robinlawrence’s Space

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 There are some things that you can cut the corners on and some you can’t.  One of the things that you really can’t fake though is pork. 

Pork comes in a range of wonderful guises the most celebrated of which have to be in it’s cured form of bacon, processed form of ham and, sometimes dodgy but increasingly highest quality form of, the sausage.  (Don’t get me started on the joys of Spam.)  Comedian and Landlord Al Murray convinces his listeners that bacon proves the existence of God, Raymond Blanc and the ever faithful Adam travel to ends of the earth to source the finest of hams, while a mate in Qatar makes hair-raising journeys across deserts to get his hands on Asda sausages.  In short pork appears to be good for your soul, general well-being and adventurous spirit. 

Fake pork is not.

I had lunch today with various colleagues in a café across the road from my school and large parts of the convivial gathering were spent discussing the school play.  To help my deliberations I ordered a brunch.  Ham, fried eggs, sausages, hash browns, wholemeal bread, baked beans all served with, bizarrely, lettuce.  I was very excited.  While drinking my pre meal coffee and anticipating the feast we talked Drama and Music.  Then the food arrived.   It did look good and was cooked well but it was fake.  The “ham” was processed chicken, coloured pink to appear like that most dubious of pork products, luncheon meat.  The sausages were similarly pink, you know the sort that you really only by when nothing else is available, and was of course processed chicken.  Fakes again.

My beef with the whole fake pork situation is that bacon, ham, and quality sausages simply have to be pork.  You cannot chicken out of making traditionally pork foods with other meats.  So therefore don’t try and don’t try to make people believe that they are being served a satisfactory alternative.  Please don’t get me wrong.  This is not an anti religious rant.  It is a plea for common sense.  Chicken sausages, chicken ham and beef bacon are tasteless and so therefore should not be made, let alone eaten.  End of rant.

PS … I did eat my lunch because I was hungry.

PPS  … when another colleague arrived to join us his first question about the brunch was “Is it real pork?”  He has been in Malaysia longer than me and is clearly more experienced.  A man who asks the right questions.

We had a fine Slapstick session with a bit of Whitehall Farce too in Chateau Lawrence this evening.  We have three toilets in Chateau L, one on each floor, which is very convenient really given that Edwin spends large parts of his life sitting on one of them contemplating the world and weighty matters.  Clearly I never permit myself longer than twenty minutes per sitting, but that is by-the-by.  This evening calamity struck and no-one is officially sure exactly who did what.  Read on…

One son was on the first floor throne while daughter was enthroned downstairs.  While one son was sitting and performing other son needed to avail himself of the facilities.  It did not occur to needy son to dash upstairs to the top floor and use the throne there.  Instead leakage of solids occurred.  Throned son shouted at standing son.  Standing son shouted at throned son.  Throned son stood up to chase standing son away and in the process stood in solids.  More shouting occurred.  Smells permeated.  Father arrived, surveyed chaos and discovered two boys hotly debating who had performed where and what.  After shouting had finished and the stinking bog was flushed it was decided, by Father, that because neither son could agree who performed where, they should both clear up the mess which, still arguing they did.  While son with brown foot cleaned himself off in the shower and other son disappeared in disgrace Father cleaned the floor properly with cleaning fluid, water and old rag.  Phew peace at last.  Until daughter comes to investigate and slips on wet floor and expressed her annoyance at falling over via the medium of screaming.

Peace did eventually break out, stories were read, and lights turned off.  Tomorrow is another day, remember.

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I hope I can finish this blog before disaster occurs.  So far today my computer has suffered from two deadly sounding ailments.  Not only has it been subjected to an “error of type 36” but it has also been afflicted by an “error of type 5016.”  I am hoping that nether of these are terminal but I am also intrigued to know whether a type 36 is more or less serious than a type 5016?  Should I be worried?  Should I panic?  Should I call Ghostbusters?

It has been the usual mix of very busy few days and in the build up to the end of term things are only getting faster.   I was in school yesterday, yes a Saturday, rehearsing with the cast of Peter Pan along with two Music teachers and a Drama colleague.  The show is going fairly well at this stage although there is still plenty to do.   Later today I am off hunting material for the dozen Tinkerbells and I am hoping that the school principal is successful in his mission to IKEA that I have set him.   If he manages to pull it off I will be really impressed and will then be able to mention IKEA I glowing terms in my next blog…..

