robinlawrence’s Space

Four of the Lawrence Clan are currently battling the summer Scotland weather near Oban and, so far, have done quite well in managing to survive on a soggy camping field in our tent.  The ground is very squelchy, but does make a very pleasing noise with each step taken.  The non drought weather of the West Coast really made for plentiful portions of mud at the Appin Show this afternoon, although spirits of competitors, cows and patrons were not in the least bit dampened.  My wellies were a godsend.

Rupert and I tackled a new parkrun this morning, Ganavan Sands, just outside of Central Oban, and were certainly stretched by the undulating course.  The path was fully tarmaced and easy to run on, sadly the hills were not quite so straightforward.  At the end the fabulous volunteers provided congratulations and cake, with the cake section teaching me a very important life and age lesson.  More of that in a moment, but a word or two first about parkrun volunteers.  They really are a special and very kind group of people.  Anyone who agrees to stand and direct strangers across a 5km course each week, whatever the weather, or anyone who agrees to scan finish tokens and barcodes and anyone who happily acts as the tail walker: you are truly great people.  As for the volunteers who agree to lead those others, input data, arrange rostas, wash volunteers bins and the hundreds of other jobs that parkrun directors do, massive thanks to you indeed.

And then there are the volunteers who do all of the above and make cakes too.  A special cloud in heaven awaits you lovely lot, particularly those who even ice and decorate those very cakes too.  This morning, at Ganavan Sands, there was homemade cake!  

I found the course tough going and so came back in in just over 31 minutes.  All I wanted at the end was to catch my breath and drink some water, while I waited for Rupert to arrive in.  A few minutes later he did and, while I was chatting to and, crucially, thanking a volunteer, Rupert zeroed in on cake, seconds after crossing the finishing line.  He appeared next to me, a little flushed from his exertion, but managing to pack away a slice of chocolate covered chocolate cake.  "You should get some Daddy.  It's great," he advised, breathing miraculously recovered.  Deciding to play the long game and the polite game I chose water and relaxation first, as well as more chatting with other finishers.  

Finally, having thanked the run director, I felt that it was morally acceptable to try a small piece of cake, as this now felt polite to do so and it was also an imperative as it would stop Rupert from hoovering up anymore.  However the gods of cake had conspired against me and all the delicious, homemade cake that Rupert had so delicately scoffed from had been eaten.  Only Mr Kipling's offerings remained.

We left, having with me having learned many lessons.  Clearly a 17 year old boy's approach to cake is different to this 52 year old.  His was: "Cake? Go! Get the best bit before anyone else does."  My "When I am ready and when it is seemly so to do" approach was clearly a different one, and one that should, I felt have left me with the chance of a small morsel of cake joy.  Clearly I was wrong.

It did make me smile, remembering that I once was that 17 year old "Cake? Go!" boy.  I chuckled as I gingerly bit into a piece of Mr Kipling cake that tasted of nothing.  Sometimes cake, especially homemade cake, must wait for nothing.  

PS: I did not finish the Mr Kipling brown offering.  Rupert did though.  After all, cake is cake.

On Tuesday it was time to move onto the first practical session of driving as part of my on-going quest to obtain a Malaysian Driving Licence.  The regulations require me to undertake six hours of driver training at an official driver training centre and so with my passport in my pocket and my collared polo shirt very definitely on I drive off to one of KL’s many driving schools.  The one that I was allocated to by the company that had arranged these things for me was conveniently 25km out the way and so took a long time to find.

I had managed to negotiate my six hours of training to be held in two sessions in an attempt to minimise hassle and also with full and detailed knowledge of how the concept and reality of time works in these regards.  And so it was that I arrived in good time for my 4.00pm session.  I had not been told who I was to meet only that I had to be at this certain location at a certain time and, to quote my driving theory trainer Mr E, “Do not wear those rubber pants or sexy clothing.”

On arrival I went into the office and chose counter three of five, mostly because the official at counter three did not appear to be doing anything, and asked about what I needed to do to begin my training.  The official looked at me, grunted and nod-gestured to the next official who was doing something but was clearly the person that I should have selected.  While the first official and I watched the second official working an ancient car drew up outside.  Sensing that this was most likely my allocated vehicle of learning I left the office and watching an equally ancient bloke get out of the car.  With a look of resignation he made his slow way over towards me and struggled up the steps.  I was beginning to worry as he just about dealt with he final step.  He, a gentleman we shall now call Mr M, looked me up and down and did another one of those nod-gesture things, this time back towards the office and shuffled in the same direction.  Cautiously I followed.  

