robinlawrence’s Space

By the skin of Astro's teeth the World Cup Package finally arrived in Chateau Lawrence.  For once I had planned ahead carefully and initially applied for the necessary TV package on 27th April, six weeks in advance.  I have documented the range of obstacles that Astro put in the way of themselves doing their job in detail previously but finally the thing was installed on Wednesday afternoon, just in time for the Thursday start.  However there were a few last minute cock-ups.  After a mere 43 days and seven phone calls to their call-centre an installer phoned on Tuesday at 1130 and seemed a little put out that I could not drop everything to be at home to make the installation convenient for him.  I tried to arrange a definite time with him for the following day, but that was apparently not possible so he told me that he would phone me that evening to agree a time.  By 9.00pm he had, as expected, not phoned.  When I phoned him he agreed that it would be best to come to Chateau Lawrence on Wednesday when, Shirly, our excellent home-help, would be there, after 2.30pm.  We settled on 3.30pm as the installation time.

On Wednesday he phoned again, this time at high noon, asking if he come immediately.  Surely an arrangement is an arrangement?  

I returned home at 5.30pm to find the thing installed.  Marvellous.  I really couldn't face trying to work it on an empty stomach so after dinner tried to switch on the World Cup Football Channel.  Naturally it didn't work.  Another phone call to the company, where I heard, yet again, how the poor sods were experiencing "high call volumes" (certainly not squads of satisfied customers ringing to say how brilliant the company was) and Astro agreed to switch the package on.  Over breakfast on Friday morning I watched a little bit of live football.  I almost felt a little emotional.  Success, at last.

I felt slightly more emotional on Friday evening when the bloody thing did not work! I switched on, connected all the right cables and the sodding thing showed no sign of working.  Yet another phone call to the company, yet another giving of my passport number (what is it with this whole passport thing?) and I learned that the HD service that I had asked for on one of the 43 days of waiting and phoning had not been added.  Instead I had to do funny things to my TV to make it work.

Overall the whole process has been awful.  The comedian in me suspects that it is a conspiracy between my mobile phone provider, Maxis, to make me make more calls to Astro (owned by Maxis) to increase profits.  But bizarrely in all of the giving of passport numbers the one thing that has never been discussed is how I will actually be asked to pay for the service.  No-one has appeared to be in the slightest bit interested in how money might change hands.  How on earth does this terrible company survive?

Irony lovers will be pleased to know that instead of phoning the generally hopeless call-centre I could have sent an email to wecare@astro.com.my.  The one email I sent to this address never received a reply.  Perhaps wedontgiveashit@astro etc etc would be a much more accurate and honest choice.

After school dance lessons in central Kuala Lumpur are a bit of a time-consuming hassle at the end of a long day but as well as being good fun for the kids they also provide an opportunity to eat out on local cheap and cheerful delicacies.  And tonight's dining was no different.  While Rupert and Trixie practised their waltz and cha-cha (they are not really advanced enough for the cha cha cha) Edwin and I strolled down to the China Town Food Court in the home of fakery, Petaling Street.  Nestled among the pirated DVDs, tasteful and tasteless t-shirts and Guccis of many colours the Food Court offers pretty much anything to tempt the taste buds.  While Edwin tucked in to Chicken Rice I munched my way through Claypot Seafood.  These very direct translation titles don't really do the dishes any justice.  Edwin's roasted chicken breast, with crispy spiced skin, served with flavoured rice, mixed nuts, coriander, spring onions and brown stuff complimented my pot of soy sauced rice with squid, white fish, prawns and a sprig or two of octopus and both were washed down with iced lemon tea.  Marks and Spencer's advertisers would have had a field day.  "Not just brown stuff, this is China Town Food Court Brown Stuff."

Preparations for next academic year are in full swing with exam groups all looking forward to their final papers and teachers enjoying those rewarding free lessons.  In my non contact time today I finally got round to watching Ibsen's "A Doll's House" on the extremely good www.digitaltheatreplus.com.  I was looking at it with a possibility of studying it with next year's A Level group.  However I soon got caught up in the extreme naturalism and got very cross with Torvald Helmer.  How could he be such an arse?  I have always been pleased with the strength that Nora showed in leaving at the end, despite the massive sacrifices she had to make.  Memories of visiting Grimstad in 2006, and my earliest brushes with Herr Ibsen's works at Huddersfield came flooding back and I had that pleasant post-quality-theatre-feeling of having had my emotions and brain exercised.  I had also noted down a long list of possibly monologues and duologues for my students to tackle too.

