robinlawrence’s Space

Not wishing to sound like Tony Blair, but I am not exactly sure how it happened.  No we are not expecting any more children, thought I ought to state that from the off, but Lexi and I seem to have bred a child who has shown a potential to be sporty.   On Friday it was the year three and four cross-country race and Trixie set off for school with her usual mixture good humour and blond scattiness.  She mumbled something about being happy if she finished around 50th out of the 75 girls in her year, gave me a farewell hug and tromped off for the start of the day.  I got on with mine and was soon immersed in the business of another full-on day in the world of the international school.  

At break time I was greeted by two colleagues who were both very keen to tell me the news about Trixie.  Sometimes statements like that can strike fear into the heart of a parent as he immediately puts cross-country running in tropical climes together with daughter's dilliness and gets plastered limb.  But no, this was genuinely good news.  The Girl Lawrence had smashed her aim of being about 50th and come in 7th overall, the highest place 7 year old in her house and her class.  She was over the moon and spent the rest of the day beaming from ear to ear, pink with exertion.  Coming in the top 15 apparently means that she will be possibly selected to go for training and competitions.  Crumbs.  A sporty child?  This is news indeed.  Trixie is very proud of her 7th place medal and its gleaminess but it should be noted that it has not affected her ability to find other activities that have to be done whenever the words "washing" and "up" are mentioned.

Today all Lawrences were in much more familiar territory when we visited Kuala Lumpur Performing Arts Centre (KLPAC) to see what their Arts Festival was all about.  It was a two day event and we did a reckie on Saturday afternoon to see what was happening.  There were glossy programmes everywhere as well as, in true Malaysian style loads of staff looking for things to do while wearing purple t-shirts.  Unusually things were running on time.  Our brief visit included a stroll round the various craft stalls, looking at the programme for today and listening to a band.  Curiously the lead singer of the band only referred to herself when, a bit too frequently, mentioning a CD that she had for sale.  All we had to do was see her friend Brian to buy a copy of her CD and he would do the rest.  While the music was good, as was the singing, I was left thinking, once again, how come there are so many people in Malaysia called Brian?  Having selected three Sunday morning workshops for the kids to have a go at we enquired about booking only to be told by one of the many purple t-shirt wearing staff that it was not necessary so we headed home for tea.

Trixie, still flushed with success from her running, accompanied me for the first lap of my Saturday evening run and clocked up a very respectable time for 2.2km, clearly doing her best to show that her exploits were not a one off.

And so this morning we travelled back to KLPAC for sessions of drumming, gamelan, puppets and stuff.  The children nearly didn't get to do the various workshops due to a booking problem.  According to another one of the many purple T-shirt wearing staff the fact that we had not booked in advance for the workshops was a problem, despite it not being a problem some 12 hours earlier.  Clipboards, paper and pens appeared and then there was frantic checking of who was on lists by the ever increasing number of purple T-shirts.  To simplify matters Lexi took over, avoiding wearing the purple attire and read the necessary clipboards and pointing out that the workshops were nowhere near full.  After some gentle insistence from Lexi the many staff agreed that the Little Lawrences could in fact do their stuff.  And all went well.  Lexi and I even managed to attend a 45 minute session called Acting For Adults run by a very enthusiastic Japanese man.

Overall it was a well done to KLPAC and a good day was had by all Lawrences.

Made scones for tea and ate them with homemade lemon curd.

Planning our next visit to the UK might be a strange first thing to do on return to KL but that was one of the things I set to doing this week, that and recovering from jet lag.  

Jet lag is a very strange phenomenon indeed.   All Lawrences touched down in KL at 2215 last Saturday after a long old journey that had involved a hire car drive from Norwich to Central London, a lovely walk along the south bank of the Thames, a play in Battersea Park, flights to KL and changes in Dubai.  We were suitably shattered and also full of food, having been fed about ever three hours.   All week we have tried to go to bed at 'normal' KL times but having fully adjusted to UK times in the five weeks we had been there adjusting back was easier said than done.  There have been times this week when I have been shattered at 2.00pm, shattered again at 8.00pm and then wide awake at 11.30pm.  Finally, last night, I went to be at 10.30pm and then woke up at 9.00 am feeling like I was getting that hang of timings at last.  Phew.  You know how they say that going west is easier than going east?  Well the famous 'they' might just be right.