I came across a challenging cultural difficult in yesterday’s rehearsal though.  Shortly after the entrance of Peter Pan for the first time I needed him, well actually her, to strike three poses to show how pleased s/he was with managing to attach his/her shadow again.  The three poses that came to mind immediately wee the obvious ones: Usain Bolt, then Mo Farah, finally Bruce Forsyth.  My actor understood the first two but Brucie went straight over her head.   I have to remember that I am working in an international school and that while Bruce is something of an institution in England he does not have global brand appeal.   Maybe he should be brought over to KL so that students can have the Brucie experience?  In the meantime I will have to set my actor some homework:  research Bruce Forsyth.

On Friday it was the Teachers Dressing As Pupils Day to raise money for the schools MUFTI DAY charities.   A box of scruffy looking old school polo shirts were put in a box in the staff lounge and I set to work finding one that fitted.  All of them were at least three sizes too small for me, with the smallest one being a size perfect for Trixie.  I selected the biggest of the small ones and quickly came up with a plan.  I found a pair of blue shorts, nearly regulation wear, and then put on shirt and tie, with polo shirt stretched to bursting pint over the top.  I then dinned Trixie’s broad-brimmed school hat to finish off the look.  Why this strange collection of clothes?  Well my official reason was that because I am so young looking and have such youthful skin and hair I was concerned that people might mistake for a year nine pupil.  By wearing shirt and tie as well there would be no possibility for confusion.  I had a meeting with one of the deputies during the day to discuss timetabling.  We both agreed that it was strange me dressed as I was and her dressed as prefect.  The things you do for charity.

Yesterday evening Lexi and I engaged the services of a colleague’s teenage daughters as baby-sitters and we went off to a party.  Hosted by the school’s principal he had invited us to cocktails and food at his place along with the other teachers who had arrived at the same time as us in August.  It was a very nice opportunity to natter with people who I tend to pass on the corridor and simply exchange a fleeting greeting.   Sharing a taxi there with two others we almost didn’t get to the right apartment due to the fear of four.  We rang the bell of flat 1 on floor 23 only to discover that the party was in fact on floor 23A.   Isn’t it about time that we all got over our number superstition and allowed the Malaysians and Chinese to start using the number four again as well as having house number 13s in Britain?

Latest news from Edwin Lawrence: Loser of Objects Man.  The great man managed to lose hos violin for the second time this week.  Thanks to the intervention of four different teachers the instrument was eventually found in the canteen, exactly where he had left it, despite him swearing blind that he had looked everywhere for it including, of course, the canteen.   On Monday this week he had delivered a box of chocolates to his bus driver who had kindly handed in his violin when he lost it last time.  The cost for the chocolates was RM24.50, ambassador approved Ferrero Rocher, and the deal we had was that if Edwin managed to lose nothing else all term then Lexi and I would pay the chocolate bill.  If Edwin did lose anything else this term then the bill would be his.  His Lordship arrived home on Tuesday having lost his latest water bottle.  Edwin will be back in pocket money credit by 15 December.  I can take comfort that he is not the only forgetful one at my school.  A year 8 girl lost her i-phone and a year 11 lost her hi-tech Samsung Thingy.  Both were found and handed in by Drama’s excellent and honest cleaner.

I was first taken there by a colleague, a Red a la “The Shawshank Redemption,” a man who knows how to get things.   Alcohol in Malaysia is very highly taxed to the point where a pint of beer in a bar or restaurant costs anywhere up to 8 GBP a go.   Consequently I jumped at the chance to stock up on a cheap case of beer.  Arriving at said location today, around 1700, the shop was in full swing.  The bloke serving spoke highly accented Indian English and had a fluent slur clearly demonstrating confidence in the quality of his merchandise.  Once we had negotiated a price that I was happy with and that he could remember and say without slippage the transaction was effected and money changed hands.  While this was all happening various characters emerged from out the back of the shop and did their best to show how drunk they weren’t by attempting to walk in a straight line.  After lots of shouts from these cheery chaps of “Hello Boss!” I was about to leave when I took a peak into the back of the shop.  There, gathered round a metal trestle table and recumbent on the finest plastic chairs, were a range of fine fellows in various states of wear.  Some debating furiously, some swaying slightly and others staring into the middle distance.  It was like a speakeasy of 1920s America only a lot hotter and with slightly more dust.  It appeared to be a fluid gathering in that people would arrive, drink, natter, drink some more, sway a bit, shout “Hello Boss,” and stagger away.  Like me they were happy customers, although not exactly in the same way.  My happiness was the sober joy of finding a good bargain. 