Back inside Mr M, probably knowing he would have the same lack of service I had had, ignored official one and went straight to official two and uttered the word that confirmed to me that he was the right bloke: “Passport.”  One has to show identification to receive any official service in Malaysia.  Appointment at the bank?  Passport.  Wanting broadband?  Passport.  Learning to drive?  Passport.  Not “Passport please, “ just “Passport.”  As an added piece of security I also had to provide a thumb print, my own, so as to prove that it was actually me who was doing the driving and not someone else.  

Once these cumbersome pieces of bureaucracy had been dealt with Mr M shuffled with me out to the ancient vehicle and indicated that I should get in.  I duly did and off we set for the 15 metre drive to the learner training course.

There are probably some good reasons behind the design of the course but it is strange beast.  It consists of the slope, z bends, s bends, parallel parking, traffic lights, stop signs and three point turn

 practice areas.  My pretty much wordless introduction to this course was a drive round in the capable hands of Mr M.  After he had driven me round the course he asked me a question that I have long since stopped getting cross about “You can drive?”  Telling him that I passed my driving test on 19th February 1987, in the middle of a geography lesson, didn’t seem to phase him at all so he got out the ancient car and told me to drive him around.  Fearing for the long-term survival of the car I put on my seatbelt, adjusted a really uncomfortable seat and was about to set off when I saw that Mr M had not put his seatbelt on.  Waving this away as unnecessary with a quick “Inside no need,” we set off for the slope.  

After a journey of around 10 metres I stopped and Mr M looked at me quizzically.  I pointed out that the model traffic lights were red.  Waving this away as being a trifling matter he directed me again to the slope.

The Malaysian Driver Training Centre Practical Course appears to have been designed to replicate a driving experience that is very different to real life.  Thus “the slope” is a bit like a conventional hill start except one has to land the front wheels of the car on a one metre wide yellow line at the peak of the slope.  Once there the aspiring motorist has to apply the handbrake, perform a hill start and set off down the other side of the slope.  Hill starts are good things to master, except that drivers, especially coach drivers, rarely do them.  It is quite common for drivers to ride their clutches or hold automatics on the foot-brake and often roll backwards before setting off.  Having 13000 kilos of school bus rolling back towards you is alarming at first, but one soon gets used to it and drivers make allowances.

Next the on the course are the z and s bends which are exactly as they sound.  Under the tutelage of Mr M I drove his ancient car, without power steering gingerly round z bends, stopped, applied the handbrake and then tackled the s bends before stopping at a painted pedestrian crossing, something that in real life drivers vary rarely do.

Next it was onto the parallel parking, which was all about the number of times that the aspiring motorist turned the steering wheel and when, much more than looking and checking and then it was onto the three point turn.  The main rule here was that trainees should not stop the car while it is in motion between any of the three points as this would be an immediate fail.  Again checking of mirrors and looking were not considered to be significant and neither was the very strong smell of burning chemicals from the poor car’s engine.

Following this drive round with Mr M he retired to a viewing platform for a smoke before telling me to drive round which is what I did for the next two hours: motoring round a version of toy-town in first gear.  Every so often Mr M would make a series of highly confusing gestures and directions before retiring once again to the safety of another viewing platform for another smoke, conveniently next to very large signs that said “No smoking.”  The only thing that kept me from going even more mad was Mr M’s radio station of choice, Radio Tamil, which played a fine selection of tunes that I did my best to sing along to.

I had learned from other well-informed sources that during the real test would-be drivers had to wave to an examiner and sound the horn on completion of each manoeuvre.  Mr M, in his own way, suggested that it would good for me to do this in preparation for the real exam.  And so anyone watching on would have witnessed the glorious sight of a grinning me driving around a toy-town car circuit at snail’s pace, singing along to the latest hits from Tamil FM at the loudest volume, randomly stopping, waving and honking at empty chairs all while Mr M smoked and gesticulated on.

Two hours later I had had enough and pulled in for a rest and to use the toilet.  Sadly I had not finished the full three hours, but this was not a problem for Mr M.  In a few words he managed to communicate that all he and I had to do was sit and relax for the remaining 40 minutes until 7.00pm when I could enter my thumb print again and leave, having completed the necessary three hours.  