And while recovering from time differences I have managed to book our next visit to the UK.  Apparently the market for flights to the UK is very competitive, although there appears to be precious few discounted fares currently.  The big players and would-be big players (KLM, BA, Emirates and Malaysia Airlines) all charge pretty similar prices (RM 4000 to RM4500 return) while there is little difference with other lesser players.  Imagine my delight then when I found Vietnam Airlines could get all of us back to Gatwick for less then RM13000 next Easter.  Because Lexi and I's schools' holidays don't overlap fully booking trips is not the easiest thing in the world so we will need to do a staggered trip to and fro, but we can make it all work. Paying for the fares was a bit more tricky though.  Vietnam Airlines, in its wisdom decided on its website that the maximum number if children who can be booked at one time is two.  Wake up www.vietnamairlines.com not every family in the world conforms to the expected stereotype of four people.  To make the booking work for us I had to book adult fares on the website and children's tickets via the Vietnam Airlines office, who to make matters more complex, would not accept credit card payments.  "You need to pay in bank transfer or cash, Mr Robin," a nice lady called Lily told me, while also missing my very unsubtle noises of frustration.  Thanks to the 13 emails between the fragrant Lily and I plus a bit of a gamble that flights would not sell out I can cautiously say that it is going to work.  All being well children and I will see the inside and then outside of Gatwick Airport on 28th March 2015.  Lexi will arrive a week later, enjoying one week of full family time before I return to KL and then one week after that she returns with sprogs in tow.

One thing that really did work surprisingly well this week was a visit to Jump Street. Jump Street is a warehouse full of trampolines in various guises and was pleasantly, although not fully jammed, with children and some Dads, jumping around.  Edwin really enjoyed the foam pit, the hi-light of which involved jumping off a one metre platform onto a trampoline and then into a pit of large foam cubes.  Rupert loved the dodgeball with trampolines area and Trixie bounced until she was a pleasant, sweaty shade of pink.  The venue itself was well organised too.  Each jumper could book sessions of an hour at a time and each hour had different coloured wrist bands to prevent overstaying.  It was also good value at RM20 per hour.  (I enjoyed it too and have to thank the dare-devil antics of one of my colleagues for persuading me to bounce onto, off of and into things too!)

School starts properly next week.

It wasn't a mugging, drive-by shooting or session of sheep rustling committed under the noses of tourists in Whitby's ageing, but still premiere theatre location, rather it was a (version of) "Theft," which according to the flyers was "a comedy thriller by Eric Chappell."  Having low expectations, but still hoping for a good night out all Lawrences joined the small gaggle of grey-haired, sensible-shoe-wearing theatre lovers and, after a struggle to pay with my Malaysian debit card, succeeded in lowering the average age of the audience by at least twenty.  Still undaunted, remember I have watched some terrible plays in KL, we sat and waited for the opening exchanges to experience the advertised thrills and hoot at the promised gags.  

House lights went down. The curtains opened. The stage lights went up to reveal a run-down, dowdy-looking, front -room set with newspaper strewn around the place and a few cheap and nasty looking paintings placed on the walls at jaunty angles.  Just before I had time to look at the poor quality artwork in more detail a thin man wearing a grey suit, cheap nylon tie and sporting the most bizarre of ponytail and side-burn combinations was thrust into the space, holding a golf club above his head and failed to look cross.  He paused momentarily before asking with almost no animation in his voice "Is he still here?"  It was the entrance of Trevor.  He held the wretched golf club above his head a little longer and next John came in, badly dressed in a cheap evening suit and looking exactly like a chemistry teacher on his day off.  Between them they managed to remind each other of their names (ten times) while helpfully explaining to the audience that they were best friends before noticing the screwed-up pieces of newspaper, apparently a sign of being burgled, something the gentleman who burgled our house forgot to do.  The actors paused a bit more so that Jenny could arrive, wearing the best dress that she could find at the back of her wardrobe, before she too deduced the apparently obvious from the newspaper.  She was soon revealed, thanks to lots of names checks and pauses between lines, to be Trevor's wife, which meant we only needed John's lady, Barbara, to appear and the show could really start.  She needed quite a bit of introducing  so we had to be told, in between pauses, that she was that evening's designated driver as the other three had been drinking (the audience would never have guessed it given the way they all stood either stock-still or wandered aimlessly around their dreary surroundings and chatted freely) but the naughty Barbara had guzzled the grape with a passion and so they had all had to walk home across open countryside from wherever they had been and arrive in looking immaculate in their charity shop best.  Finally Barbara swayed in, slurred one word in four, successfully executed a well-practised semi-swerve near the drinks table (why hadn't those bottles been stolen?) and the play could really start.