In more mundane matters I think that I have discovered KL's most under-used piece of furniture: the shoe rack.  Malaysia is no different to most other South East Asian countries in that it is customary to take your shoes off before going into people's houses and sometimes shops and places of work.  The sign for whether any given place is a shoes off or on establishment is either a shoe rack, pile of shoes or, more commonly, both.  Strategically placed outside the Kuala Lumpur Dance Academy are several metal shoes racks and two signs reading "Strictly Place Shoes on Rack."  The only way getting near to the racks and signs is to pick your way carefully over and through all the discarded shoes.

Oh come on Ambridge writers: you are really getting into the realms of ridiculousness now.  Just when I thought that splitting up Tom and Kirsty couldn't be beaten for far-fetched storylines, with the result of them writing out two really good characters the creators that be have decided to try to upstage this by adding in an even more ridiculous story: the plans to build a road right through Brookfield Farm, the home of one set of eponymous heroes.  Apparently this should have been news to the owners of Brookfield, Ruth (recent recoverer from breast cancer, miscarriage sufferer and hard-working Geordie wife of) David Archer, but surely the writers have got things wrong again.  The news of the potential route was apparently revealed at a public meeting and the plans, including a cow bridge, came as a complete surprise to these particular Archers.  Surely as landowners they might have noticed surveyors looking at their land, public displays of potential routes, and the like?  But no.  We are meant to believe that these folk are clever enough to spy a sheep that scratches too frequently but do not have enough wit to spot the possible route of a bypass across their land.  It is so silly that it makes me want to make a soothing mug of Milo .... 

... If only Milo making were that easy though.  I know that nestle are evil and nasty, but I do like a mug of their chocolatey stuff every once in a while, especially when my school makes milo available to its teaching staff, along with tea bags, milk, instant coffee and sugar.  Recently though there has been a change in the system for obtaining such essentials for the smooth running of one's educational and physical faculties.  The job of Chief of Milo and Teabags (no one in my dept drinks instant coffee) has recently been reallocated away from one colleague who currently does loads of work to one who, it was considered, did not have such a heavy load.  However to "stream-line" operations a very complex set of operating procedures have been put place.  Malaysia is a country that does not do trust very well and will certainly not use two staff where three would do and so today I approached the Chief of Milo with empty jar and hopeful expression, a la Oliver Twist.  I had checked that I had arrived during one of the two official Milo Times (please don't get visions of diet coke adverts) mainly because last time I had been heavily scolded for daring to ask for more at 3.00pm on a Wednesday when the official memo stated that I needed to be in the appointed place between 0900 and 1000 on Monday or Wednesday.  Naturally I arrived at 0956 today.  The Chief of Milo gave me a withering look and I followed in their footsteps to the locked cupboard, clutching my empty jar, doing my best to keep a straight face.  The almost empty bag of Milo was produced and I took a big chance: I offered to fill the Drama jar myself.  The Chief was a little taken aback but accompanied me all the way to the nearby sink watched every mote that I poured into the jar and quickly relieved me of the few grams that remained in the bag after pouring.  Heaven forbid that I take more than my department's allocation.  Perhaps I should delegate this task?  Maybe I should seek to employ an agent to act on my behalf ....

... Which brings me on to the latest news about Astro TV.  I have clearly made a terrible error of judgement in my quest to watch World Cup Football.  I learned, in late April, that only Astro, owned by Malaysia's second richest man, had the rights to live World Cup matches and that if I wanted to watch the footie I would have to subscribe.  So I applied to Astro on 27th April.  At time of writing nothing has happened.  I have phoned seven times, sent them five copies of my passport as requested and have even had two apologies from their managers.  Yesterday I phoned an agent who assured me that if I applied through him, at no extra cost to me, he would see to it that the system was set up within seven working days.  Thanks to the agent, one Legolas Goh, I received an email from Astro today as an acknowledgement.  Maybe, just maybe, I might get to see the trophy lifted?