To complete the required six hours of centre based training I returned to the place two days later to meet Mr M and his ancient car once more.  Once again I arrived in good time to register (passport and thumb print) but was greeted with the news that I had to wait until 4.09pm to register rather than 4.00pm.  The official who did all the work there couldn’t offer an explanation to me or Mr M and we were joined by the manager of the centre who also could not shed light on the nine minute delay either.  The manager and I chatted for a while and nine minutes turned into a pleasant fifteen.  Eventually the problem that was stopping me registering went away and my thumb print could be taken.   Good news though.  It turned out that the three hours that I had spent at the centre earlier in the week had magically changed into three and a half hours.  Thus 30 minutes less driving / waiting around.  Marvellous.

The first part of this lesson was given over to road driving training.  Hooray, I thought.   A break from toy-town fist gear motoring.  With hope in my heart I clambered into the poor car only for Mr M to say “Petrol finished already we go petrol station.”  So, my official road driving experience involved a 30km round trip to the nearest petrol station while Mr M dozed in the passenger’s seat.  I suppose should see Mr M’s dozing off as a vote of confidence in my driving.  

This road experience gave time to get to know the terrible car a little better.  Having spent most of its life being driven in first gear it appeared to be a little unsure what to do when I changed from second to third and so did very little but did eventually just about get up to 50kmph.  

On return from the petrol station I drove around the driving school route again and again and again and did more waving and hooting at empty chairs, singing to Tamil FM and trying to decipher Mr M’s gestures.  

The final part of the instruction was to practise the driving test route.  Suitably rested and revived Mr M, myself and the ancient car tootled off to the exit point from the Driving Centre to turn right.  A badly placed concrete wall made turning right difficult although Mr M grunted at me just to turn right anyway.  Sensibly I ignored him as a large truck was approaching from the left.  Edging out I manoeuvred the car on to the road and the route.  I can’t describe the official driving test route as anything other than it is in that it required driving 2.5km along a road going slightly uphill before doing a U-turn and driving back.  He main rule was apparently don’t exceed 40kmph, of which there was little chance given the perilous state of the car.  At the turning place Mr M wasn’t worried about the monkeys in the road, nor the car behind me nor the bloke feeding the monkeys and got slight irate when I started trying to find a safer place to turn but all was well in the end and no monkeys, cars or humans were damaged.  

On return to the driving centre it was more sitting and waiting and then my time was completed.

Apparently I do not need to undertake the full ten hours of road based drinking practice , part five of the process, which means bring on part six: the practice test.

As I mentioned previously learning to drive, or to be more accurate, getting a Malaysian Driving Licence, could be classed as cumbersome at best or a pain I the arse at worst.  This morning I tackled part two of a five or six part process: the computer theory test.

Preparation is crucial in all matters like this and so over the past few weeks I have been completing practice tests on a helpful app that contains all 500 of the possible questions.  This would appear to be easy, especially given that the questions and multiple choice answers are in English.  However the first main challenge is understanding the very particular form of English in which the practice questions are written.  Questions about road signs, registration plates and colours were all easy to deal with but it was the odd-one-out questions. That were the most tricky.  “What are the requirements for the issue of a learner driving licence to an applicant EXCEPT?” is a case in point.  In other words what don’t you have to do to get a learner driving licence?  To complicate matters further there are two positive answers and one negative, with the negative answer being the correct one “Did not attend the 5 hours KPP course and issued certificate of attendance JPJL2A.”  My limited maths reminds me that two negatives make a positive and that it might have been a positive for all concerned had I not attended a nonexistent 5 hour course sitting and listening to the course in the past, which was actually officially a 6 hour course, but was in reality a seven course because it started an hour late.  

Next there were the questions in which all three answers were possibly correct: “The following factors can cause accidents EXCEPT: talking / dozing off / drunk.”  The decidedly odd: “Mental states has an effect on a person’s: legs / hand / mind.”  And my favourite question, which gets right to heart of what every driver needs to factor in to their every driving moment: “Choose a condition that shows positive tension: marriage / death / sick.”  Only when you have truly mastered this question can you be considered 100% competent to get behind the wheel of a car.  

To summarise I spent a long time learning the required answers to questions that I did not necessarily understand the meaning of as well as learning stuff that I was pretty sure that I would not need.  I can now confidently say that I understand that would be bus conductors have to have a vocational licence, but are exempt from the practical driving test and that one should always use the 12 second rule when overtaking.  I also swotted up on demerit points, gaining ten of which could cause new Malaysian motorists to lose their PDLs (if motorists did not use one of Mr E’s avoiding paying your fines work arounds).

