were there at The Loop bar with absolutely no idea what you were celebrating and weren't permanently blinded by the sparkle from the rock on my left hand. In which case, you probably shouldn't have been there.) Though having said that, it was funny how the main subject pretty much everyone wanted to ask me about was 'the shrinking of Pies' and how it had happened, rather than asking for a gawp at the ring and gushingly requesting all the details on the proposal. Tempted as I was to stand on the bar and yell "this is my engagement party, people - somebody ask to see the ring, goddamit!", I realised I haven't quite reached that level of diva-ness/bridezilla-dom. Yet.

So, for those who are interested, I've written the story of how the proposal unfolded and decided to use it as the start of another blog (cos I've been so good at keeping up with this one ;) ) where you can follow all the trials, tribulations and jubilations involved in our (i.e. my) planning of the big day. Link to the new blog is:

http://aneverfixedmark.wordpress.com/

Now don't fret. I still plan to write on this blog too; if you're lucky, you won't have to wait another 240-something days for another post! I've also go to get cracking on that novel that Pies keeps pestering me to write - you know, the one that will be so successful that he can give up work and get his Aston Martin. Er, yeah. OK...

Seriously though, new flat in a new area, new regime - have been managing to write every day for the last five days. Long may it continue!

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Is there ever a good time to tell the French not to drink wine?

Now this is quite exciting. Generally I don’t go anywhere near the Hello from Hong Kong world on the days known as Saturday and Sunday, as they are designated ‘Uninterrupted Packer-Pies time’, without work or anything else getting in the way.

However, I did have every intention of writing you a posting on Friday, but simply ran out of time – the reason being that I suddenly decided last Saturday to submit an entry into a short story competition, last Saturday being the deadline of course. Upon checking the website where you have to register your details, I discovered that they’d had technical difficulties (don’t we all) and so had extended the deadline until Friday. So although I’d been good and actually written the story, I had to spend most of Friday editing out the 588 extra words (there was a limit of 2000, y’see). By the time I’d finished, it was almost time to start getting ready to go and meet Mr Pies as we had a night of japes planned on board a junk boat for a harbour cruise (free bar, no less), followed by a 10-course Chinese dinner.

Not wanting my witty commentary to go to waste, I’d thought I’d let Pies spend some time with his guitar and post today instead.

Bit of a news review today, chaps. I know, I know, I can hear your groans from here but there were actually a couple of funny snippets amongst all the usual doom and gloom recently. Well. I found them funny, anyway.

You've got to love French President Nicolas Sarkozy, the cheeky little teetotaller and what I can only assume is his odd sense of humour. Otherwise, why on earth would you choose the middle of a global recession, a time when everyone's depressed anyway, to get your Ministry of Health to release the cautionary advice: don't drink any more wine.

Er...excusez-moi? That's like telling the English not to drink beer (even Gordon Brown knows better than that), the Spanish to lay off the sangria and the Italians to pour all the limoncello down the sink. Drinking wine is what makes the French, well, French! But apparently, according to findings from the National Cancer Institute, one glass of wine a day will increase your chance of contracting cancer by up to a whopping 168%.

Now hang on just a cotton-picking minute - wasn't there a study (at some point recently, I can't be expected to know all the specifics!) that said moderate consumption of wine, particularly red, actually helps to prevent cancer? All seems a bit fishy to me. Plus the fact that the eventual knock-on effect of the French drinking less wine, is that they'll not need to produce as much, so less will end up being exported to the rest of us that enjoy a good vin rouge - disaster!

The next item on today's agenda is absolute proof that Americans do not understand satire and really are lacking in a sense of humour. The New York Post published a cartoon on Wednesday which links two of the recent US news stories in a satirical way, which sparked a right old furore, with protesters chanting outside the newspaper's headquarters that it should be shut down. (Slightly melodramatic, methinks.)

The cartoon is based on the following: that weighty tome that is either going to have Obama hailed as a national hero or will kill any chance of a second term as Pres, the stimulus bill; and a chimpanzee which was being kept as a pet in Connecticut, that savaged and critically injured a woman, and had to be shot by the police.

I'm sure the stimulus bill has garnered enough international attention for you to not need me to go into detail, but in case the chimp story didn't make it - 15-year-old Travis (that's his name) was toilet-trained, used the internet, dressed himself and drank wine from a stemmed glass (though lord knows why you would be giving a chimpanzee wine to drink) but apparently he did suffer from mood swings and could be aggressive, as male chimps are prone to being. On this particular afternoon, he got a bit antsy so the woman (we'll call her Crazy Lady) that kept him as a pet (exotic pets are actually banned in Connecticut, but because she had him before the law was passed, she's allowed to keep him. Speechless. I'm actually speechless.) called her friend to come and help her calm him down. When the friend arrived, Travis attacked her. Crazy Lady told police that he might not have recognised her friend because she was wearing her hair up, and that's why he went for her.