And on the subject of trophies I found one of the most ghastly looking trophies in the Drama Department today.  A robed and winged lady holds a rice bowl aloft while standing on a complex structure of towers, spikes, wreaths and all this lot is surrounded by four eagles, one with a broken wing.  Finished in cheap gold paint this plastic creation was set on a wooden plinth with a cheap metal plaque on the base which read "ISKL Foreign Language Dept Swimming Challenge."  Apparently the winners of this fine thing was the "French Classes" two years in a row (1981 and 1982).  Sadly no-one was award this sculptural masterpiece in 1983 and from then on it appears to have resided in my school's Drama Department.  Should I return this thing to its rightful home?

(Saturday) Apparently Marshall McSomeoneorother once said "The medium is the message" and thanks to one my lecturers at the pillar of academic excellence that was Huddersfield Polytechnic Mr Mc became someone who was much quoted in all sorts of unlikely circumstances.  Soon, as lively minded students are want to do, Mr Mc had all sorts of new phrases attributed to him with added suffix, "As Marshall Mc would say."  

I never really had much of an idea of what the great man meant by his over quoted maxim at the time but I think that I might have stumbled on an image that could be worth examining.  Nigel Farage pictured drinking a pint of Greene King IPA.   I like Greene King beers, particularly IPA, as much as I dislike the policies espoused by UKIP and Mr Farage.   I know that there is something very British about warm beer and the jovial man in the pub but if you scratch below the surface of that idea the accepted surface truth is very far from reality.   The man in the pub spends money on a luxury good that can quickly become a crutch and then maybe a need while those who are connected with that man are left behind.  As that man gets more involved with being the man in the pub he connects with other men in the pub and the spiral into drunken, sloppy and ill-thought out policy gathers pace.  In short do we want political leaders and opinion setters to be these men?   

I am looking forward to enjoying a pint of warm real ale on holiday this summer, but I would not then expect to contribute much to the development of policy after a couple of pints.  When I was active in party political campaigning I worked out very quickly that elections can not be won from the pub nor should campaigns be fueled by clouded, beery thinking.  For British voters to think that it can shows that there is a real disconnect between voters and policy makers.   Any conversation with the man in the pub, the image of the sort of man Mr Farage tries to convey, held after a couple of pints, can soon turn into a right wing, hang-and-em-and-flog-em, send-em-back-where-they-came-from, close-our-borders and ignore all the facts tirade.  Quite possibly this is the sort of world that UKIP wants to create but policies that seek to separate and isolate, fueled by actual and images of warm beer, don't inspire me with confidence.

In non-political, more domestic matters I have just enjoyed a very pleasant cup of coffee at Muesli Cafe, with Edwin, while waiting for the start of his next Latin dance lesson.  Muesli Cafe sold cakes, fruit juices, coffees, lunches but seemingly did not sell muesli.  I wonder how it got its name.  It opens out the intriguing possibility of other businesses following its lead, naming themselves after products that they do not sell.  Should Toys R Us stop selling play-things and move into gardening equipment?  

Thanks to the power of the podcast Lexi and I are able to keep up to date with the regular machinations of matters farming and otherwise in The Archers.  I like this hi-tech listening and it saves my parents lots of time and money sending out taped  episodes to the tropics as they did on our last overseas posting, 15 years ago.  But what a few weeks it has been, some might say.  Others, like Lexi, are threatening to boycott the weekly podcast as a protest over the silliness of the current main story line.

As we are always a week behind thanks to tuning in to the omnibus podcast I am not in danger of giving away any plot spoilers in this post but I am more than a bit irritated by the whole Kirsty and Tom saga and think the writers really need to offer loyal listeners some form of narrative apology for the hideously clunky goings on at the wedding that wasn't.  

Tom and Kirsty were an ideal couple: they were written for each other after all.  Yes Tom dumped Kirsty a long while ago in true soap opera style at a posh restaurant and then went off with a fragrant supermarket buyer and later lived with Brenda and Kirsty had her share of flings too, but then one has to kiss a few frogs before one finds one's Prince or Princess.  The happy news of them getting together was indeed happy news and if the carefully created characters had been allowed by the script writers to progress in the way that their characters needed to then they would have enjoyed a homespun wedding in wellies at Bridge Farm, with their own brand sausages and burgers for the wedding breakfast.  Their adventurous side would have eventually got the better of them and they would have travelled widely, returning to Ambridge, to develop their organic futures together, thanks to Jazzer running the pigs on a profit share arrangement while they were away.