And so it was that this morning Trixie and I, having dropped Edwin off for a dance lesson, drive off to my latest driving test.  As with part one I first had to pass a sartorial test.  With Mr E’s stern words ringing in my ears I made sure that I was wearing trousers (check), shoes (check), a collared shirt (striped, not checked) and that I was not wearing sexy clothes or rubber pants (check).  The next challenge was finding the way into to the test centre which was not accessed by various sets of stairs and had very little signage.

On arrival no-one commented on my choice of garments, although I did notice one potential candidate wearing white jeans and white t-shirt.  Was she flouting the rules, I wondered?  After handing over my passport to the official in charge of the place I sat and waited for a while before being told that there was no booking for me today, despite being told by an as yet unmet Mr K , some bloke who had arranged all this for me, that all had been arranged.  The official made some calls and soon all was well.  Words were exchanged and it appeared that I did have a booking after all.

My thumb print was next taken, four times, despite me only having the usual numb of thumbs, my photograph was also taken too and then there was more waiting.  Eventually Mr Robin was called through to a vacant computer and my 45 minute test could begin.  Making sure I read the questions carefully and recalling another of Mr E’s sayings “They want you to fail to earn them more money” I set to work on the test and completed it in ten minutes and fifty seconds for the fifty required questions.  Scoring 47/50 I had passed and could breathe a sigh of relief and move on to the next stage.  

Next up is six hours of driver training at a driver training centre.  The trainers can be assured that I already understand the question: What should a drunk driver do?  Either: approach a friend to sit in the passenger seat and give directions; Or: drive with friends on board; Or: approach friend who did not drink to driver (sic) or use public transport.  Mr E had jokingly informed his students that either of the first two were fine, but it was probably best to follow the last option.

People who know me well understand that I react very badly to daft regulations and even more badly to the people whose job it is to enforce daft regulations.  Thanks to a recent updating of reciprocal protocols between Britain and Malaysia it has now become necessary for me to obtain a full Malaysian driving licence.  Humble civil servants have agreed that henceforth citizens of each country can drive freely in each other’s realm for a year on their home licence after which they need to brave and uphold each others’ driving tests.  So off I trogged to the S—- Driving Centre in Kuala Lumpur today for part one of a multi stage effort at gaining this qualification.  

The initial logistics for today’s introductory theory class all went swimmingly with my message to the approved driving school being answered swiftly, copies of my passport and monies transferred and a place secured on today’s course arranged.  Everything bureaucratic in Malaysia appears to happen through intermediaries, agents or just “some bloke” whose job it is to make things happen often by them then sub-contracting to their “guy,” “man,” or “I get my boy to carry for you.”  

And today was no different.  The driving school boss sent his Company Driver to meet me at a pre-determined location, arriving a polite 15 minutes late.  (Stupidly I had arrived 15 minutes early.)  Along with another trainee I clambered in to the car, put on my seatbelt and the Company Driver roared off.  On the way to the test centre he demonstrated an impressive array of driving inability including saving the wear and tear on his indicators, fluently crossing from lane to lane, exceeding all speed limits by 30 kmph and successfully dealing with an incoming phone call.  I did wonder whether it should be him attending the theory day instead of me?

I arrived at the driving centre and while queuing to register witnessed fine displays of small cars and motorbikes being driven around an obstacle course for would-be motorists.  Apparently these folk were taking part three of the six part training process.  More of that soon.

Registration involved yet more passport action followed by volunteering a thumb print which was quickly digitised.  Apparently wise people in the past used to turn up to driving test centres, sign in at the start, clear off and then return to sign out at the end.  The thumb print is apparently the way to stop this.  Having submitted my thumb I was given a weighty text book, practice question book and told to wait in block D for the 9 o’clock start.

Nine am came and went and gradually more and more people trickled in.  Following a colleague’s advice I carefully selected my seat as close as possible to the back row, without fully hiding in a dark corner and carried on waiting for the 9.00 start.   After being invited to write our names, passport numbers (again) and arrival times in a large book the trainer, Mr E began the course at 9.54 am.  With a cheery greeting and assurance that he was exactly the right person that everyone in the room could not do without he began the course by making sure everyone introduced themselves.  

Next item on the course was making sure that we, all 43 of us by now, fully understood that the course was due to last for six hours, and to test this understanding he encouraged us to chant the answer, followed by the very important matter of what to wear when completing the training to be a driver.  Before the advertised tea break, at 10.30am which Mr E quite uncharacteristically did manage to get to on time, he gave us all detailed fashion advice for stage two of the quest to become official motorists.  