After he also attacked the police, one of them shot him several times and the incident was over. Until the cartoon man got out his pencil. And some Americans went crazy, some saying the drawing is tantamount to calling for Barack Obama to be assassinated. Some of the other comments:

"[it's] troubling at best given the historic racist attacks of African-Americans as being synonymous with monkeys." (Reverend Al Sharpton, civil rights leader)

"To compare the nation's first African-American commander-in-chief to a dead chimpanzee is nothing short of racist drivel." (Barbara Ciara, president of the National Association of Black Journalists)

"a throwback to the days when black men were lynched" (State Senator Eric Adams)

Erm, no it's not. And is it just me, or are people essentially going out looking for racism in this age of political correctness, so they can show how unracist they are by pointing the finger at everyone else? I certainly think so after reading some of the comments posted in response to the article that The Times ran on the protesting. Though there was no way I was reading them all - there are 152 so far!

These two were more along the lines of what I thought when I read about the uproar:

"get a grip - it was satire," says K Brown, Frankfurt, Germany (notice it's a European that has some sense)

(you can always rely on a Geordie for some straight talking) "grow up," says Phil Mann, Newcastle Upon Tyne

And then there was Anne Craig, from New York City, who seemed to have completely missed the point:

"Bush was often compared, amusingly so, to a chimpanzee (which, by the way, are NOT monkies [sic]) - (yeah, that's the part to focus on, Anne) - ...but never a murdered chimp. What is so horrific in this cartoon is the violence and implication of murder."

Now, I really don't think those coppers would agree to the claim that they 'murdered' poor old Travis - he was attacking everyone! That's what their policemen do - if it had been a human threatening other people's lives, he'd have got a bullet too.

Seriously. The world's going a bit mad, if you ask me. Or maybe it's just Americans and the French. Who were always mad.

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Crazy airport lady

We all know that one of the downsides of growing up and becoming a proper, responsible adult, along with having to pay taxes and not being able to eat worms without people questioning your sanity, is that you can no longer throw a tantrum when you don't get your own way, without the risk of being certified.

Information that no-one seems to have passed onto the woman in this clip; a woman who's just an itty-bit upset that she missed her flight from our very own Hong Kong International Airport.



It's the old dude with her that I feel sorry for (the one that picks up the bags waaay before she's finished her histrionics). You know he's thinking, "Oh bloody give it a rest woman, it's not like anyone died", but he daren't say anything in case she whacks him instead of the counter she keeps slapping. Bet he didn't realise he'd signed up for this when he married her at 22!

If you can't be bothered to watch the whole thing, at least hold on till my favourite bit at 32/33 seconds, when she throws a full-on, all-out wobbly. Kids ain't got nothing on this loon.

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A day in the life of the oh-so-cheesy Palins

As mentioned yesterday, in its attempt to not let Saint Sarah be consigned to history as that dozy VP pick beaten well and truly by the Obama steamroller of 2008, Fox News sent one of its most annoying hosts (though it's hard to choose, they're all equally irksome), Greta van Susteren, up to the house where "you can see Russia from the front door", to the Palins'. The tag line on the advert for the interview has been, "Greta goes to check on what they've been up to".... Er, who the hell cares??

Still, it did produce some gems, as you would expect.

Such was my excitement in being able to make fun again of the gun-promoting, wolf-killing-from-a-plane-enjoying, abstinence-is-the-best-form-of-contraception-but-oops-my-17-year-old-appears-to-be-pregnant-spouting governor, I wrote the above yesterday in preparation for what I was sure was going to be a programme full of quoteable nonsense, that would almost write the blog for me.

Well chaps, it seems I've been lured in by Fox News and lured in good. For a start, the majority of the programme was an interview with Bristol Palin (the afore-mentioned pregnant daughter, who gave birth nearly two months ago) and only five minutes or so was given over to asking Saint Sarah what she thought of the stimulus bill, while she watched husband Todd compete in the Iron Dog Race. (She thinks Obama should veto the bill until everyone's had a chance to read it and Todd finished 6th, in case you give a fig.)

So it seems I was possibly a little premature when promising you the gems above, for which I apologise. I get the impression that you're not that interested in la Palin in the UK, so you're probably quite pleased! Typically, it being Fox (which during the election campaign might as well have renamed itself The We Love Sarah Palin channel), they didn't even ask Bristol the tough questions, like how come's you ended up unmarried and pregnant at 17, when you purportedly believe in no sex before marriage and you claim abstinence is the way forward.

She did tell us that she wishes "it [the pregnancy] would happen in, like, ten years, so I could have a job and an education and be, like, prepared and have my own house and stuff", that she would "love to be an advocate to prevent teen pregnancy, 'cos it's not, like, a situation you wanna strive for, I guess" and that she hopes "that people learn from my story and just, like, [...] prevent teen pregnancy, I guess". Hmm...except during the majority of the interview you're saying how much you "love being a mom" and how "exciting" it is. Not really thought through the most effective deterrent message there, have you Bristol, love?