And my Economics lesson?  I paid half the price that more reputable vendors, Tesco’s (if they can be classed as reputable) charge for a case of Tiger lager.  The Malaysian Government charges high tax on alcohol and hence the existence of such venues as the one I visited today.  High taxation clearly creates black markets and black markets create dodgy dealings as well as decent material for blogs.   The other lesson I learned from my mission was: Heaven help the person who gets in to the taxi that was parked outside this shop! 

I like reading plays.  I like reading Dennis Kelly plays.  They are thought provoking although sometimes a bit too graphic and they can tend to labour the point a bit.  So it was with a mixture of emotions that I sat on the bed this afternoon to read one his works.  After act two I decided my enjoyment of the play would be improved if I lay down and read instead and then two hours later I woke up.  I blame Dennis.  It is clearly nothing to do with the vast number of miles I have driven this week or the cumulative effect of lots of 0530 wake ups. 

I had a good conversation with a friend from Wolverhampton last night and spent a long time discussing the elections back in GB.  With turn outs in the local elections of 22%, Parliamentary by-elections of 15% and Police Commissioner elections of 12% it has made me think whether people really do want democracy?  I spent seven years working with some very good people to convince voters that they should use their vote and use it wisely, trying to give them a stake in local decision making.  It would appear that around 85% of people simply can’t be arsed.  Those non participants will have to suffer the consequences of the minority making decisions on behalf of the majority, an arrangement that I am not comfortable with.  I do have some sympathy though.  What exactly is the point of elected Police Commissioners?  

And so to round off this update.  I am waiting for IKEA to deliver between 1700 and 1900.  The time is 1942.   Welcome to Malaysia and KL traffic.

Sports Day and what a day it was.  It was a day in which I felt every inch the Drama teacher that I am.  I donned my house t-shirt with accompanying addidas shorts early this morning and started to feel uncomfortable.  I was not mentally or spiritually uncomfortable with either my work or position in life.  No.  My discomfort, as Sports Day began, was purely with the house t-shirt.  When asked earlier in the year what size t-shirt I required I asked for a size 42 mainly for the reason that that is t-shirt size that fits me and I also like the connection to The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.  When I put this fine garment on I instantly discovered that the small number 42 that was sewn into a label had little to do with the inch-based size of it and was mainly there as decoration.  I looked just like one of the crew-members of the original Starship Enterprise with their painted on shirts.  (Why did Captain Kirk never think of taking a Drama teacher with him on his voyage around the galaxy?  A Drama Teacher could have helped enormously when Kirk et al discovered the latest Ricardo Montalban type baddy by informing the great  captain that baddies are bad news and that the crew and ship should steer well-clear.)  A lot of stretching of the shirt later and quite a lot of breathing in and it became bearable.  A colleague of mine described how he had had the reverse experience.  He had requested a large sized PE teaching shirt only to be given one labelled extra small that fitted his six-foot frame with plenty of room to spare. 

Anyway almost suitably dressed I made it onto one of the school buses and headed off to the sports stadium that had been hired for the day.  And it was a great day.  The students all ran and jumped and threw and leapt as fast or high or far as they possibly could and did themselves proud.  Good on them.  As previously mentioned my involvement in the day was to assist with the high jump an event that, fortunately, I never had to take part in as a youth and knew precious little about.  However I learned a few things today.   There were some great performances in the competition, but being British I am naturally more inclined to write about the plucky and persistent participators as we Brits are dogged supporters of the under-dog and I learned a great deal from my experience. To ensure that rules were followed and to make sure that fair-play happened my duties were to stand next to the bar and make sure that the jumpers only jumped off on one foot.   Surely this would make the event doubly difficult as logic dictates that two tend to be better than one?   Clearly today was neither the time nor the place to offer such observations.  One year eleven jumper proudly announced that she had high jumped before, but not since year six.  She assumed a concentrated visage, charged at the bar and cleared it with ease.  I leaned that a break of five years between competitions can work in your favour.  Another competitor roared with laughter with her mates before run up and, again, sailed over the bar like it was the easiest thing in the world.  I learned that high-jumping should be fun if you want to succeed.  The most memorable athlete though was one who ignored all the coaching that she had had and did it her way.   She went for the charge and hope strategy.  In her first attempt she set off at an alarming speed and simply hurled herself at the bar more in hope than anything else.  The bar crashed to the floor and she clambered off the crash mat looking much like a crash victim.  Undeterred she went at it for a second time the only change being that she charged a bit faster.  She emerged from the same crumpled heap clutching a different injured body-part.  However her third jump was the most spectacular.  Setting off at the same rate of knots as before and this time removing all the finer points of technique she leapt in the air head first like an torpedo, appeared to do almost a right-angled turn in mid-flight, sailed over the bar and fell into a triumphant pile on the appropriately named crash-mat.  Buoyed by this success I was even more amazed when she used exactly the same technique to clear the next height up in the competition.   I learned that it just goes to show that sometimes a “bugger the rules just put your all into it approach” can pay off.  Well done to her, I salute your bravely and determination.