Stage two is the computerised test in which aspiring drivers have to answer 50 questions on a computer and get 42 correct.  More pressing though is the dress code.  Men have to wear trousers and a collar, I assumed that the collar should be attached to a shirt as well, correctly as it turns out because he also assured us that we should not wear sexy clothing either, especially and slightly disturbingly “rubber pants.”  I suppose I should be relieved that one does not have to take computerised test dressed only in “rubber pants” mostly because I am not entirely sure where to obtain such garments and they would probably be far too sweaty in the tropics.  Jeans with holes in, transparent clothing and sandals are also frowned upon and so best avoided, Mr E pointed out.  Moments before the tea break he declared he had no idea why this dress code was enforced so stringently and then after 36 minutes of training it was break time.

The restart and 11.00am came around far too quickly and then Mr E really got into his stride (after one more chant that we were in the course for six hours.)  He then spent an exciting two hours of time explaining at great length the next stages of the driving test process, all the possible licences that one can apply for and clarifying the official driving test route, which apparently only includes right hand turns.  Just before I started to scream in agony it was lunchtime for one hour.  

After lunch it was back to more of the same nonsense and Mr E coming into his own when offering advice about the state of mind to be in when motoring.  He cautioned students should avoid driving when suffering from “work problems, home problems or funny problems” and spent far too much time asking people how they should try to avoid driving when tired.  Before managing to finish on time, despite not being able to start on time, he shared his advice about how to deal with police when they choose to stop motorists as well as how to avoid paying fines.

All in all Mr E appeared to enjoy his day, well he must enjoy his work as he had been doing this sort of training for 21 years and I left feeling I had been cheated out of a day of my life.  Still I have the computer test to look forward to followed by 6 hours of test school driving, 10 hours of road driving, a pre-test and the full test.  Luckily I have my weighty textbook to study in the meantime along with a practice test book full of errors although Mr E assured his students that the textbook in its new form is sometimes accurate and sometimes not.  Equally unpredictable is the old book, which he did not seem to be able to give to me.  What a shame.

I wouldn’t normally voluntarily attend a holiday camp cabaret evening, and certainly not without having had a beer before hand.  But tonight I find myself at Golden Sands Caberet Evening, so as convivial host Liam has now said seemingly hundreds of times… “Happy Tables…Give Me A Cheer.”

Why the hell am I here, any wise person might ask?  As well as being on holiday I have signed up to compete a trainer’s course for a leading exam board and have some studying materials to read and watch this week.  Naturally these are on line and the most convenient place to find wifi is at the back of the Entertainment Centre, hidden in a dark corner.  Until I lost it a few moments ago I found that I was being stimulated by Liam’s singing and an online video of Barbara from Leek training teachers about a course I had never heard of in Leipzig.  It was as Liam finished his Michael Jackson medley and requested for the umpteenth time “Happy Tables - Give Me A Cheer!” that I lost it.  Barbara was buffering and I was losing my grip.  I was finally beaten into submission by Ella leading the crowd in the Macarena.  I have sensory overload and after I have off-loaded I need to lie down in a comfy clamping pod.  I certainly don’t need to win Liam’s star prize or be a Barbie Girl.  Happy Tables - WHERE ARE YOU?

Earlier today Lexi, Trixie and I walked along the coast to the small village of Starcross to catch the ferry across to Exmouth and explore.  The walk was very pleasant as was the crossing.  We had been to Exmouth years ago to visit friends, one of whom was studying in Exeter at the time.  Trixie was very impressed with the beach side park that we managed to find.  Later we travelled back to Dawlish by train, once again going through the village of Starcross, which would make a fabulous venue for a Romeo and Juliet festival, surely?  As well as having good train and ferry links and lots of places to stay there are ample fields for marquees where theatre groups from across the region and country could come along and perform their versions fo the great love story.  It would be a winner, wouldn’t it?  Come on, Happy Tables.  What do you think?  Are you cheering this idea?

We had another cultural activity last night as part of the Exeter Fringe Festival, which we have sort of stumbled into by accident.  There were no Happy Tables, thankfully, in the performance of Hot Flushes that we watched at The Barnfield Theatre.  Hot Flushes was a musical inspired by the asset stripping of BHS by Sir Philip Green several years ago.  Our hero Sandra has to battle the conflicting forces of her disappearing pension, hot and cold hormones, her husband’s dodgy leg, her daughter’s suspect parentage and the appearance of a gun toting American, Patsy.  The play certainly had its moments but made for a good session of entertainment.