I also have to just make mention of this absurd trend the Palins seem to be following in giving their male children ridiculous names - first we had Track and Trig (and in between those two are the comparably normal-named girls of Bristol, Willow and Piper); now, Bristol has called her son....wait for it....

Tripp.

So to make up for the lack of juicy comedy tidbits from the mouth of Palin Snr., I have written you a bonus blog today. Yes, I know, I spoil you with two blogs in one day - don't get too used to it.

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What is wrong with people?

Is it just me, or are some people in the world completely bonkers?

On 26th January, we had 33-year-old Nadya Suleman in California giving birth to not one, not two, not even five, but EIGHT babies. At first glance, this seemed like an extraordinary tale of survival, as they are thought to be only the second case of octuplets ever to live for more than a few hours (though the medical team didn’t actually know there were eight of the little blighters in there until they delivered the seventh and spotted another – probably hiding at the back like I used to do in Maths).

As the days have progressed, we discover that it wasn’t just some miracle of birth, rather that the mother had had IVF treatment, was implanted with six embryos (two of which split to create the two extra babies), neither of which would invite too much criticism on their own, until you find out she already has six children under eight, three of which have disabilities, plus she’s a single mother.

Now, just to be clear, I have nothing against women wanting to raise children on their own, though basic common sense would suggest that two pairs of hands are better than one – even when dealing with just one child – nor would I ever advocate forcing someone into ‘selective reduction’ – the process where you lessen the risk of your multiple birth by ‘choosing’ five or so babies to be aborted.

My utter lack of comprehension comes from the point where Ms Suleman, who lives with her parents and calls herself a ‘professional student’, thought, “Hmm…I’ve already got six children that my parents have to both look after and support financially, I know what I should do – be implanted with six embryos so I can have yet more children!” Even her mother described the decision as unconscionable, saying that she’s already struggling to look after the original six.

Again, I don’t think anyone should be told how many children they should have, but I would at least hope that people assess all aspects of their situation before deciding to have a child or children – otherwise it’s just irresponsible, surely? The fact that “[it] was always a dream of mine, to have a large family, a huge family”, so says the mother, is not reason enough for me. You also have to ask: IVF is expensive, no? Where on earth did that cash come from? Not forgetting there’s no NHS in the States; they’re estimating a cost of $1.3 million for the Caesarean births and hospital stay. Crikey Moses.

The obvious follow-up question is for the doctor who transferred the embryos, (clearly going against US fertility treatment guidelines, which say only two embryos should be implanted) and it would be something along the lines of, “what in the name of all that is good and pure were you thinking??” I suppose at least that’s one thing we’ve managed to get right in the UK; it’s actually law that not more than three embryos are implanted.

The part of the story that would be laughable if it wasn’t actually the truth, is that Ms Suleman plans to have a career as a television childcare expert and wants $2 million from media interviews and commercial sponsorship, as presumably the education grants and parental money won’t cover the cost of 14 children (estimated to be between $1.3 and $2.7 million till they reach the age of 17). Particularly as her parents filed for bankruptcy in 2007 and had to move into the house they'd bought for their daughter.

Then, on Friday, the lovely Pies alerted me to a story that our very own Sun newspaper had broken, in which we’re told how 13-year-old Alfie Patten has fathered a child with his 15-year-old girlfriend, Chantelle Steadman. (If that kid’s thirteen, I’ll eat fish eyes the next time I go for Chinese – he looks about seven!) They are claiming they didn’t realise what would happen if they had sex, and where a 12-year-old boy is concerned, I can believe that – boys are stupid as we know – but I struggle to understand how a 14-year-old girl (as she was at the time of conception) can be that ignorant.

Proving just how ill-prepared he is for fatherhood, Alfie said (while selling his story and exclusive pictures of his daughter to the paper), “I thought it would be good to have a baby. I didn’t really think about how we would afford it.” Oh good. I guess that’s another couple of weekly welfare cheques winging their way to Chantelle’s parents’ rented council house, where she lives with five siblings. Yep, that’s right. Neither of her parents work and they survive on state benefits. As pointed out by my own mother last night, “the cynic in you wonders if she (or more likely the parents) knew exactly what she was doing and saw the potential wealth to be had, both from the media and from the government”. Chantelle only has to wait a year and then she can claim too.

That would very much explain what on earth was going through her parents’ minds when they allowed a 12-year-old boy to stay over at his girlfriend’s (their) house, because I can’t quite get over their stupidity if this isn’t a money-making scheme. What did you think they were doing in her bedroom? Playing tiddly winks??