Oh and then the burglar had to come in too and spend the next two hours trying to be a cross between the police officers in Loot and An Inspector Calls while using an accent that had it roots somewhere in both East London and Dudley and revealing the innermost secrets of the happy couples on show.  

As the play went on we had explained to us that John had become a millionaire thanks to a share issue, John and Trevor played tennis, and John had fancied Jenny years ago because she wore white ankle socks.  And thank goodness this was explained to us as without such detailed and heavily paused pronouncements we would

never have known as there were no clues given through the acting.  John appeared furious throughout, Trevor's holding of the golf club did not suggest that he could do any better with a tennis racket, and John was neither pervy not flirtatious while Jenny appeared indifferent to the man, despite us later being told that she and John had been having an affair for years.  Barbara did manage a little spark of emotion when telling John that she didn't particularly like his Little John but Big John just carried on being furious.  Was that all because of Little John?

To be generous it was an amateur company doing the play (we did pay a non-amateur total of £37 for our five tickets though) but both the play and the playing of it were riddled with elementary errors that could very easily have been stamped or directed out of the performance.  The script itself needed at least thirty minutes taking out of it and did not need to explain every single moment of each character's life to the patient audience.  More time could have been saved by the actors picking up

their lines immediately rather than savouring each unnecessary dramatic pause.  These pauses got even more annoying when the play tried to introduce a note of raciness revealing the details of Jenny and John's affair.  But any whiff of scandal was snubbed out as the actors delayed just too long before answering back during what were meant to be arguments.  

The play ended eventually and both the actors and audience appeared relieved.

Earlier in the day Edwin and Rupert created their own drama while washing up the breakfast things.  For a reason known only to him Rupert thought that it would be a good idea toslap Edwin's bottom with a tea towel instead of drying up.  He then thought it would be an even better idea to turn the lights off in the pot-wash room and use the towel in a similar way.  Surprise surprise a mug got dropped on the floor and smashed.  How did I know all this?  I was next door sitting in the smallest room, powdering my nose at the time, pretending that the boys were nothing to do with me.  That pretence came to an end as two boys came round to my quiet zone complaining bitterly about their lot and how it was all the other one's fault.  Through locked door I managed calm them down and got Edwin and then Rupert to agree to work co-operatively once more.  Edwin said "Ok Daddy" and just as Rupert said his he somehow managed to start to hand-dryer off, the timing of which made all three of us fall about giggling.

If only tonight's "comedy thriller" had been just as funny.

It is not that tough being a tourist.  No sympathy, please.  But to keep the Dubai tourist industry going three little Lawrences and I once again donned our tourist trainers, filled our borrowed Heineken lager cooler bag with water and ice packs and set off on the second and final day of our bigbustour of Dubai.

I am not sure who was keener to swim in the sea, me or the kids, but our first port of call tried to be the Jumeirah Beach Park for all stations to the sea.  Unfortunately as our open top bus pulled up outside the park a sign displayed outside appeared to read "Ladies Only Today."  The thought of allowing Trixie in by herself while we men sat around twiddling our thumbs for a bit did not appeal to me so we continued on our way to the nearby Public Beach instead.  There appears to be a strange public and commercial approach to men and women in Dubai.  Ladies clearly require time separated away from men, hence today's beach closure, and they clearly also require privacy when having their hair and nails done as all hair salons have covered windows.  Additionally the unisex hair places appear to have separate entrances for men and women.  However the public displaying of unsold ladies nether garments is allowed as demonstrated by the open door and window policy of La Senza in The Emirates Mall.  Clearly the authorities have a problem with the showing off of hair adaptions, nail repairs and bodies on the beach but don't care about pants and bras.  Curious indeed.  But then there is the even more curious beast: the foreigner.  That animal is allowed to use public beaches and sport whatever costume it likes as long as it follows a very long list of don'ts displayed on large signs.  