Described by currently absent Lawrence The First as “futuristic” Lexi, Trixie and I are on holiday in a camping pod.  A sort of Scandinavian feel curved pine and bitumen roofed structure it houses a comfy double bed and bunkbed and easily fits us three inside.  It is a great substitute for a tent, mostly because we don’t have enough room for all our clobber in the hire car.  Big thanks to one of Wolverhampton friends for finding it.

The pod has already proved several things, things that I already knew about me, if I am totally honest.  Firstly I do like camping but even much liked activities can be improved on.  I insist on us taking a duvet to sleep on when camping and the addition of a comfy double bed to this is an improvement.  The duvet is always packed along with a table, cafetière and muesli meaning that we do not completely fit in with the other guests at the campsite.

Where we are staying, Golden Sands Dawlish which is 15% campsite with the rest made up of static caravans of the “This luxury lodge could be yours for only £600 per month terms and conditions apply” variety.  This ownership opportunity also comes with access to the on site entertainment centre (“Your caberet host tonight is Mr Sean Wrey!”) swimming pool and access to the shop.  Lawrences are not the intended market though as none of us are tattooed with the names of our offspring, favourite football team or series of lovers and we tend not to give a running commentary when using the toilet.  I had the privilege of listening in on one of these pleasant chats as I passed an Etchingham Lodge (very big caravan).  The lady of house hollered an enquiry, in fluent drunken Dudley “Ay Rich.  Is it a floater?”  I never found out what Rich had managed to produce but sincerely hope that he is feeling better by now.  The three of us cooked a lentil curry this evening and followed that with lots of strawberries but are hoping that we don’t need to go in to too much detail about future movements.

This afternoon we used our National Trust membership to explore Castle Drogo, which is currently undergoing a massive waterproofing repair job.  Originally started in 1911 the castle took owner Julius Drewe and his chief architect Edwin Lutyens 15 years to complete, and then only half of what Drewe had originally hoped to build.  The NT were a little vague about how Mr Drewe made his wealth to be able to build this edifice but sadness struck the family with the death of their eldest child in WW1, meaning the much hoped for blissful family life must have been a little muted when the Drewes finally had their first Christmas dinner in Drogo in 1926.  The granite structure of the Castle is very impressive, which each stone being cut to size before being raised into position.  Less impressive is the roof that, at the time, used the latest breakthrough technology: asphalt.  The varied Devon climate took its toll on the new material, expanding and contracting it until leaks appeared.  Thanks to an extensive appeal and on-going fundraising the NT is coming toward the end of a five year restoration project.  We contributed to the restoration fund by enjoying hot chocolates in the cafe.

The weather has been kind to us so far with plenty of sun yesterday and this morning (hence the appearance of all the tattoos). This evening though I did need to get out my woolly hat and waterproof, as did Lexi and Trixie.  When snapping a family photo for us a camper from another pod told us “We’re from the North, you know.”  Clearly trying to show that he was a hardened man used to less forgiving climes I did notice that he was wearing a thick trousers and a sweatshirt.  I might have to tell him tomorrow that we are not wimpish southerners but tropical easterners instead, just in case he starts to get the wrong idea when watching us chopping garlic and reading the i newspaper.

OBike is really very good.  

I have made my first foray into the world of bike sharing as a means of travel and so far so good.  Having downloaded the app ages ago and never having put it to use I finally loaded RM20 onto my account and tried it out.  Having dropped Edwin off at his dance lesson this evening I discovered a bike about four metres away and followed the instructions.  I scanned the QR code, adjusted the seat, clambered on and cronked and growled my way off towards KLCC.  I should add that it was the bike that did the cronking and growling, not me.  Ok, so my bottom bracket needed some work (the bike's, not mine) but the tyres were full of air and it did get me the 2.9 miles to my destination successfully.  The price?  A staggering RM0.50 or just under 10p.

I was inspired to put sandal to pedal having seen loads of obikes and other app bikes all over Singapore at the weekend.  Lawrences were in the city state to watch Julius Caesar in Fort Canning Park.  Year after year the festival organisers and directors come up with delightfully thought provoking ways to interpret and then perform the great man's works, and this year was no different.  With the world being ruled by politicians who are in varying degrees combinations of democrats, kleptocrats, state religious leaders, and dictators this was as good a time as any to examine power and the desire for it.  Quite an outwardly sympathetic Caesar was put to the sword by Brutus, Cassius et al who were desperately trying convince themselves that Rome needed them more than JC.  The ensuing riots, staged under the glare of TV cameras  were reminiscent of the bloody weeks of transition in Singapore immediately following the Japanese surrender in 1945 when he country sunk into a brief period of blood petting and score settling.  Overall, Julius Caesar was great.