Despite the fact that it’s illegal to have sex while under the age of 16, cases are rarely pursued to a prosecution on the grounds of public interest. But what about investigating and charging the parents? At the very least, that might provide some incentive to explain the consequences of certain bedroom actions.

What has also baffled me about this story, is that about 50% of the people who have commented on it (on The Times’ website, dahhling, you don’t think I actually read The Sun? Well, ok, just once, and that was just to get the link for the blog posting. Honest, guv) are full of “people should get off their backs, I’m sure they’ll make great parents, all children need is love”-type drivel. Oh, wake up people! He’s not even old enough to get a job – will love pay for all the gubbins a kid needs?

And I haven’t even got the energy to speculate over whose idea it was to sell the story and whether the children’s privacy (by that I mean Alfie, Chantell and the baby) should really have been placed in higher esteem.

The bigger cynic in me agrees with some of the other comments: if he hasn’t yet reached puberty, how can he have fathered a child? Leading to the inevitable question of: is it even his? Mind you, he’s grown up learning that being a ‘celebrity’ is actually a career to aspire to; perhaps he doesn’t care that he’s being used as long as he gets his cut. (Though having watched the video of him, I think it’s more likely that he really does believe she’s his daughter.) Besides, it wouldn’t have made half such good headlines for the media if the father was more like 16.

Honestly. What is wrong with people?

PS On a slightly less rant-y note, I’ve become slightly addicted to The Times Online’s Spelling Bee training games today – is it wrong to get so much satisfaction and excitement from being able to spell ‘pugnacious’? You need to be able to hear the words, so possibly not the work-avoidance website of choice, but you should try it!

PPS Don't forget to tune in tomorrow - it's been way too long since I fulminated about Sarah Palin, but fortunately Greta van Susteren (the woman whose face doesn't move - if you don't believe me or you have no idea who she is [for which you should be very grateful] click on the video below where she’s talking to Alienface Cindy McCain) has made a special trip to Alaska for "Greta catches up with the Palins", which is airing this evening on Fox News. Just for your delectation, I shall be pulling it apart with witty commentary in a posting soon after.

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Chinese New Year: third and final part

Ah, hello. Welcome back to our highly educational delve into all things Chinese New Year-y. So the basic schedule is laid out thus: general excitement, including decoration of just about anywhere you can hang a lantern (apartment buildings, shopping centres, tube stations, etc.) and open-air markets selling all manner of new year products, like flowers, toys, clothing, red envelopes, paper lanterns - essentially your one-stop shop for anything you could possibly need to welcome in luck/ward off spirits; mass influx of migrant/overseas Chinese to China in the days preceding New Year's Eve; massive dinner on said Eve; much visiting and merriment in the following days (in some parts of mainland China, this can be for as many as fourteen days after New Year's Day! Phew!)

So first, to the reunion dinner. Imagine, if you will, the most extravagant and food-heavy Christmas dinner you've ever indulged in, and then put a distinctly Eastern slant on it. You've got a ton of people travelling back from goodness knows where, expecting you to provide a mountain of tasty treats to keep them going right through to the dawn of the new year. It should always involve chicken and fish - though often only some of the fish is eaten, the remainder being kept overnight, because the Chinese phrase 'may there be surpluses every year' sounds the same as 'may there be fish every year'. (You'd think with the millions of Chinese characters out there, this confusion could be avoided - tsk, tsk!)

As always, there's a bit of tradition thrown in for good measure: apparently in northern China, it's generally dumplings that are made to have at midnight, because they signify wealth, being shaped like a 'tael'.

(picture of the dumpling on the right in case you were picturing one of those suet-based things you put in warming winter casseroles!); whereas southern Chinese say 'whatever' to that idea and buy their dumplings from the supermarket, instead putting their efforts into making a new year cake after dinner, and sending pieces to relatives and friends as the name of the cake, Niangao, means 'increasingly prosperous, year in year out'. Make it yourself!

A couple of other examples of the significant dishes served at this lavish feast include:

*Buddha's delight - a vegetarian dish made up in part of black, hair-like algae (mmmm-hmmm!) due to its Cantonese pronunciation ('fat choy') which sounds like prosperity (you'd think they'd actually call it what it is - weird pond stuff that looks like hair - but maybe people wouldn't be so keen then)

*Mandarin oranges - these babies are all the rage at this time (to the point where what was at first a novelty, the forty-fifth time you see the little orange trees at the door to your building, it's bordering on tedium). As if you haven't guessed already, it's because the Chinese name for them - jin ji - is a homophone of 'golden luck' or 'gold and fortune'

*Bakkwa - pretty much China's version of jerky, where they take some meat, trim off the fat, and then slice, marinate and smoke it to eat later or present to someone as a gift. This is my favourite purely because it's eaten just for the hell of it - it's a portable snack and it's about as unhealthy as you can get!