But, no.  The writers decided to end a beautiful thing in a very cack-handed manner.   After Tom's drunken "Am I doing the right thing" moment at his stag night his character needed to talk to the wonderful Kirsty, and simplify their wedding plans, something her character needed too.  Of course the writers couldn't allow that.  Ever practical and sensible Kirsty would never have bought two wedding dresses, let alone spend more than £2000 on one and then not tell her husband to be, nor would she try the blighted garment on in the presence of Helen and the right-on Henry and a, doubtless recycled-plastic-cup, of blackcurrant squash.  Even Helen, despite being blind to the evil and domineering Rob (he really let's Robs of the world down - we are fundamentally a fair-minded and creative animal), would not have allowed the test-tube created Henry to have a coloured drink at all, let alone within three miles of a wedding dress.

And then there was the wedding day that wasn't.  Roy, a rock on whom any civilized community can be built and a man more sensitive to the feelings of others than they are themselves, would have known that Tom's conveniently deceased elder brother John was killed in a tractor accident (was it really 16 years ago?!) and so he would have ruled out hiring, again spending money frivolously which is so against the Kirsty and Tom psyche, a vintage tractor!  Come on writers, know the characters.  You created the after all.

And then there was the breaking up scene in the church vestry.  Please.  The two characters are so completely matched that it was no surprise Tom was stuck for words.  Every fibre in his character's being was fighting against the clumsy script and nonsense of the storyline, but it could not be changed.  The writers had made theIr decision.  Tom and Kirsty were to be split apart in an apparently dramatic manner.  The writers aimed for melodrama, but created sensationalist, inaccurate and unbelievable tosh.

While the storyline might allow for some development of earlier introduced possibilities (Tony finally going mad when his new herd of cows all get TB, the evil Rob taking over more of the farm and then battering Helen until she kills him with Kirsty's stained wedding dress, and Peggy finally leaving all her money to the hastily invented Borchester Dog's Home - from then on rebranded as "St Captain's") it is all so unsatisfactory that the slim amount of belief needed by loyal listeners to keep tuning in has been stretched so far that one has to question whether the writers know what they are doing.  I know that I sound like a football supporter who is whinging about the slump in form of their team but there is a process of creativity at stake here.  Writers create characters and those characters can be allowed to develop but cannot be allowed to go completely against their created nature.  If this happens the listeners wake up, lose belief, and realise that the smells of baking coming from Jill's homemade biscuits are not real (just like the moment I realised that paying £28.00 to sit and freeze watching millionaires chase bags of wind around was not something I needed to continue doing).

Honestly, writers of The Archers, if this play script had landed on my Drama teaching desk from one of my students I would have sent it back with the one word comment reading "unbelievable."

As I write this stuff it is evening and my head has had to travel in all sorts of different ways so far today.  Some of the thinking and decisions that it had to make I decided to let it make automatically as I knew that today it was going to need to work in all sorts of ways and that at some point it really ought to be just allowed to do its own thing.

Naturally it started today with the morning routine of staggering out of bed and getting ready to leave home.  But in the shower this morning did I still need to be economical with water now that there is officially no more water shortage in KL?   My brain agonized its sleepy self over whether to reuse washing water in the rinse cycle thanks to the careful placing of a bucket.  The environmentalist brain sector won this battle between ease and green, and even encouraged me to flush the loo with the resulting double dirty water.

After breakfast, having decided whether to have five or six scoops of muesli, my brain had to engage its memory zone.  Yesterday evening Lexi had assembled two pots of left over dinner for our lunches.  All I has to do was remember to take it with me.  This is no easy thing to achieve given the vast number of other things to be achieved before exit: why hadn't Edwin got his socks on; had Trixie put her Brownie subs in her bag; how come Rupert takes so long to eat one weetabix and how do Mums learn to do technical hairdos on small daughters?   Normally I get the lunch out of the fridge and leave it on the worktop but today it actually made its way to school with me.  Then my brain had to work out exactly why it took Edwin five minutes to get from house door to car.  Apparently the bag that he said was completely ready somehow wasn't.  The world of the ten year old boy.

My brain was next fixed into driving mode and found itself instructing my hand to honk the horn at a motorist who had clearly completed the "How To Be A Complete Arse While Driving Course" and demonstrated his skills by overtaking a long line of cars drivers, me included, who were patiently waiting to turn right and then proceeded to try to push in in front of me.  Sadly my brain didn't work quickly enough to find words to accompany the frantic and ignored honking.

My brain had a well deserved rest during staff briefing and so I must apologise to the colleague who asked me a very important question after briefing.  My brain was simply enjoying a moment or two of quiet.