And then there have been tumultuous times in Malaysia.  Today is the first of two national holidays to celebrate the victory of the Pakatan Harapan coalition of parties under the leadership of now Prime Minister Mahathir.  I spent lots of time on Wednesday evening watching an English Language results show and watching an unofficial website with fascination.  I called it a day at 11.30pm, expecting a similar result to 2013.

Wednesday had been a day off for voting and so school had been closed.  Consequently I had turned my alarm off, forgotten to

put it back on and then we had all overslept, until 7.10am, a few minutes before the start of registration.  A quick check of messages announced the seemingly impossible victory and the two days of holidays.  61 years of one party being in power is really too long and many of the Malaysian crimes I have have been very keen for change, which, hopefully, will come with the change of Government.  

Exciting times ahead, and I am not just thinking about my next OBike ride.

After my successful suit collecting mission to Hoi An I had dinner and then a slow stroll back to the hotel minibus for the journey home.  I arrived back at the meeting point a little early but as the Vietnamese family, who were also on the trip, had also returned early, along with their two small children, I got into the minibus and off we set.  

All appeared well.  Not far out of Hoi An the Dad cleared his throat, mid sentence and, sitting in the front seat, enjoying the view, I thought little of it.  I had enjoyed my dinner of beef noodle soup (Pho) and spring rolls and it appeared that the family had also enjoyed theirs.  As if to emphasise this the Dad left out a burp, followed up with a throaty clearance and another burp for good measure.  Not wishing to be left out the Mum joined in their conversation and also contributed some belches too, delicately and skilfully managing to burp and not drop a word while chatting.

And so the pleasant 30 minute journey continued with Mum and Dad passing their time quietly chattering and belching away, occasionally chattering to their kids, while I sat in the front making a mental note not to eat at the restaurant that they had been to.

It was obviously a late evening out for little ones and as the we neared Danang and the hotel one of the children started to get fractious and needed calming and settling.  No prizes for guessing how Mum eased the child's anxiety.  She asked for the light in the minibus to be put on, gave her little one a quick cuddle and let out a soothing belch.  Relieved by one of these interventions, I suspect the burp was the most efficacious, the child settled and all was well.  We arrived at hotel and I got out of the minibus first thanking the driver.  I am sure the family burped their gratitude and departed.

Clearly having a good belch in Vietnam is considered the done thing and not at all odd or impolite.  I have to admit that I was chuckling a bit, while also feeling fortunate that I had decided to sit in the front well away from these enthusiastic practisers of this noble art.  The same cannot be said for poor Lexi though.  For the last hour or so of the train journey yesterday the seat next to her was filled by a Vietnamese bloke who enjoyed a good belch as much as the family this evening did.  The proximity to so many burps drove Lexi bonkers.

Hoi An after dark is a magical place.  The hanging lanterns across the river bridge and in the shops and restaurants over-looking the river, accompanied by lantern festooned boats and the smell of incense make the whole place marvellously atmospheric.  

I find myself back in Hoi An to collect a suit from the same tailor that Lexi and I frequented when we were last here.  More of the suit later.  So while a few adjustments are being made Lexi and Trixie are having their nails done, a kind of Mum and Daughter holiday tradition and the boys are catching up on a bit of hotel TV I have a few moments sitting by the river.

Our Danang hotel has an evening shuttle bus each night into Hoi An which I used to get in.  On the way I started to ponder the current developments in Danang.  Having just finished reading "The Girl In The Photo" by Denise Chong it is abundantly clear that there has been, and continues to be, massive development in Vietnam in the past 25 years.  Hoi An is still just as charming as it was when Lexi and first visited in 2000 but Danang is reaching for the skies and the sea at the same time.  Our hotel is very close to the sea but not quite close enough not to have other high rises being built in front of it.  Within 500 metres of our hotel six high rise blocks are under construction.  Admittedly the pace of construction is slow but they are being built.  Our hotel has 18 storeys and is certainly nowhere near full in this, the relatively chilly off-season.  I really do wonder where the projected tourist numbers to the area will come from to justify such expansion.   All on the coastal road from Danang to An Bang, where we stayed in October, there are signs pointing to development projects, many of them luxury hotels, to go with the already existing world brand hotel resorts that populate the coastline.  Surely no-one in their right mind believes that there will be such a massive surge in tourist numbers in this part of the world?  The only possibility could be Chinese investment in the area unless there are darker, money laundering forces at play.  Given that Vietnam clearly doesn't have much to invest of its own money (the Japanese Government is footing the bill for most of the new Ho Chi Minh metro) it is a reasonable to ask where the investment dosh is coming from.  