If you can actually move after the reunion dinner, it's a choice between going to the temple to ask for prosperity and the like, or having a party and a countdown to midnight with your mates. Guess which one's increasingly more popular these days?

The major difference between the new year of the Gregorian calendar and the Lunisolar one, is that the Chinese are not a nation of big drinkers, so the idea, even if you have a party, isn't to get as trolleyed as possible and pass out in front of the fireworks on TV at midnight (as a quick aside, was it my imagination or did the blasted things in London go on for ages the new year just gone??) For this reason, they're not nursing a crippling hangover on the first day of Chinese new year and so partake in a little welcoming of the deities of the heavens and the earth. It's also the day for visiting the big cheese(s) of your family (i.e. the reet old people) and handing out your red envelopes to all the money-grabbing, greedy little..., I mean, to the lovely, deserving children.

On the second day of new year, the married daughters visit their own parents (traditionally, this might not have been possible since marrying) and you have to be extra kind to dogs (yes, you did read that right) as it's believed to be the birthday of all dogs. Er...right, ok.

No visiting's allowed on the third and fourth day because there's a good chance you'll get into an argument - partly because of all the being nice you've already been doing in the last couple of days, but also apparently, as a result of the fried food you've eaten.

Celebrations continue on the fifth day (birthday of the Chinese god of wealth); the seventh day (common man's birthday, meaning everyone gets one year older, and in Malaysia and Singapore everyone meets up to toss the raw fish salad); the ninth day (offering prayers to the Jade Emperor as it's his birthday) and the fifteenth day (rice dumplings are eaten, candles are lit outside houses, lighted lanterns are carried in the street and traditionally, young unmarried women gather to toss tangerines into the sea, in the hope that their future spouse will pick it up). Clearly they all have a thing for sailors in this part of the world.

Believe it or not, there are even more customs and significant happenings around this time of year, but quite frankly, I think I've prattled on enough. Next time there's a special Chinese-New-Year-themed round in your local quiz, you should clean up. No need to thank me. Really.

I do have to offer a slight apology if this has been slightly dull and fact-heavy, as not really knowing a thing about it, I've tried to digest the Wikipedia entry on Chinese New Year and regurgitate it for you good people - which was hard! It took four and a half scrolls of the mouse ball to get to the bottom of the page - that's a lot of information! I plan to be back to my interesting and witty best asap! Especially as I have been reading some more of that alrighttit.com, and dammit - if she can be entertaining, engaging and waggish (thanks, Oxford Thesaurus!) while going through breast cancer treatment, I think I can up my game a notch.

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Chinese New Year: part two

So, the Chinese New Year has passed, the visitors have gone home and I have just about got over a bout of flu that struck me down in amongst the festivities, so I'm back with a vengeance.

I would still like to wish you all 'Gong hei fat choi!', which roughly translated, means 'Congratulations and be prosperous!', wishes that are even more appropriate in the current economic climate.

Not wanting to bring you down with plummeting-economy chat, I thought I'd continue on along the theme that I left you with, and impart my summarised version of what happens during the most important of the traditional Chinese holidays. Incidentally, did you know that it's not just celebrated in China, but in most areas where there are large populations of ethnic Chinese, like Korea, Mongolia, Nepal, Bhutan, Vietnam and parts of the USA, Canada and the UK?

Clearly these celebrations aren't actually up to much though, as we still see a time of Chunyun (aka Spring Festival travel season), the largest human migration, where migrant workers in China and Chinese living overseas return to China to celebrate with their families. As job opportunities have opened up further away and Chinese students are now able to attend university overseas, the number of people coming back has increased exponentially, reaching 2.26 billion in 2008. That's more people travelling at once than actually live in China! It would also explain why, when Pies and I went out on New Year's Day, streets that are usually heaving were like a ghost town, as even if you're an expat (i.e. not going back to China) it's the perfect time to go away due to the five days off in a row. That's if you're happy to pay the extortionate prices, of course!

First things first then. Being an Eastern celebration, it goes without saying that it has its roots in mythology - apparently, in ancient China, a mythical beast called the Nian, with the body of a bull and the head of lion, used to rock up to villages on the first day of the new year and have his fill of livestock, crops and people, particularly juicy little children. Naturally, the village folk weren't best pleased about this impromptu feast taking place on their doorstep, so they started to put food out for the beastie, in the hope that he'd eat that instead of young Timmy (or whatever kids were called in ancient China). They also noticed that one year, the Nian had the willies put up him and was scared away by a child in red, so in subsequent years, the villagers hung red lanterns and red spring scrolls (wouldn't that have been a better story if it had been red spring rolls?!) plus they lit firecrackers to give him a case of the heebie jeebies. You'll be pleased to know their efforts were successful. He never came again.