After Sports Day had finished I returned to school and drove back to Pangkor Island to meet up with Lexi and Junior Lawrences who had enjoyed another day on the beach.  They had all eaten by the time I arrived so I went in search of tea and came back with an excellent Malaysian favourite: Burger Special with Cheese.  Burger special is a bit of an art form.  Yes it is a processed meat pattie at heart but as with all burgers the meat is the least important part of this delicacy.  While my burger was fried on a griddle the burger-meister covered the bun part in mayonnaise and part fried that.  He then sat very finely chopped cabbage on the base of section of bun, drenching it with brown sauce and more mayonnaise.  Now came the “special” part.  He cracked an egg onto the griddle, broke the yoke and spread it out to make a very thin omelette.  Next he dipped the cooked burger into chili sauce and then proceeded to wrap the burger in the omelette before placing the parceled burger on to the bun base, laying some processed cheese on top, plus a thick layer of ketchup plus the bun lid and it was done.  Burger special with cheese.   Heston Blumenthal eat your heart out.  It tasted great.

More holidays tomorrow.

I would love to say that I was amazed, stunned, overwhelmed by my visit to The Historical Rock, Pangkor Island today, but I can’t.  On a tour round the island the Lawrence Clan came upon the Dutch Fort, named because it was built by the Dutch in the 1670s to secure their iron ore trade in the Straits of Melacca.  It was only used for a short period and soon fell into disrepair until the Malaysian Government took over the upkeep of the site in the 1970s.  However of much more interest to the discerning traveller is the Historical Rock, about 30 metres down the road.  It is probably one of the strangest antiquities around.  Let me describe it.  It is in fact two rocks that look like they were once one and gives the impression of having been cut in half by a cheese wire.  The Rock is about three metres tall, oval in shape and about 4.5 metres long.  It is covered by a wooden shelter and has a helpful, informative sign by the side of it reading “Historical Rock.”   Some websites describe it as a “historical tiger rock,” others call it “pirates rock” while one describes it in terms of being spiritual.  However the long and short of it is that it is a moderately sized rock with a shelter over the top of it and what appears to be a bit of paving slab sticking out of it near the top.   Could it be a fraud?  There were quite a few people photographing it and looking admiringly at it so I thought that I really should too, hoping that I would gain some sort of spiritual insight from the thing or, at least, learn something of its heritage.  Sadly beyond its signage there was nothing to be learned officially.  Rupert and Trixie climbed on it and I sorely wished that they had been eating sandwiches at the time so that they could have had a rock and (cheese) roll experience.  Staring at this under-whelming thing I was left to recall the episode of Father Ted where Ted and Dougall try to get a local stone classed as a grade two relic to try to bring more tourists to the island.  Had the writers been to Pangkor and got their idea from their visit to “Historical Rock” I wonder?  I also started to wonder whether I could set up a natural phenomenon and market it as a tourist attraction.  All you appear to need is a sign and a shelter.  “See the amazing Lawrence Wall!”  “Buy your souvenir Robin’s Raspberry Bush T-shirt!”  “Why not walk on Lawrence’s Lawn?”  The possibilities are endless.

After such an amazing morning it was hard to top this really.  I took the ferry back to the mainland this afternoon and then drove back to KL ready for tomorrow’s school Sports Day.  The sat-nav of course took me the most direct route, but clearly not the quickest, as I found myself following the coast road all the way down to Selangor and then in land.  Yes it was 35km shorter that the motorway but it was at least an hour slower.   After sports day I will drive back to Pangkor and we will all travel home on Wednesday.   I have been allocated duties on the high jump tomorrow.  If ever that was a place to put the new Drama teacher then the high jump clearly is it.  An expert PE teacher is in charge and they are being assisted by eight others, of which I am one.  I know absolutely nothing about high jump but I am assuming that the bloke who has put the whole day together, and has clearly worked very hard on it, has thought “Put Lawrence there.  He shouldn’t bugger it up.  But if he does there is a chance that the other seven staff might be able to cover for him.”  In my days at school there was a competitors’ pecking order.  All the really cool lads would run in the 100m, and boys got progressively less cool as the distances got longer.  Generally speaking the more obscure the field event the more hopeless the boy.  I seem to recall that I took a very reluctant part in the shot put and never dared go anywhere near anything as technical as the javelin. 