While we were at the Jumeirah Public Beach, in the shadow of the Burj al Arab hotel, we did our best to splash in the sea modestly, dig in the sand modestly, smear copious amounts of sun cream on modestly and generally have a modest time on the very warm, almost hot sea.  The waves were exhilarating and hot.  Wishing to avoid sunburn in the up 45 degree heat we soon made a modest retreat to shade and our next stop on the tour.  Not before a search for some loos though.  No modest loos were to be found anywhere near the public beach, surely a public inconvenience?  Instead I located a well placed seven foot tall date palm, next to a wall and immediately worried.  Dubai is place with rules and fines and police and news stories about foreigners getting into trouble.  I thought for a few moments and then decided to risk it.  It was a great hide out and all went well, so well in fact all the gang used its cover, scuttling off one at a time so as not to arouse suspicion.  What could be less suspicious than three children standing next to a date palm, and then and few moments later one father and two children standing next to a date palm trying their best not to look suspicious etc etc.

The Emirates Mall contains a ski slope.  Bizarre.  And bus shelters in Dubai are air conditioned.  Bizarre, but nice.

Later this afternoon our hosts had arranged a Desert Safari which was splendid.  For those not in the know it went something like this.  A nice man called Akbar arrived at the house at about 4.30pm in a 2011 Toyota Landcruiser, with four spare seats for Lawrences and two German tourists in the boot.  We then glided off in four-wheel drive luxury for a 30 minute drive before arriving at proper desert, you know the sort of thing, sharply rising peaks and deep hollows for seemingly miles around.   We waited for a few moments while Akbar let out some of the pressure in the tyres, and then he, as the leader of 13 other landcruisers roared off into the sand with us and the Germans holding onto the various handles and seatbelts in the amazing vehicle.  The children whooped and screamed with delight as we shot up steep slopes, teetered along ridges and then descended down banks at 45 degree angles.  One of the vehicles in the party sprung a leak in a front wheel which necessitated a brief photo session on tyre repair stop and then it was off again for some more hair-raising, white knuckle stuff.  It was marvellous.

Also part of the deal was an evening meal in the desert consisting of fine Arabian kebabs, curries, vegetables dishes, salads, breads and rice, washed down with cold drinks.  At the dining place we were also entertained by a spinning dancer, and would have had some belly dancers too had it not been Ramadan, another curiosity.    One man could dance, but belly dancers couldn't.  However we were entertained by various hawkers including a photographer who had taken and printed off snaps of the children and I.  He started by trying to sell the photos, quite good ones too, for 100 Dirhams per pair (about £18) which I obvious said no to.  

A free offer that we did take up was a short ride on a camel train ... And I have never heard such a bizarre shrieking, screaming noise come from a creature before.  It wasn't a noise made by one of the camels though.  No.  It was Trixie.  She and Edwin went on the first camel in the train, Sheila, while Rupert and I followed on on Mavis.  Trixie wasn't really prepared for the forward, back and up motion of Sheila getting up to her full height and expressed her surprise through the medium of shrieking.  After a few steps she got the hang of hanging on, Trixie, not Sheila, and all was well.  That is until it was time for the descent.  The reverse procedure was far more lurching than the ascent and produced the same alarming reaction from Trixie.  Fortunately when she, Trixie, was on terra firma again she managed a huge beam and all was well.  Sheila looked on in a way that only camels can.

As we left the desert camp with full tummies the photo man tried again and after exchanging a few "My friends" with each other he happily passed on four photos to me in exchange for 20 Dirhams.

All in all another great day.

Crumbs Dubai is hot.  I mean really hot.  

When we landed here on Monday lunchtime the pilot dropped the ground temperature casually into his welcoming words, 41 degrees, as you do, before wishing us all well.