And so to sartorial matters.  Each year I thoroughly enjoy co-hosting and helping to organise an interhouse arts festival at the end of term three.  The annual Eisteddfod is a super way to end the year and brings out the creative fun in the students and staff.  It is a bit of a hassle to get the build up and rehearsal time right but the end results always justify the means.  The houses have red, blue, green and yellow as their colours and to make sure that I showed no bias as host I had a red, blue, green and yellow suit tailored for my first hosting, nearly five years ago.  Times change and so do fashions so I thought that it was high time that I updated my silly wardrobe and so have had a new suit made.  The results look fabulous, I reckon. I have still gone for the same four colours but in a Chinese patterned, silky material with a tail coat jacket and the Ali Baba pants.  Photos to follow.  I am very happy to anyone who wants it the name and number of my tailor.

Well done and thank you to Hanh Hung Clothes Shop (hanhhung@dng.vnn.vn).

It has been raining in Bai Xep on Boxing Day and proper rain too.  The kind that mixes the most tropical of stuff with British mizzle meaning that in a quick step out from undercover all brave / daft souls get soaked very quickly, especially twits who forget their waterproofs (for once not me, but Edwin, Trixie and Lexi.).  Consequently we went to the cinema this afternoon.

The dash through Bai Xep to the booked taxi got all our feet thoroughly soaked and revealed a flaw in my waterproof.  The run off rain had to drain away somewhere, that somewhere being my shorts and pants.  Great.  Dry top half though.  So not all bad.

We booked seats at CGV Quy Nhon to watch Jumanji, the sort of remake / development of Robin Williams' 1996 game adventure.  While the children enjoyed the silliness of the adventure I had a mixed reaction.  I liked Jack Black's portrayal of a teenage popular girl trapped in a middle aged man's body and Karen Gillen's awkwardness as Martha had good moments.  Probably the best moment was when Black was trying to coach Martha in the art of sassiness.  However sandwiched in between scenes of characters explaining the plot, story and game rules to each other there were moments that can best be summed up as 2017 Positive Education Lessons.  The intrepid foursome managed to find a stranded pilot whose main skill appeared to be making margaritas.  Right on cue The Rock and Martha tasted the rather appealing looking cocktails and declared, in a very clean living, shunning of alchopops way, how much they disliked their first ever taste of alcohol.  Earlier they had spent quite a while working out their teenage feelings for each other which well meaning form tutors having the irritation of teaching their charges about relationships might find a useful resource, but hardly entertainment.  And then there were the music rip offs.  Recycled samples from Star War, The Wizard of Oz and others cropped up at key moments to add atmosphere.  Overall it was a bit of a dog's breakfast with occasional chuckle moments.  Still a lot better than getting re-soaked in the rain.

After the film we stocked up on a couple of supermarket items including the very important item of Vietnamese coffee.  The bog standard stuff is fabulous when drunk really hot with a generous pour of sweetened condensed milk and is particularly good when drunk at break time at school.  My eyes were also taken by some really good looking thick, crispy baguettes so I made my way over to the bread section.  In front of me at the thick, crispy baguette counter were a couple who appeared to want to examine each of the eight loaves on show.  Hoping that the bottom of the pile was the least handled item I made to take that one and buy it as a snack for the kids and I.  The couple clearly had other ideas and removed it from my grasp.  I tried a second loaf instead.  The result same thing occurred.  Fearing a diplomatic episode I momentarily retreated before moving in for a final attempt to purchase one of the eight loaves.  Before I could  though the couple scooped up all the loaves in a deft and well practised manoeuvre and made for the cash desk.  I was somewhat flabbergasted.  Clearly seeing my confusion though another bread buyer came over to me and insisted that I take her baguette.  I was now unsure what to do.  Politely refuse and potentially offend or accept and smile.  I pondered and did the latter, paying for the bread and coffee and beating a hasty retreat.  The 7000 dong loaf (a bit less than 25p) was delicious.