The Lawrence Clan is celebrating one athletics semi-triumph though.  Edwin got second place in his class’s boys 400m.  Well done to the great man.  Based on my theory of athletic coolness that puts him somewhere in the middle.  He and I can live with that.  Let the games begin.

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It is great to be able to listen to Radio Four live via the Internet.  Isn’t technology a wonderful thing?  I am a little worried though about BBC Radio Four’s You and Yours programme.  I have just been listening to a report about the hair extensions industry.  As people know I am no expert on hair but I do have a passing interest in the matter.  Quite reasonably I am required in insist that those students who have long hair at my school keep it tied back.  The BBC report was a marvel of the modern age in that thanks to advances in technology hairistas are now able to grade the quality of hair supplied and put those seeking extra hair in contact with those wishing to shed theirs via the medium of fixer-on-ers and fixer-to-ers.   As well as dazzling the intrigued listener, me included, with science (I learned that Chinese hair is apparently of poorer quality than Euro-hair) it also bombarded me with opportunities for morality purchases. One fitter assured me that his business was Britain’s leading supplier of “ethically sourced hair.”  Yes, you read it right.  “Ethically sourced hair.”  What the hell is “Ethically sourced hair?”  More concerning though what is hair that is not ethically sourced?  Are packs of dodgy harvesters roaming the darker, more shaded streets armed with fully charged hair-shavers on the look out for the hirsute?   Are hard up students deliberately sacrificing their follicles in exchange for pot-noodle vouchers?  Or are there secret greenhouses in which row upon row of people stand in buckets of fertilizer for months at a time while their hair grows to the required 16 inches minimum length?  The report continued with a recording of this fine man’s business as envelopes of hair that were sent in were graded, weighed and allocated a purchase and sale price.  Maybe I should get more involved in the whole business I certainly enjoyed the puns? The BBC assured us listeners the hair-extension industry is growing exponentially.

Gone tomorrow refers to the latest losses by son number one.  Poor old Edwin has recently been dogged by bad luck and bad memory to the tune of lots of water bottles and hats.  Today the great man hit a rich vein of form.  He managed to mislay his lunch box, with sandwiches inside.  Next he carefully left his library bag, containing library books and daybook / planner on the school bus.  Finally he managed to leave his RM50 book token for winning the best-dressed boy competition during Saturday’s Halloween festivities on the stairs at home while he and I set off to Tesco’s to go and spend it.  I took pity on him and turned round to go back and get it.  Any tips on expanding his memory would be much appreciated.

And now over to sport.  My duties in this year’s sports day require me to help supervise the high jump.  Resisting all attempts to write puns about this arduous task (Robin is getting ready for the high jump, raising the bar, aiming higher etc.) I can safely declare that I know absolutely nothing about the high jump in its athletics form.  I will make sure that I do my best but I fear that my best will be limited to making encouraging noises as the various competitors seek to straddle or perform the perfect Fosbury Flop.  I did volunteer, cautiously, for the staff house relay, the final event of the day.  I can run for the bus with the best of them and I have even been known to play football too.  However I did not realise that the staff-house relay is a matter to be taken seriously.  My head of house did offer to allow me to have a run-off with the other two volunteers, an expert body-builder and a sleek athlete.  As I was planning to simply tuck my tie into my shirt, don an old pair of trainers, known as “Doing a Doughty” after a former colleague who perfected this approach, and stagger round the required distance I suppose I have had a bit of lucky escape!   Following Mr Doughty’s philosophy simply means that if you turn up in all the right kit then people have an expectation that you will be some sort of expert.   If you look like a hopeless case then when do actually perform to a standard that is athletically crap no one is surprised and people are usually pleased to cheer you as a plucky under-dog.  Nevertheless my very own brand of athleticism is ready just in case the call comes.

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Finally I managed to get round to playing staff football again after work on Friday.   I had planned to play every Friday but had only managed once before on the first week.  Dodgy ankles, work to get done and dodgy excuses had all combined to mean that I had not turned out to play the beautiful game.  Playing the beautiful game in tropical heat is not an experience for the faint-hearted.  It is made even less beautiful by the size of the school pitch, enormous, and by the mixture of expert players and general huffers and puffers amongst which I count myself.  Twenty blokes gathered together on Friday and convinced each other, very easily, that the game would be enjoyed more and the standard of football raised if we only played on a half-sized pitch.  Somehow or other I found that I ended up playing up front and promptly scored two goals, a feat never before achieved.  Clearly the hat-trick was on….but did not happen.  I did get the ball in the net once more but it was deemed not to count as some twit had taken a corner from the wrong place.   I had better not mention the time when I found myself with a clear shot on goal only to scoop it helpfully at the goalkeeper and will certainly not mention being on the goal line and the ball going straight through my legs and away harmlessly for a goal kick.  It was one of those moments when it was easier to score than not.  A colleague summarized my game as being like a veteran East Anglian, past his best but still giving it some.  I had visions of Alan Brazil, circa 1983, but the reality was a little different.  Still good fun was had by all and my lot won 6-2. 