And all temperatures considered the kids and I are doing well.  We are staying with South African friends who have made us wonderfully welcome and today has seen three little Lawrences and I tackle some of the tourist and cultural highlights of the Emirate, a tour brought to us in association with bigbustours.com.  First port of call today was the Cultural Museum, where we initially dodged from air-con room to air-con room via a quick look at very old boats too.  The displays were very well done, with plenty of video exhibits to attract hot children and fathers who always click into teacher mode when in museums.  The main teaching point of the museum was the economic policies of Sheikh Maktoun who, 1824, decided that the small pearl fishing harbour and fledging trading port should not charge any tax on imports and exports.  Following that decision and a bit of oil Dubai has never looked back.  (My plenary needed some work on.)

On the next stop of the big bus we attempted to explore a buildings museum but instead ended up breaking the law.  For Muslims it is currently Ramadan so much fasting is taking place, and Ramadan is taken very seriously here.  Finding ourselves in a shaded corner of the single storey buildings we broke into our supply of sandwiches and munched while casting regular glances around the place, just in case.  Before today I had never thought that the eating of bread and peanut butter could be in anyway illegal, but I was wrong.  Clearly Muslims follow the fast but the commentary on the tour bus made it clear that people were not permitted to eat, drink, play live music or chew gum in public places during fasting hours.  Our friends had reminded us that rules here are simply obeyed and but hunger did force us to eat, although eat subtlety and swiftly.  

The bus company had made it clear that passengers were allowed to drink on the bus and even encouraged it by offering free bottles of water.  By the end of the day we had quaffed 15 half litre bottles between us plus the water that we had taken along.

Our next stop was the Spice Souk, a collection of stalls selling fine spices and herbs, but also many other stalls and shops selling unexpected items too.  Being a man, and one who does not spend a great deal of time grooming my flowing locks, I managed not to pack a hair brush for Trixie.  I was certain though that one of the shops in the souk would have what we needed  And we were almost successful.  The first likely looking shop had various household plastic products, soaps and plenty of combs, but no hairbrushes.  The next one had various bottles of hair tonics, shoe cleaning brushes and combs, but no hair brushes.  Likewise the third place, plenty of combs but no brushes.  I started to see a pattern emerging.  The fourth place confirmed my suspicions.  Three bearded men wearing Arabian white robes sat on plastic chairs and stools surrounded by combs of every single colour, style, tooth arrangement and length.  In fact it seemed that the children and I had stumbled into World of Combs.  No one else was in this fine shop, a veritable wholesaler of combs, and the three men did not appear to be deep in comb related discussions and dealings, so why were they surrounded by so many combs?  Naturally we enquired about hair brushes but these were comb purists who would not sully their trade in precious plastics by lowering themselves into dealing with multi-layered plastic teeth.  The simplicity of the comb was clearly something that gave the men a serene charm.  "No," one particularly wise gentleman assured me in the tone of a great teacher speaking this student who is about the embark on a soul-discovering quest for knowledge ("Tell me, Teacher, of the origin of combs, please?") "I do not sell hair brushes, but you should have no problem finding one in the souk."  Sweating some more we left the shop, Trixie pulled her wide-brimmed hat down further over her matted, un-brushed and un-combed hair and we continued on with our hairbrush free tour.

Our bus route was taking us around the Dubai Creek and one of the main reasons for booking the tour was that it offered a river trip on an Emirati Dhow (otherwise know as a big, old, wooden boat).  To get to the starting point of the trip we had to cross the water and that meant a ride on a sort of river taxi.  The river taxi was a curious boat, that looked a bit like something designed by an amateur boat builder who specialized in bath-based boats and then sent their design to someone they knew who had a bit of wood left over.  The whole thing was shaped to look like a downside-up clothes iron, with a raised platform that trebled as a seating area, cover for the Diesel engine and lower level standing area for the driver.  Despite also giving the impressions of having no bottom the boat made it in great shape and slow speed to the other side of the water and we made it aboard the dhow.

Our final port of call was some tall building.   There are lots of tall buildings in Dubai, but because they a quite spread out they don't appear to be too over-dominating.  However the Burj Khalifa is a big building.  828 metres is big in anyone's book, even allowing for the slight cheating of shoving a ruddy big pole on top of it to make it look bigger.