I wasn't teaching for the first two lessons today, mainly thanks to the absence of my exam classes.  Instead I forced my brain into yet another direction and started thinking about next year's A level course and the theatre of Steven Berkoff in particular.  I was enjoying several scenes of The Trial and the machinations surrounding Joseph K, while in another part of the brain it considered whether there was enough money in the budget to buy some study guides, why Neil LaBute uses so many expletives in his plays and what play we should do for the school show 2015.  Interrupting this was a question from one of my colleagues: Did I want a coffee?  My brain had to think carefully.  Did I?  Yes I did.   It it was only 8.15am.  It was before the 9.05am coffee-shed?  Was that permitted?  I dithered and eventually my body took over the brain and said a resounding "yes."

More Berkoff, with occasional thoughts about a duologue by Ella Hickson and questions about whether the aspiring violinist would do his stuff in her brain-provoking play "Boys."  But fortunately these thoughts were lubricated by a large Americano, a calculation as to the possibility of whether Norwich City would be relegated from the premier league, and a quick check to see whether The Ritz Carlton Hotel in KL was owned by gay-stoning Brunei-ans (it isn't) but my brain told me that I would not be able to support any event taking place there and thus might need to withdraw from the year 11 ball.  Back to Berkoff, and what a trial it was.

At 10.40am my teaching brain kicked in as it set about trying its best to help a enthusiastic gang of 13 year olds work out what happened at the end of Hamlet.  They managed it but they also managed to trick my brain.  To complete a piece of written work I needed the class to take a photo for their latest photocard app work.  Duly taken I asked the taker to send the photo to each member of their group.  "We have done it, Mr Lawrence," was the refrain.  They hadn't and then much time was wasted solving the problems that ensued.

Lunchtime and the successfully remembered lunch exercised my grey matter.  How long did it need in the microwave?  My chef brain said three minutes, my concerns about reheated food brain said five and won.  The food came out at volcano temperature.

I covered a year nine drama lesson in the afternoon which went well and the drama teaching auto-pilot part of my brain came into its own but was jolted out of its comfort zone by one student who came up with a great idea.  "Could we have three attackers instead of one and share the lines?" She asked.  I pondered.  I considered.  The experimenting brain section said "Try it out" and they did.  And it worked.  Marvellous.

Next logistics brain had to be switched on.  I collected a very excited Trixie from the library at 3.10pm to get her ready for her first session of Brownies.  That didn't start until 4.00pm so we went to the cafeteria for a snack of fruit, served in plastic pots.  Off went my brain into overtime, again.   Did we need a pot each or one between us?  Trixie said she didn't like melon, but loved water melon and the other offerings. Would one pot be enough for us?  Did I really need a snack?  What would happen to the plastic pots when we had finished eating?  Should I start a no-to-plastic campaign?  I bought two pots and oblivious to my agonies Trixie munched and slurped.  She ate my portion of water melon and I ate the stuff she didn't like. The pots went in the bin.  "Not good," said my brain.

I deposited an excited Trixie at Brownies for 4.00pm and then returned to school to meet Edwin.  We had arranged to meet at 4.30 in the drama office after his rehearsal.  True to form he sauntered in at 4.45pm saying that he thought the time was 4.00pm.  My anti-traffic jam brain said wanted to get going as we had a bit of a drive to get to the lad's Latin dance catch-up session.   Us, our stuff, my much stretched brain and Edwin's fact-filled brain got into the car and the traffic.  

Ten minutes before arriving his dance teacher sent me a text.  I was driving.  Would my safety brain allow me to look at it?  The lesson was being delayed for 30 minutes, but was that enough time to have some food, thought my brain?  Would Edwin dance better before or after food.  We ate.

 He danced while I watched and caught up on some podcasts.  Bad move for my brain.  "More or Less" set about investigating Mr Farage's versus Mr Clegg's claims about Europe and law-making.  My liberal brain was pleased by the conclusions that Mr C was more right, as in correct, than Mr F.   I also listened to a spot of Kermode and Mayo and started to think whether this weekend would be a good time to see Captain America.

And so to the drive home.  Which petrol station to use?  Should I pay tolls with cash or by smart card?  Would I remember to buy bread and milk?  Why is the majority of New Zealand lamb halal?  What can't Malaysian drivers use their indicators?   Why don't bananas taste like they look?  Who the hell takes their dog to The Happy Pooch Wellness Centre?

