The Donster Returns

Can just about see the v hot pilot in there.

Can just about see the v hot pilot in there.

Am rather behind on filling you in about my glamorous life, so offer vast apologies. Have been instead putting archive posts on my Facebook page, but I know it’s not the same. Soz, babeses.

My big news is that I’m off to Singapore today to see my girlies, turn my fake tan into a real tan, and do a stand-up tour of Asia. (Well, just in Singas.) Yes, babeses over there, I’ll be making an exclusive appearance in my active wear for one night only, at the Comedy Club Asia on Wednesday 17th Feb! So pop along, why don’t you!!

The other big news is as follows…

Having been ejected so inelegantly from my mother’s hearth, I returned to my well-appointed Highgate home to face two surprising surprises.

The first came as we piled through the door – me rushing to turn off the alarm, and the irritants tearing through the house.

I let them dash around whilst I peruved a month’s worth of post, some of which had red ink in caps, telling me that I was in arrears with my council tax, my utilities, and my eyebrow and bikini service. So weird because, although I sacked my accountant a while back to cut down on outgoings, I’ve done an accountancy course myself and I totes don’t get how all the money my father gave me last year is gone now.

So anyway, that night when I got back from my mother’s, I had all this terrible post and I thought surely I must’ve had my identity and bank details stolen. Surely the money hasn’t just disappeared!!

Then there was a ring at the door. It was late and I was in bed, but I looked at the front door camera monitor. There was Don.

“EJ, it’s me. Are you awake?”

I went downstairs to open the door and before me stood my husband, tanned and glowing, post-Hawaii.

“Why are you here, Don?”, I mustered, looking stunning in my unicorn onesie.

“I’m here because I want to say sorry… for everything I’ve put you through. I got lost. I was pulled away. I’m sorry.”

I was baffed by his words, and thought I was probably dreaming, so I decided to just look like I knew what was happening. Seems to work with dreams.

He went on: “So I met up with Ed a few months back – you remember Ed – and things have really taken off with his business. He asked if I’d go in with him… Here, London. And I thought about the kids – and you of course – and realised I want that back. You’d like a house by the Heath, you always said so, right? Well, with this job we can get a great place and put all of this silliness behind us.”

This silliness, I thought!! My hus running off to Hawaii with my teenage half-sister is silliness??!

Reminding myself it was just a dream, I said, “Oh sure, ok Don, so even though you were swinging all over Singapore with a lady who dumped you and then met an unfortunate soggy end in her condo pool – argh, the tragedy of it – and even though you disappeared last August with Angel the day we were going to Langkawi, and even though I’ve had to move back to England all on my own, with only the help of a global relocation firm, you think you can waltz in here, saying forgive and forget, just so that I can have a house near the Heath??”

“Well, yeah… How about Bishop’s Avenue?”

Oooo, I thought. Fair play. We all have to make compromises from time to time, am I right, dear readers? We all have to be grown up about stuff – for the sake of the children, if nada mas. When you become a parent, that’s the deal. That’s what we signed up for.

So that’s another reason I’m off to Sing: with Don back, he can look after the irritants. It’s a perfect opportunity for him to repair his tattered, battered, shattered relationship with them. They’ll have a wonderful time.

Right, I can hear my name being called on the tannoy, so I’d better be off. See you soon, Singas!!

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On Non-Awesome Mothers (of the Repatriated Expat)

When I returned from my divine time in Disney, I had to drive straight to Mummy’s Holland Park abode to collect the irritants. From the way she had told me to hurry back to Angleterria, I was anticipating a scene of the utmostest calamity and devastation at her place, but none did I find. All cool: Max hiding in a wardrobe with his iPad so as to avoid his grandmother’s ban on Minecraft, and Milly, somewhat thinner than I remembered (but people always do seem thinner after a sojourn in the northern Americas, don’t they?), half-heartedly doing a jigsaw at the kitchen table, underneath which she held her phone, Whatsapping away with her little friends. They’re so cute at this age. It really is incrediblé how fast five year-olds can type. She has barely learnt to write, but wow can she Whatsapp! That’s my girl : )

Mummy was at the Aga, making juniper berry venison with Jerusalem artichokes and unfeasibly small onions (I do love her cooking! I wish we had more home cooking at my house hashtag sadface.)