I'll go into more detail tomorrow on what actually happens on the days of the new year, but before I go today, I wanted to share with you some of the things the Chinese have to bear in mind in terms of good or bad luck around this time of year.

Things that are said to bring you good luck:

*Opening windows and/or doors welcomes in the good luck of the new year (hmm, it's still a bit chilly here in Hong Kong, and I don't really fancy making it easy for any cheeky shyster to waltz in unaided to steal my 'luck'!)
*Switching the lights on at night is meant to 'scare away' spirits of misfortune that will meddle with your luck and prosperity in the following year (yes, but surely you'll have spend any prosperity on your massive 'leccy bill from leaving all the lights on? Seems a teensy bit counter-productive to me...)
*Eating sweets to guarantee that you have a 'sweet' year (yeah, right - any excuse for gorging on lollipops and king-size bars of Dairy Milk, eh?)
*Cleaning the house to 'sweep' away the bad luck of the previous year before New Year's Eve; you have to be careful not to miss the window though, if you clean on New Year's Day, you'll sweep away all the good luck - it's a very tricky business (though to me, this just sounds like common sense if you're expecting visitors in the next few days; you don't want them to think you live in a pigsty)
*Bathing in pomelo leaves on New Year's Eve should ensure you'll be healthy for the rest of the year (that's as may be, but won't you smell a bit, well, leafy for the next few days??)
*(and my personal favourite) Wearing a new pair of slippers (that you bought before the new year) symbolises stepping on people who gossip about you (now, if it was me who had devised said tradition, it would be a new pair of hob-nailed boots, so they actually hurt more than some soft slippers. What's that? It's just symbolic? Rubbish. Must have been slightly confused with voodoo practices...)

And on to the bad luck inducers:

*Buying a pair of shoes because the Chinese character for 'shoe' is a homophone for the character for 'rough' (Cantonese) and 'evil' (Mandarin) [how can buying a new pair of shoes ever be confused with something evil?? It's a wonderful thing!]
*Saying words like 'finished' and 'gone is inauspicious at the beginning of the new year, as is talking about death (though surely you should avoid that at all other times too as it's just downright depressing)
*Wearing anything black or white: black is a symbol of bad luck and white is a traditional funeral colour (oh dear, I wish I'd read that before the new year...)
*Buying a clock for yourself or as a gift - traditionally it means your life (or the life of your recipient) is limited (errr...ok, but how am I supposed to not be late for stuff? Maybe that's what the sundial in the grounds of our apartment complex is for!)
*Buying or reading books due to the character for book sounding just like the character for 'lose' (now surely that gives every kid in the land a damn fine reason not to do any homework and to avoid reading David Copperfield which you've been hailing as a 'classic' for months?)
*(and my personal favourite for the specificity of its reasoning) Getting a haircut in the first lunar month puts a curse on your maternal uncles (crikey!)

PS This is my 50th blog post! Feel free to have an extra glass of the bubbly stuff on me next time you're out!

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Chinese New Year: part one

It was a normal Thursday night in the Packer Pies household. After a hearty meal of broccoli, pea and pesto soup accompanied by some crusty three-grain bread, P and P were enjoying an episode of The West Wing. But lo, something was out of place. Pies had a stack of crisp, new, twenty-dollar notes to his left and was busy putting one of each such note into some red card envelopes and into some gold card envelopes. Now I know what you're thinking... all this chat about a new job at UBS was just a ruse. Pies has actually been drawn into the HK underworld and this is his novel way of laundering his new 'earnings'...

Well let me put your mind at rest. On occasions such as weddings, or in this case, the Chinese New Year, it is traditional to give lai see (紅包), meaning red packet/red envelope in Cantonese. Once they contain your monetary amount of choice, avoiding the number four, e.g. $40, $400, as in Cantonese, the word for four sounds like the word for death, and making sure your total is an even number not odd, as odd numbers are associated with funerals, you give them to people who are considered 'junior' to, or 'smaller' than you. For example, the concierge at an apartment building; a waiter at an oft-visited restaurant; a subordinate in your team; parents to children; and hilariously, married couples to single people. ("Hey! Don't feel upset that you're spending Chinese New Year all on your own, while we'll be all cosy in our smug-marriedness - here's some cash! Enjoy!") To prove you were thinking of your recipient beforehand, you're supposed to queue up at the bank to get some crispy new notes, otherwise it looks like an afterthought if you give crusty old ones (apparently).

Crafty UBS made it easy for their employees to appear 'thoughtful' and pander to their lazy streaks, by offering a 'you pay us with a cheque, we'll get hold of a pile of new notes for you' service. Right up Pies's street.

I think the custom has now expanded to include gold envelopes as, along with red, it is a colour of good luck and prosperity, and both bestower and recipient benefit from the presenting of said envelopes in the year to come. Oddly, it's not known exactly where the red envelope-giving comes from. Before the Republic of China was formed in 1911, in the Qing Dynasty years, old folks would thread coins together with red string, believing it protected them from sickness and death by warding off evil spirits. With the coming of the republic, printing presses were more abundant and so red envelopes replaced the coins on string.