Saturday involved more football, this time for Edwin.   He had been invited to a classmates’ birthday party that involved twenty lads and lasses running round the school field being coached and playing various football related games.  A few parents, me included, stood watching, drinking Gloria Jeans’ coffees and generally gossiping.  I left the party-ers for a while and returned later to collect Edwin from his friend’s swimming pool as the party had clearly been designed to burn off as much small-boy and small-girl energy as possible.  All in it was a great do.

There was more partying in the evening.  Some very good people from Adora had arranged a Halloween party at the grandly titled function room, next to the pool.  All participants turned up with contribution of food and drinks and then the children went from house to house relieving people of their hard-earned sweets.  Children were encouraged to dress-up and so there was a fine selection of ghostly apparitions, witches, ghouls, skeletons and one rather fine Count Dracula who won the best-dressed boy competition.  The name of this victor?  Edwin Lawrence.   He was awarded a massive grin and a RM50 book token for his efforts.  It was a very nice evening and a chance to chatter to lots of different people.  There are plans afoot for a New Year / Christmas gathering too.

Usual administration challenges continue.  For some reason HSBC can’t seem to make a transfer to our landlord to pay the rent and so far I have texted the bloke from Public Bank twice and phoned once to ask him to send me a replacement copy of the car loan documents.  Watch this space.

Sorry readers but I have had a week off and have sort of got out of the habit of blogging. Never fear there is plenty to write about but due to it being late I will have to be short and sweet.

Last week Clan Lawrence spent four days and three nights chilling in The Cameron Highlands. Chilling was the appropriate word as temperatures plunged as low as 15 Celsius at night meaning that we all had to take to wearing jumpers or hoodies as the mood took us. We stayed in the very pleasant Father’s Guesthouse and had a day walking in the jungle, a day on an organized tour and plenty more chilling time. I’m not sure that I am very good at “chilling” as an activity though. I would rather be “getting on” instead and that is why our four-hour clamber through the jungle was really fun. Armed only with water, trainers and a packet of chocolate chip cookies we parked our Hyundai Tank next to a golf course and set off along one of the many way-marked routes in the jungle. They could never be classed as paths as they were far too up and down, as well as being rough and ready. But they were signed well and, led by a very keen Rupert, we tramped, clambered and, towards the end, trudged.

That same day we visited the first of two tea plantations where I drank my annual cup of tea. I don’t know what I had expected of tea plantations really but it was simply row upon row of hedges all waiting to be picked, dried, otherwise processed and eventually drunk. The tea itself still tasted pretty nasty, I blame Lexi for converting me into a non tea-drinker, but the view from the paths around the plantation were very pleasant.

Tea production is certainly a labour intensive business as we found out when we visited BOH tea’s main plantation the following day, this time on an organized tour. Tea buffs will doubtless know that the best stuff is saved for the loose leaf boxes and the dust is kept for the bags. While our guide was telling us this in the tea drying area we did see one guy sweeping up rather a lot of brown powder into a pile. The obvious question came to mind and I did look out for stacks of Asda own label tea-bag boxes lurking in the background but didn’t see any. Also as part of our organized tour we learnt some startling and eye-watering things about what WW2 soldiers did with bamboo shoots when dealing with captured prisoners and how shavings from bamboo could be put into drinks and do really horrible things to the drinkers. Please do not try either of these activities at home.

As always we ate well. Breakfasts of bread and spreads on one of the many balconies of the guest house made good starts to the day and we enjoyed a good combination of lemon chicken, beef and cashew nuts, omelette and vegetable curry in one of the many eateries near to the hotel.