By that time children were getting peckish again so we ducked inside the Dubai Mall and started to consider how we might break the law again.  Every food outlet gave the impression of being both open and closed at the same time in that often the lights were on, but no-one was at work.  The signs around the mall prohibited eating and drinking in public areas and yet some of the eateries and cafés had signs saying that they were open for take-aways.  But if we had bought a takeaway then where could we have eaten or drunk it?  In the end, and after a quick play in Hamleys, I resorted to going into Marks and Spencers and buying a 9 Dirham packet of shortbread.  We beat a hasty dash to the tour bus and sat on the upper deck, outside, and ate shortbread as quickly as possible, which was quite quick considering how hungry the three sweaty little Lawrences were.

We celebrated Edwin's 11th birthday with a good meal and slices of chocolate brownie cake, adorned with candles and also enjoyed Happy Birthday sung in five different languages.  We were also able to buy a hairbrush for Trixie from a French Supermarket.  No combs were for sale.

Fresh as a daisy from five days of Discovery Week, a usual chase around the dance venues of KL on Saturday plus watching Argentina and eleven other fellows play football it was up and at 'em for an early Sunday morning in Chinatown for the latest KL dance competition.  Lexi was out all day long running a technical rehearsal for her school play (kick off next week) so mother in law and I plus kids home at around 7.30am.

The floor was apparently open from 0800 for free practice and so we got there in good time, for me, ready to start.  From that moment on timings started to slip.  The floor was eventually opened up at 0825 as the next time target looked: the 0900 start of class number 1.  Edwin was competing in Solo Open 1 and so we all had an interest in making sure that we were in the right place at the right time.  We were, but as the clock ticked past 0900 the only thing that had happened so far was that the the very well-spoken announcer had rather officiously told spectators where they could and couldn't sit.  I her next announcement she appeared keener than most that proceeding should start on time as she declared that the competition wuss about to start, this proclamation coming about at 0905.  0910 cam and went, with no sign of action, as did 0913, which was marked by flurry of action: another scolding for people who might have considered sitting in the wrong chairs from Ms Announcer and then a swift exit from the official platform by Herself; the final competitor for the first class arriving and the judges moving in to position.  Still no dancing.  And who was to blame?  None other than Mr Sammy Soo, yes, hard to believe I know, but it was clearly all down to him.  The announcer asked Mr Soo, apparently a judge, to get into place so that proceedings could commence promptly 20 minutes late, which they did.

However controversy was not far away though.  Edwin danced well but there was some very obvious and serious rule breaking.  Three men were spotted wearing waistcoats while dancing in a beginners category.  Oh the shame!  Oh the crime!  Oh how could they behave as such devious criminals?  Thus to help speed the competition on a pause was put in to allow the removal of these offending garments and huge removal and re-attaching of numbers.  Apparently it also against the rules for beginners girls to wear shiny or sparkles costumes, an offence committed by almost all of the participants.  I am happy to accept sensible rules, but the waistcoat thing does seem silly.  Dancing competitions are expensive enough so I would have thought that it was in the dancer's interest to minimize the amount they spend on their outfits.   However there were really too many girls in various competitions who have taken the minimal clothing thing too far with under nines wearing backless strappy dresses.  Surely if the rules are so strict on waistcoats then there should be similarly strict rules on making sure that girls do not wear skimpy numbers. 

Luckily though not everything was late in today's competition.  Accompanying supporters were required to buy a ticket that included lunch, at a mere RM150 each.  Fortunately Edwin's dance teacher had managed to arrange a two for one deal that meant that both mother in law and I could watch the event for a more manageable price.  Preparations for a grand Chinese lunch clearly have to begin early though.  The caterers planned for lunch to be served from 1300 and in anticipation wanted to make certain that no detail was left unattended to.  Small saucers of ketchup, soy sauce and chillis were arranged on our table in good time for lunch at 0845, approximately three and a quarter hours early.

Before going on this week's Discovery Week to Islands off Kota Kinabalu, Borneo, my knowledge about hammocks was limited to pirates and hippy beach bums reclining in them while listening to wall to wall Bob Marley and telling all around them that they are so relaxed which, incidentally has always made me precisely the opposite. However after this week I now have first hand knowledge about the process of sleeping in jungle hammocks.