So there you have part one of my everything you need to know about the Chinese New Year guide. It'll cost you!

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Monkey on a Goat on a Cup on a Tightrope

I was so proud of myself for managing to write a blog every day this week so far (not overly shabby blogs either, I thought), but you know what they say. Pride comes before a fall (and now I've resorted to cliches - dammit!) I have spent the majority of today with my friend Emma and her 6-month-old Eloise, and I'm knackered! I know, I know - I wasn't even looking after her on my own, and millions of mothers do that every day. But I'm still knackered! Too much fresh air, I reckon.

Anyways, all that's essentially to say, it's half past eight here in Honkers, and in the absence of any creativity being squeezed out of my brain today, but not wanting to mar my achievement thus far by not posting a blog at all today, I'm sharing this little clip with you, as I think it's pretty cool. More wise words from me tomorrow, I promise chaps.

Thanks to Dave Elliott who shared this with us when he was visiting a week or so ago.

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You don't have to be mad to work here, but it helps

Just a short one today chaps, as I fear the world's media has done more than enough salivating about, fawning over, and generally 'bigging up' (to show you how 'down with the kids' I am) President Barack Obama, so I'm certain you don't need to hear it all from me. Please! We're British, we don't do all this overt and public displays of adoration stuff.

Much as I'm pleased for him (and I'm sure he's pleased that I'm pleased) for already making history by becoming the first black president of the USA, it's also the feeling of hope with an edge of realism that he's inspiring in people that seems to be doing some good, even before he took the oath. The fact that he won the election fair and square, was blatantly the best candidate for the job (despite only having made it as far as 'Senator' and not having a massive amount of experience, he still stood out a mile) and seems to have some amount of savvy about him can only stand him in good stead. I also like the way he's not parading in like he's just scored the winning touchdown at the Superbowl (see, I can even do international sporting metaphors) and promising to be the saviour of the world. (Though I'm sure some dopey Americans think he will be.)

Sensible chap that our man Barack is, he's attempting to start as he means to go on: planning to do good things, but warning people that the route to getting them done (they love that phrase on The West Wing, so it must be used in the White House) might not be a swift and easy one. My only hope at this point, is that people give him time to get settled into the job and that those pesky Republicans (especially those at Fox News) don't judge him too quickly. And as I mentioned two days ago, he's got to find time to fit in those global dance lessons. Might drop him a line about that actually. Do you think it's barack.obama@thewhitehouse.org?

In any case, if it all goes wrong early on, as one comedian put it the other day, he can just say, "it's not my fault; it was like this when I got here!"

PS even if you have no interest whatsoever in the inauguration, Barack Obama or the USA, I just know you're dying to find out what they had for lunch yesterday. Well, now you can. Pippa - if you haven't finalised your menu for the next 'Come Dine with Me' dinner, they've even included the recipes! Result!

PPS having just watched the inauguration speech in full just in case there were any gems that needed to be shared (see how good I am to you??), my favourite part was about three minutes in when some old duffer, clutching his camera, inched his way down the steps behind Obama, one at a time like you do when you're old. Just as he reached the bottom, he gave the TV camera a furtive glance, as if to say, "wonder if anybody noticed me" - don't worry old dude, I'm sure no-one was tuned in to this random guy's speech... (For some reason, this incident wasn't an option on The Times Online's 'What was your favourite part of President Obama's speech?' poll. Rubbish.)

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Dragged, kicking and screaming, into the 21st century

Remember the olden days? Things were so simple when you returned from your holiday. Once you'd checked that the pipes hadn't burst, realised that the nauseating stench wasn't, in fact, the decomposing body of the cat, but the two-and-a-half-week old bottle of milk you'd left in the fridge, and consequently concluded that batty old Mrs Evans who was supposed to have been feeding Tiddles truly has lost her sense of smell, the next priority was to dig out your roll of film and put it by the front door so you could pop it into SupaSnaps first thing in the morning.

It was one of the most important parts of the 'readjusting-back-to-normal-life' process - rushing back to the shop, eagerly clutching the slip in your hand, not knowing whether that one on the beach at sunset was a bit too underexposed, or whether the curse of the red eye had struck poor 'Darren' again in the bar where he just _had_ to get on the floor to join the other drunken idiots in the 'Oops Upside Your Head' dance. (Click on the link if you don't have a clue what I'm on about.) There was anticipation, suspense, excitement, even a possible raised-eyebrows-while-tilting-head-down look of reproach from the sales assistant as she hands back your photos, as if to say, "I see what you've been taking photos of and I am not amused." And yes, there was also annoyance and a snippet of disappointment if you discovered only two pictures had come out well and you'd just forked over £6.99 to get them developed within the hour. But it was fun! And most importantly, there was only one (or two if you were one of those extravagant types) pack of photos to show everyone - 36 pictures at most. Done.