My not getting-on time, as opposed to chilling, gave me time to reflect on the traveller in a techno world. Years ago when Lexi and I did La Grande Tour of South East Asia it was in a time before mobile devices. An i-pad then was simply something that a Yorkshire man used after a bruising encounter. However today’s economy conscious world traveller can not survive without their mobile device and so the guest house was liberally spattered with people in various states of repose all glued to tablets and pads feverishly telling everybody except those within ten feet of them all about their adventures. Now I don’t want to sound like an old git but back in 2000 guest houses were alive with the buzz of backpad-clad youngsters and backpad-clad oldsters all discussing the where, what, hows and wows of their’s and other people’s travels. In the dim and distant times of 1989 when I landed upon New Zealand youth hostels and the like were amazing places for all sorts of adventurous meetings, debates, discussions and what-have-you. Clearly technology has changed our interaction with the world enormously, evidence here, but the few conversations that I had with fellow human beings who were not part of the Lawrence Clan were quite rewarding and I would not want technology to get in the way of a good (breaks off to update facebook status) chat.

Back in KL I decided that it was high time we had some high time and so on Friday I set off with Little Lawrences to visit and go up The Petronas Towers. All was going very well, parked car, got on train, didn’t go anywhere near the women only carriage, got connecting train, arrived at PT, had Malaysian ID card ready to get reduced price etc and of course The Towers were closed. It was a public holiday. We will tackle those dratted Towers eventually.

We saw Tim Burton’s “Frankenweenie” on Friday evening. It was a nice idea but why did there have to be an apple pie ending? I had hoped that Mr Burton could have held his nerve and done his best to avoid such things. I am looking forward to James Bond’s arrival in the tropics. Enough ramblings for the moment. More anon.

Very late on Saturday night I find myself drinking a cold lager and eating a bar of chocolate to recover from going to the theatre.  As a drama teacher of eighteen years I have seen some pretty awful plays and have always, whenever possible done my level best to help make them, in the first instance less awful, and then, hopefully, better.   Alternatively if they have been really awful I have tried to give them a speedy and painless death.  Tonight though I visited a short play festival in Kuala Lumpur, at a venue which I am not naming to save blushes, with a colleague and it was really bad. 

My colleague and I agreed that we should go, largely to support one our school’s students who was performing in one of the plays.  Let me set the scene.  The event was called Short and Sweet and gave writers, directors and performers a ten minute slot in which to showcase their talents and perform to an audience that included a panel of judges.   The judges, along with votes from the audience, then decided which of the plays would then go through to the grand final.   We were treated to eleven short plays which ranged from the ok / tolerable to the outrageous via the bizarre and many of them with lots of glitter.  The first offering was “Extended Holiday” in which two aliens were apparently in the process of crashing to Earth.  When the male alien realised he was Earth-bound and would not see his homeland again, a place where, if that cast’s costumes are to be believed, all inhabitants wear boiler-suits, shoulder pads and pixie boots, he decided that the best course of action was to suggest to his female alien colleague that they have sex.  No glitter required.   We were also treated to “Four Characters in Search of a Purpose,” where the Easter Bunny, Mrs Claus, The Tooth Fairy and Cupid all bemoaned their lot in life.  Cupid wore the glitter, wings and carried a toy bow and arrow while Mrs Claus tried to write a letter to her husband.  The same actress, a very misleading term, appeared in a later play as Mrs Lee, a Chinese pharmacy owner who sold a pregnancy test kit to a woman.   The buyer then spent ten minutes arguing with someone who might have been her sister about whether it was right to tell someone that they have an ugly baby whilst revealing that she was pregnant.  Mrs Lee stole the show by reading a newspaper upside down.  Sadly it was the newspaper, not Mrs Lee, who was upside-down although had Mrs Lee been upside-down this would not have made the play any worse.    After that promising collection the plays deteriorated.

Two people tried to sell a collector / dealer a pubic hair apparently owned by Johnny Depp in the straight-to-the-point play entitled “A Pubic Hair By Johnny Depp,” an apparently blind man argued with his former wife while he was sorting through the bones of his recently deceased best friend who was, by happy coincidence, her second husband;  and then “Somnus,” a classic, where two people raced to see who could kill the other first set against a background of insomnia and also starring a tailor’s dummy named Emily who sported a flower print dress and seemingly ran a hotel.   

The evening ended with “Talking About It.”  As the lights came up the audience were treated to a semi clad and very camp actor and an actress in extremely practical undergarments panting and telling us that what they had just experienced had been truly amazing.  They clearly had not been watching the previous ten plays.  This fine couple then spent their ten minutes discussing their previous sexual partners and included a graphic description from the actress of the joys of anal sex.  Parting on good terms the two agreed not to form relationship but to meet again some time in the future. 