Home at last, 15 hours after I got up.  Edwin had a quick bit of homework to finish.  As if there hadn't been enough exercise for my brain one day he had a logic puzzle to do.  What book did Val take out of the library?

Bed or a bit of mindless TV?

Isn't it remarkable that the world over we are celebrating the birth of Shakespeare,  450 years ago.  Ok so we are not exactly sure that his birthday was on 23rd April but it has become the agreed date of his birth due to him being Christened on 26th April.  It is also remarkable that we have so many of his plays and sonnets, all thanks to two blokes who, one day in 1623 thought "Perhaps, seeing as he died seven years ago we really ought to try to collect all of Shakespeare's plays into a folio."  It is also remarkable that we know so little about about the great man's life.  Bill Bryson says that we can only say for certain where Shakespeare was on half a dozen occasions during his life with any degree of certainly.  What isn't remarkable though is that we are still enjoying his plays and their stories and characters.

This week my year eight classes have been meeting Prince Hamlet and his,  apologies for the Americanism here, situation, for the first time.  I learned a long time ago that kids much prefer blood and gore and murder and baddies to Elizabethan comic word play and so they relished the challenge of working out how the mess of the start of the play came about and then trying to make sense of what what happening in Hamlet's mind.  My school has recently asked all year five to eight students to bring an iPad into school for every lesson and this week I attempted to combine the technological complications of iPads and the moral ones of Hamlet's mind.  

We started by making a whole class tableau of what Hamlet was thinking at the start of the play, built around one persuaded volunteer, playing the part of the Prince of Denmark.  In turn each year eight took up a position that showed what they thought Hamlet was thinking.  Once done I took a photo and shared it with the class members via the amazing google docs.  I was also able to able to project the same image on the drama studio screen via Apple TV (and, but the way, kids liked the silliness of me holding my iPad at 90 degrees to the projector screen, blowing on my iPad, and the image appearing on the screen).  The class then took their picture of their tableau, dropped in to the really good Photocard APP, and cropped it to focus on their own part of Hamlet's mind.  Photocard, just like conventional postcards, has a back to it so they next set about writing on the back what their part of Hamlet's mind was thinking.  Having saved the whole photocard to their camera roll and shared it with me via their Drama google folder (bless google and their collective cotton socks) the students were ready to bring to life Hamlet's mind. 

Now in group's of seven, again using a persuaded volunteer to be the main Hamlet, the groups set about turning what they had written into a group soliloquy.  Hot debate ensued among the actors as to who was going to speak in what order and very quickly, thanks to a bit of prompting from Mr Lawrence, the debate moved into not who was speaking first rather which would be the best line to speak first.  It was great to watch as were their finished group soliloquies.  Well done to all of the students.

Ok so we could have written the thoughts on paper, yes.  We could have done the work without taking photos, Apple TV, Photocard, cropping pictures and sharing etc etc .... BUT .... the desire that the classes showed to make the positions they used as accurate as possible was great to see as was the commitment to communicating the poor young Prince's mindset.   So much of that commitment came from their use of their iPads and in equal portions from working with a cracking story and set of characters.

In other Shakespeare news that I am sure would make the 450 year old scribe proud, my year thirteen students are getting psyched up for their forthcoming final A level Drama exam.  One of the areas they will be writing about is an all female version of The Taming of The Shrew which we watched together in Singapore, earlier this school year.   While the language of the plays and stories are the same as 400 years ago the constant desire to create the next new interpretation gives this Drama teacher confidence that William Shakespeare's legacy will go for another 450 years.

Happy Birthday Mr Shakespeare.

It is the first full day of the Lawrence Clan (80% of us due to Lexi not finishing work until tomorrow) and extended Lawrences (my parents) visit to Malaysia's answer to The Isle of Wight, Langkawi.  The two island are about the same size, both are tourist destinations and both have weather.  After that the comparison needs to stop.  

It was quite a long journey for my folks to deal with from Desa Park City to Green Village Langkawi involving packing, driving to the never glamorous Low Cost Carrier Terminal at KL airport, checking in, clambering aboard, eating Pringles, clambering off, lugging luggage, collecting hire car, unloading luggage, checking in and then relaxing.  (Children and I swam in the sea while parents relaxed before dinner.)