Thenceforth, the digital age arrived. (Do I sound like I'm 75 yet??!) With it, came cheaper and cheaper digital cameras with simple-to-use functions - no messing around, thank you very much. Gone was the need to remember to buy film before you left to avoid paying 'a bloody fortune' when you get there (though even digital cameras require you to find the charger, eh Mum & Dad?!) and no longer would you have to obsessively check the picture counter to make sure you had enough left for the sunset cruise to Playa de las Americas on your last night.

And that, is my major point today. (Phew - you weren't entirely sure I'd get there, were you?) All of this new-fangled stuff enables, nay, encourages us all to turn into Japanese tourists with the snappiest of snap-happy attitudes. If you can delete all the dodgy pics, either at the time or at a later date, then why not just take as many as the battery and your subject's (be it human) patience allows?

Don't get me wrong here. I'm as guilty as the next person for getting a twitchy shutter-release finger (think that's the technical term, Dad?) But unquestionably, the overriding problem with having a mountain of snaps, is that at some point, you're going to have to sort the good from the 'good-lord-what-on-earth-possessed-me-to-photograph-that'.

I guess you could call this a pretty lameass apology/explanation for why there's not been too many self-taken photos on this blog, but it's also a pledge to get better! So, starting today, we have some pics of our apartment when we'd literally just moved in (before you start worrying that we're too poor for furniture and start sending food parcels.) Apologies to everyone that's been to visit already, you will have seen it first-hand, but it seemed as good a place as any to start. Brothers one and two of the Pies family are visiting next week with their lovely ladies, so when I've tidied up sufficiently, I'll take some more snaps of what the place looks like now.

Other Hong Kong photos to follow once I've steeled myself for the big sort-through!

The view from the living room and main bedroom:

One end of the living room (which is choc-full of stuff now):

The teeny tiny kitchen:

The bathroom:

The main bedroom:

The second 'bedroom'(with our clothes on towels on the floor due to the lack of wardrobe/chests of drawers!):

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It's been a while since we talked about American politics

I'm aware it's Monday chaps, which usually means a return to serious matters but there's an article on The Times's website today to which I thought a small amount of homage should be paid, considering today is the last full day that George W. Bush is officially the most powerful man in the world.

It's also, apparently, "Blue Monday" today (in the UK at least anyway): that is, the most depressing day of the year - complete with mathematical formula whipped up by psychologist Dr Cliff Arnall. If you're not overly familiar with the phrase, it's supposedly something along the lines of: rubbish weather + credit card bill showing how you overspent at Christmas + already-broken New Year's resolutions + general anxiety about money and job security = a miserable day. This is presumably why they're expecting 25% of people to call in sick!

Well I say, screw that. Let's have a little chuckle at the malapropisms of good old Dubya and be happy that the eejit is finally getting packed up and shipped out of his kushti little number as Commander-in-Chief. (Yes, I do admit to unashamedly stealing these quotes from other websites that are having similar field days, but hope that you'll forgive me when you are mildly amused by them.)

✐ The main problem with the French is they have no word for entrepreneur

✐ One of the great things about books is sometimes there are some fantastic pictures

✐ There's an old saying in Tennessee - I know it's in Texas, probably in Tennessee - that says, fool me once, shame on -- shame on you. Fool me -- you can't get fooled again

✐ My job is a decision-making job, and as a result, I make a lot of decisions

✐ We're concerned about AIDS inside our White House - make no mistake about it

✐ You teach a child to read, and he or her will be able to pass a literacy test

✐ I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family

✐ It's clearly a budget. It's got a lot of numbers in it

✐ Free societies are hopeful societies. And free societies will be allies against these hateful few who have no conscience, who kill at the whim of a hat

✐ I've been in the Bible everyday since I've been the president

✐ You work three jobs? ... Uniquely American, isn't it? I mean, that is fantastic that you're doing that (to a divorced mother of three)

✐ I know what I believe. I will continue to articulate what I believe and what I believe -- I believe what is right

And proving he really hasn't quite grasped the art of making bold statements in public over the whole eight years he has been in power (the following was said just a week ago on 12th January):

✐ I'm telling you there's an enemy that would like to attack America, Americans, again. There just is. That's the reality of the world. And I wish him all the very best

Happy 'Blue' Monday, y'all!

PS I know we had a youtube video clip on Friday's posting, but I can't resist this little one while we're on the subject of George W Bush (and the inherent ridiculing which said subject evokes) - take note, Barack: get lessons in as many forms of global dance as you can, as soon as you can! Possibly after you've solved the world economic crisis, shut down Guantanamo and moved your smalls into The Residence, though.

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