However I have chosen to leave the most memorable play, “Don’t Eat Me,” until last.  Starting with a balletic sequence in which a white dress-, feathers- and glitter-clad actress had a go at dancing like a bird in tightly lit circle while her birdy mate dashed on a tried to seduce her.  All seems fair enough in the animal kingdom but this male bird failed to convince wearing, as he was, a white swimming cap and black leather jacket covered in bright-red feathers.  Following this fortunately unsuccessful courtship, I dread to think what their off-spring would have looked like.  Following their exit a third bird entered.  He was wearing baby blue feathers, stuck onto a denim jacket and a feathered and glittered Alice band.  I knew we were in for a treat when the fourth bird came in, similarly dressed to the third, but with a guitar slung over his back.  And I was not disappointed.  The three males bemoaned their lack of success with female birds.  I am sure that most sane people can see why.  Swimming caps and feathered Alice bands are not a big turn on for female birds, surely everyone knows that?  The pay-off of this fine play was very much in keeping with the set-up and build-up: all three male birds joined in a hearty rendition of The Proclaimers “500 miles” in an attempt to show how dedicated they were to trying to find a mate.  It was quite the most ridiculous play I have seen, possibly the most ridiculous ever.

Thank goodness it is half-term this week.  I will need it to recover.

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MR (More Rain).  It poured for large parts of Saturday, yesterday.  And then it rained some more.  And then more.  It started at around 8.30 am and didn’t give up until mid-afternoon.  And it was proper tropical rain.  Thankfully it eased off enough for us to venture out later.  I decided that we needed to be tourists for the afternoon and so the Lawrence Clan took the train to Kuala Lumpur Station and explored Central Market.  Central Market is a two-level collection of handicrafts, paintings, materials, food areas and fish.  It might not immediately seem that all of these go together but they did.  The fish stall was doing the briskest business, but it was not the sort of stall where you select your fish to eat, it was quite the reverse.  It was one where your feet are eaten by the fish.  At RM10 for 10 minutes I had to have a try, especially when a similar experience in Wolverhampton cost nearer to 15 GBP.   So it was sandals off and off we go.   They say that it is meant to be a pleasant thing having several hundred small fish nibbling your feet, but for me the jury is still out.  The sensation is most peculiar, possibly even unique, and is intensified when you look closely and see yourself being nibbled by living creatures.  Thanks to me biting down hard on a mouthful of my waterproof I just about managed to stop screaming out. 

My quest to be better informed has gone quite well this week.  Lexi has signed up for a VPN (I don’t know what that stands for either) and as a result we can, thanks to a combination of luck, magic, technology and money we can sometimes watch BBC TV.  We saw bits of Never Mind The Buzzcocks last week and Lexi watched a bit of Strictly Come Dancing too.  Buzzcocks, with Jack Whitewall, was very rude.  Have I been away from English comedy for too long?  Lexi enjoyed Strictly although we have both twigged the BEEB’s reasoning behind giving Anton du Beck and hopeless partner.  Is it in case Brucie suddenly pops off?  Mr A du B would make the ideal replacement.  Please note I am not wishing an ill fortune towards Mr F.

We can also enjoy our TV package with multiple channels again thanks to the visit of a very nice man from Telecom Malaysia (TM).  He moved wires around changed connections, fitted new boxes and did general stuff and now the system works.   Fortunately the first programme that I watched this time was not Raymond Blanc showing me how to cook pork.  Phew.  It was Gordon Ramsey showing me how to cook pork.

Trixie was invited to a birthday party this afternoon and, wow what an event it was.  Held at the SDCC (Sime Darby Convention Centre) Trixie’s classmate had invited the whole class and her very generous parents had really gone to town.  They laid on a fabulous feast for everyone, including parents, as well as entertainment for the children.  It must have cost a small fortune but it seemed that Trixie really enjoyed herself, especially the face-painting.   My stomach really enjoyed itself too.  Mum and Dad were very down-to-earth and thoroughly lovely as were other family members who I spoke to.  It was the first children’s party that I had been to where I ate smoked salmon, sate and peanut sauce, various delicious Malay dishes, splendid cakes and then excellent coffee.  Trixie has decided that she would like something similar for her sixth birthday party.  If by "something similar" she means pass-the parcel, pinning the tail on the donkey, designing your own party bags and other party games by the pool, fish finger sandwiches, chocolate cake, ribena and a swim then that is fine by me. 

I seemed to have blocked the upstairs loo.  I have tried all the obvious solutions but to no avail.  They say that time is a great healer.

On a less heavy note I have booked a few nights in The Cameron Highlands.  We will hed up there for the first few nghts of half term.  I hope the above problem is solved before we go away.