Before I write more I suppose I really ought to define two important terms: "jungle hammock" and "sleep."   A jungle hammock appears to be a green gortex tube with a cord running through the middle that is used to connect to a couple of handily placed trees.  There are then two more lines attached to the hammock at 90 degrees to the main cable that can be attached to handily placed other things, which, in my experience, appears to be picnic benches, clearly the most common item of furniture in the jungle.  The actual sleeping compartment then hangs down from the combination of cables and provides the next challenge for the would be sleeper.  "Would be sleeper" is probably a helpful way of defining the other important term.  I did my best to sleep, honest I did, but it was not easy.

The most tricky part of my two nights in the hi-tech hammock was the initial clamber in.  First I tried head first as I have found that it is often useful to look where you are going, a method of travel often under-rated by many, particularly school children.  The entrance point was underneath, at the foot end so once in, by now knees first, I soon discovered that sitting up and turning round in a contraption that looked like an over-sized pea pod was not possible and so I had to retrace my clamber in the most gracious style possible.  According to the experts I had to reverse in, slide my backside in, lie down and as by magic the Velcro seal would close up leaving the potential sleeper snug.  Snug yes, but also in a bit of a mess vis a vis the sleeping bag situation.  I somehow had to get it under me while at the same time remaining horizontal while also swinging from side to side.

The jungle experts from the company that put together the programme for the week assured me that there was no better way to pass the night that lieing back relaxed in a jungle hammock, allowing the evening breeze to pass through the mosquito net top while being gently rocked to sleep.  I however felt that there probably was something better than positioning myself in the recumbent banana position, sweating on top of my cheap nylon sleeping bag all up the street while my green canvass coffin swung alarmingly back and forth.  As the experts emerged in the  morning looking as fresh as daisies I staggered out feeling like I had spent the night being dragged through the jungle backwards.  I like camping, but I am not sure that hammocks are for me.

I have now had four scuba dives in as many days.  Please don't feel any sympathy.  It was not hard work but someone had to do it.  I couldn't really let the kids on this Discovery Week trip go out in to the warm oceans off Borneo with only their air-tanks, flippers, breathing apparatus, wet-suits and highly experienced PADI qualified guide for company, could I?   Someone had to be there in case of something happening that might need someone there to do something that only someone being there could possibly do with any degree of success.  And that person was me, on four occasions.  Surely there is something in the strict PADI rule book (I have no idea what this diving related acronym stands for) stating that first dives by secondary school students should be accompanied, wherever possible, by experienced Drama teachers.

Well then, I have been underwater, for an extended period of time and learnt a few skills.  I can now accomplish the following : take a regulator (breathy bit) out of my mouth and put it in again, blow water out of a mask without flooding it, find my regulator if it falls out of my mouth and re-pressure my ears when descending and ascending.  All vital skills when under water.  Lesson one completed.  Dive number two involved descending to 12 metres and looking at lots of fish, all rather nice, while dives three and four were repeats of dives one and two.  

After these four experiences I am at a bit of a loss what to think though.  Normally I have very strong opinions about all things and am more than happy to write or speak about them.  While I certainly enjoyed the experience of seeing fish of various different pretty colours swimming around as well as seeing moving plants of pretty colours that was about it.  I did feel quite chuffed after my first descent, mainly due to fact that I managed to make all the equipment work and that I found I could do all the necessary beginner skills without dying or drinking the ocean.  However in the subsequent three dives I did start to question exactly why I was doing it.  I am glad that divers have investigated shipwrecks to learn lessons to improve maritime safety and I am also pleased with the work done by those who monitor the condition of the oceans and translate their findings into useful information about the state of planet Earth, however I am not sure that I need to get involved in this important work by seeking to train myself in the whys and wherefores of further diving.  While my credit card provider might be somewhat disappointed to read this news my potential, if somewhat unlikely, further involvement in the investigations of ocean floors may be limited to just this single experience.  I like the idea of having a dive down to 30 metres bit I am not sure what else I might experience or learn about if I did have a go at this.  So therefore it is staying on dry land and the surface of the oceans for me, having dabbled in the world of lion fish, cuttlefish and those yellow-and-black ones that I would never remember the name of.  Fortunately I have never been the sort of person who likes to have all the right gear and the latest equipment for expensive hobbies so I think, overall, I will file diving, along with elephant riding, into the section labelled "Enjoyed it, and now for the next experience, please."