So after breakfast this morning we set about our explorations.  I aimed for a place in the North West of the island which claimed to be a pebbly beach thinking that this would be manageable for my folks and that anything sea-like and wet would be fine for children.  Naturally we didn't find the place but at the end of the road did find ourselves driving into an extremely posh resort.  And it was extremely posh indeed. White BMWs were parked at the drop off zone, ready to whisk guests to wherever they needed to go.  Luxury golf carts were there as back-up and the immaculately turned out staff were both everywhere and nowhere to be seen at the same time. 

The place was more than happy to sell us coffee, Early Grey tea and juices for the children and we absorbed the luxurious view, through jungle, to the sea.  The children and I explored and on our way down to the beach were greeted with great enthusiasm by one of the staff.  "Hello Mr Marshall," the chap said.  "How are you today?"  Ok, I was out of my depth.  I was wearing a scruffy polo shirt, carrying a cheap day rucksack and had three obviously cheap and cheerful children in tow.  I was clearly not a resident of the place as they all appeared to drift around the place in daze of relaxation and sunglasses that were not cheap knock-offs from Petaling a Street.  I played along with it.   I let the guy know that I, masquerading as Mr Marshall was fine, and that yes were were going to explore the beach, which he seemed to think was a good idea.  We set off.

I wasn't quite sure how to answer the question asked by one of many equally everywhere and nowhere to be seen at the same time staff who were at the beach area.  What was our room number?   In situations like this a work colleague of mine always says with complete confidence, "Room 109," and carries on about his business.  But what should I do, I thought?  What would Mr Marshall do?  Who the hell was Mr Marshall anyway?

(The reader fills in a few gaps here).

The children and I had a lovely time on the beach, enjoying the sand and sea.  The coffee delivered to our sun-lounger was delicious as was the most expensive bottle of water in the world.  The waiter appeared to appreciate the tip.  I was certain that that was exactly the sort of thing that Mr Marshall would always do.

Had a lovely sunset drink at Sugar Cafe on Pentai Cenang beach this evening.  I needed it really to recover from the shock at finding out how much rooms were at the earlier resort.  One night would set the Mr Marshall's of this world back a whopping £250 to £1250.  I think Mr M and I would get on.

It has a been a weekend of entertaining guests here in Chateau Lawrence.  On Sunday we took all guests to see Selangor lighthouse, enjoy the view across the Straits of Melaka, feed monkeys, eat Chinese food climb into boats and examine fireflies at close quarters.  A well-trodden tour for guests.

Collecting two of our guests, my parents, from the airport was a bit of a taxing experience though.  Their touchdown time was 1545.  Last time they arrived it took nearly an hour and a half to arrive in the arrivals hall sp I knew that leaving school at 1515 would allow ample time.  Of course it wasn't as the unpredictable KL traffic was clogged in places where it usually isn't.  Anyway as I arrived at arrivals and parked outside along with all the other hundreds of cars my phone rang announcing Lawrences seniors' arrivals in the arrivals hall.  Children and I jumped out, ran inside, collected parents and got back into the car, giving an unseen official just enough time to put a parking ticket on the car.  Carefully ignoring all the other cars parked there the official had made a beeline for the foreigner mobile and, seeing how I was parked on the end of long line of cars, not in anyone's way I was ticketed for illegal parking and obstruction.

Anyone who has driven in or tried to park in KL will understand that the prevailing style of motoring is freestyle: drive where you want to go; ignore everyone else and stop wherever you want to.  The consequences?  Fraught motoring, nail biting times  at road junctions and loads of double and occasionally treble parking.

Alright so I had a parking ticket.  Arse.  And get over it Robin.  Positives?  The form was in English and Bahasa.  Negatives?  No instructions on what to do with the form apart from saying that details had to be registered within seven days.  Registered with who?  Where?  I asked around and Malaysian colleagues at work told me to go to the police station nearest to school and pay.   So on Thursday that is what I tried to do.  

I went into Mont Kiara police station and was greeted by one plain clothes chap, one officer eating his dinner, a fireman smoking a cigarette and a television showing the National Geographic channel.  I felt like I had stumbled into an Ionesco play.  All I needed was the fire fighter to tell me that business was bad.  I pulled out my parking ticket and asked to pay.  "Cannot" said the munching officer.  "Try going to Chinatown police station," said the fire fighter.  Giraffes looked on.  "But this is a police station," I insisted, despite its appearance.  And surely I could deal with a traffic offence there.  "Cannot."  The combined efforts of the three police blokes, fire fighter and giraffes managed to tell me that I really should go to Chinatown, or possibly a place in Kepong, both police offices and neither of which the officers could give me an address for.  I left.