The most fun experience of the day was playing volleyball in the sea with the students.  Naturally there was no net, but that didn't stop the game as two year ten lads assumed the position of the net, with one of them also acting as referee, scorer, commentator and, most amusingly, line judge.  In order to make sure that he got all the line calls correct he took to insisting that players hold the ball on exactly the spot the ball landed so that he could give his ruling, often with the aid of exuberant arm gestures.  As point after point appeared to need his expert judgment the game dragged on and soon entered the wonderful world of the ridiculous.  A world that for all the obvious reasons one could not inhabit under the sea but a world that does feel to be filled with fun.

Spending five days in Borneo on a school trip, aka Discovery Week, might not appear to be very taxing and can certainly not be classed as work but today, (Wednesday) has seen nine students, the project leader, yours truly and a colleague doing some hard labour in the form of mixing concrete for a volleyball court.  Why?  Well the purpose of my place's Discovery Week is that the week should be mainly one of community service and doing useful things for others while also discovering something about oneself into the bargain.  So today while other members of our party were off painting and decorating a community hall, please don't have visions of quaint church halls, yoga lessons, knitting clubs and blue crockery, my gang were shoveling stuff.  For those who like to know the technicalities of concrete production it involves six barrow loads of grey sand, eight barrow loads of grey stones, two 50kg bags of cement, lots of water and plenty of shovel action.  Fortunately our gang of labourers were up for the task and put their various backs into it with great enthusiasm.  While we shoveled and mixed a master craftsman smoothed and smeared the mixed concrete into shape over a pre-set metal mesh and inside a pre-made wooden court-marker.  The more we made the more he smoothed and by the end of the day almost half of court area had been covered.  So far so good.

Tomorrow more willing labourers will return to the site to finish the concreting and he on Friday it is the painting of the all important lines so that the current players of of volleyball and future ones too can argue over whether the ball was in or out.  I wonder if anyone has a ball?

The funding for the raw materials has been covered from the money that the students have paid to come on the trip and some local residents have contributed additional labour to the project.  Starting as we do on day three of Ramadhan most of our fellow labourers did their stuff without the advantage of food and drink, while our party devoured their fried rice and chicken for lunch along with several litres of water.  In a country of contrasts the new volleyball court will be within an over-hit smash of a plush looking house, complete with perfectly concreted parking area and two oldish, but in their time luxurious Toyota 4x4s.  Should we have tapped up these residents for a contribution to the project?

I really hope that the England footballers appreciate the enormous efforts that teachers and their associates inKuala Lumpur have gone to watch them play against Italy today.  My alarm went off at 0500, thirty minutes earlier than a school day.  After a reviving throw of water over my face I drove off to meet various other determined colleagues at The Bulldog Pub near school.  I was seeking the atmosphere and camaraderie that can only come from the sharing of memorable victories or disasters.  

By kick off, at 0600, the place was packed, although there were notably many more glasses of Pepsi, cranberry juice and mugs of tea being quaffed than pints of cold lager.  The house speciality of English Breakfast including real bacon and real sausages was selling like, er hot cakes.  

I suppose the least said about the football the better really.  I had confidently predicted an England victory, demonstrating, yet again, my expertise at football punditry.  Although I began to believe the rubbish that I spout about the beautiful game when Mr Sterling almost scored a goal I the first few minutes.

Alright so Italy won the match the concerted effort at trying not to hype up the boys in white all appeared reasonable, and no player did anything silly.  The real victors though were beards.  Long derided as stone-aged throwbacks many of the players appeared to have embraced the hairy visage as this tournament's must have look with even Captain Gerrard trying his best to look rugged.  Champion Beard has to go to Mr Pirlo, who emerged into the arena for the second half with a freshly groomed beard and hairdo to match before succeeding in showing how it is possible to remain cool and hairy under the dual pressures of millions of viewers and tropical heat.  At one point towards the end of the game when England missed a decent chance the cameras cut to Mr Hodgson who was shown head and chin in hands.  Was he bemoaning the lack of goals or facial hair, I wonder.  Anyway bad luck fellers.  I will do my best to study your beards when you next play.

It did feel very strange emerging from the boozer into bright sunlight, stone warm sober, with the whole day ahead, rubbing my appropriately unshaven face and hungry for a bowl of porridge.  Life is all about new experiences, they say.