The children all dance in another part of KL, the grandly titled Taman Tun Dr Ismael (TTDI), on a Saturday morning and the dance school is conveniently close to another, larger police station.  I entered the station more in hope than anything else. The officer I spoke to was slightly better informed than the Mont Kiara Massive but, cunningly, was less use.  She told me, as expected, I could not pay a fine to the police in a police station.  Cannot.  She saiid that there might be a police place in The Curve, a shopping centre not far away.  I asked where in the shopping centre and she went quiet, preferring instead to deal with a plain clothes officer who needed some printing done.  By the time the printing had finished she had forgotten all about The Curve and the possibility of a police station there.  Kindly though she did offer an alternative. "Maybe Petaling Jaya."  What?  I asked all the right questions: where in Petaling Jaya?  How far away?  Road name?  The officer paused and thought and then have me the following, priceless answer: "Look on google."  So I was confronted with a police officer who, simply, had no idea.

AAGGHH!

Luckily I was rescued at that moment.  A man with a French accent approached the desk and introduced himself as someone who had had similar problems to me in the past.  In clipped and very welcome English he told me that there was a police station in Petaling Jaya that would accept money and he also pointed out a landmark that would help me find the place.  According to the police officer the place might be closing at twelve noon, but then given the police's reliability and accuracy it might also be that twelve noon was giraffe feeding time.  

I found the place, risking parking in a place that promised a RM 50 fine if one did not buy a ticket despite there being nowhere to buy one (at least if I got a penalty ticket I would know where to pay it) and dashed across several lanes of traffic into the wrong department.  A officer grabbed my arm and redirected me to another office.  Was this a example of the strong arm of the law?  The fine payment office was a grim place.  Lots of official looking people were milling around seemingly looking for things to do.  Brandishing my penalty ticket I was ushered to see a very glum looking cashier who took set about lightening my wallet to the tune of RM250.  Gad I had had to work hard to pay.  Intriguingly in a country where you can often need your passport to go into a friend's housing complex I was not asked for any ID.

By high noon each teaching day I am ravenous.  That is perfectly reasonable seeing as breakfast in Chateau Lawrence, KL Branch, is sometime around 6.00am.  However on Thursday food matters started to get a little out of hand.  

It is a well known fact that teachers need quality infusions of hot caffeine at certain set times of the day otherwise they become grumpy, can't wave their arms around when teaching, lose the ability to crack terrible jokes or the world simply ends.  Caffeine time in Drama land at my school is 0905 when either someone puts the kettle on and makes a cafetiere (or tea for the non-coffee drinking member of the drama gang) or scuttles off to Gloria Jeans coffee shop to pick up our regular order (large americano, large chai tea latte and large cappucino, just in case anyone wants to be nice and surprise us!).  

On Thursday as we supped our GJ's conversation soon turned to the new school canteen and then very quickly to how, last year, the old canteen sold roti canai.  Sadly no more.  For people who have not had roti canai before then make it your mission in life to have one or two before your days are out.  How to describe them?  They start life as small balls of dough before being stretched out very thinly, with plenty of butter added.  Then they are folded over and over, with plenty of butter added, and cooked on a griddle with yet more butter and eaten hot with lentil, curry or, occasionally, sweet sauces.  It did not take long before we, collectively, yearned for roti.  Google searches were undertaken for pictures, the nearest we were going to get with lessons starting again at 0925, and then one colleague played a conversational blinder and brought up the subject of garlic naan and teh tarik.  By that time we were on the verge of madness.  The tipping point came when somebody mentioned adding tandoori chicken and fish to the whole thing to make an amazing meal.  Needless to say the Drama gang end of term outing has now been decided upon.  In the last week of term the department will be unavailable for an as yet unspecified period of time as we scuttle off to a certain location to scoff tandoori, naan and quaff teh tarik.  

Teh tarik, for those not in the know, is a controversial form of tea that even a non tea drinker like me finds palatable.  It is tea brewed and boiled until thicker than the freshly made stuff, with sweetened condensed milk added and then poured from brewing receptacle to cup, at a dizzying height, several times in order to create a cappacino-like froth on top.  

No prizes for guessing what the Lawrence Clan had for dinner on Thursday, although it was a struggle to hold things together until then.