She insisted on telling me absolutely everything that the children had done over Xmas and New Year’s – went to Auntie this, saw cousins thems. I wasn’t in the least bit interested, but her focused obliviousosity gave me the chance to message Phil, and to catch up on all the important Facebook news I’d missed during my journey back. I refuse to pay for wifi on planes. Upper Class tickets are expensive enough as it is! I’m not going to subsidise the poors in Economy a penny more than I absolutely have to.

The next thing I heard was Mummy saying, “blablabla-bla-bla-bloo, so you’d be wise to leave now, before the traffic gets bad”.

“Oh”, I replied, “I thought we ought to stay the night. I’m really rather jet lagged, and my chi is flip flopping all over the place, as you can imagine. And you’re doing my favourite sups: juniper berry venison… with Jerusalem artichokes… and unfeasibly small onions. So it would be nice for you if we stayed to keep you company…” –

“Emma-Jane, have you heard nothing I’ve been telling you? I have someone coming round later for dinner. Which is why you’d better get the children’s things together, and go home. You know what the traffic’s like. Or have you forgotten? Not quite the same as Singapore!”

[Ha, like I didn’t know that! I had just spent millennia getting through customs and driving from the airport in the pelting rain. Had it been Singapore, it would’ve taken me half an hour from the time the plane landed to be lying in my rooftop pool with a bottle of Veuve Click. Like I didn’t know!! How totes dare she?? Rub salt in the wound much, Mum-ski?! What a b***h.]

Not one to take things personally, nor blow matters beyond reasonable proportion, I said, “Fine!”, and stormed off to gather the irritants’ paraphernalia, apparently quadrupled in volume due to Xmas presents. They had quite enough stuff already, without people bloody giving them more! There’s nothing for it: we’ll just have to move to a bigger house. I’m sort of running low on money (dunno where that vast sum my father gave me went, though I should really know given that I did an online accountancy course when I sacked my accountant), but I could just get a job or something.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that it isn’t easy to fit three people and shedloads of luggage into a Maserati, but given that needs musted (Mummy was not d’accord with me leaving the gifts or even one of the children at hers), I had little choice, did I, dear readers? As we squeezed into the car, I informed her in a completely not passive-aggressive way that, by demanding our immediate departure, she was risking the lives of two of her precious grandchildren, and her only daughter (apart from the other one, my sister), whilst simultaneously depriving said daughter of much-loved juniper berry venison with Jerusalem artichokes and yes, unfeasibly small onions… Which basically fed into and compounded every other moment of deprivation, disappointment, and dreadfully dire mothering she had perpetrated against my person from conception onwards. As I made sure to let her know.

We said goodbye – well, she said goodbye to the kids – and I sped us home, at least enjoying the roar of the fine engine and the appreciative glances from gentleman drivers. The open road reminded me that I was free, and in spite of Max and Milly’s protestations, I put the top down. With the wind in my fiery locks and Beyoncé blasting loud, I felt myself to be on Orchard Road again (somewhat chillier, of course), recalling the days of cruising from one happy, warm place to another happy, warm place.

Then the car in front came to a halt, as had every car beyond for as far as my azure almond eyes could see. It was really cold. I turned the music down, and flicked the switch to raise the hood. It took almost as long to cross London as it had to cross the Atlantic. I say “almost”, only because I am not prone to exaggeration.


 

Thanks to Mummy’s salt rubbing, I am now missing Singas more than ever.

Leafy Orchard Road

Lovely leafy Orchard Road

 

Bankers on Roof Terraces

Bankers on roof terraces

 

Botanic Gardens

Sunny days at the Botanic Gardens – Hampstead Heath is so much chillier

 

Nikoi

Paradisical retreat weekends on the island of Nikoi, after a long five days of gloriously exhausting social mayhem

 

Fun times

Fun times wid my girlies

 

Laundry

& laundry hanging out of HDB windows in 100% humidity

 

So this was me after last night’s gig in Soho. I’m doing my happy face like a true pro, but inside my extremely awesome biker jacket, my heart was sobbing, “Take me back to Singapore!”

Potential repatriates take note. It’s not great.

 

Blue Post

 

 

Netflix and Chillin’ Wid My Disney Prince Charmin’

What a tremendously long bloliday!! (That’s bloggers’ technical termificology fyi, you’re welcome.)

Babeses (for the Expaterati)/ Dahlins (for the Brits), where to begin?? Xmas was an amazingly spiritual time of giving for me, hence my blogging hiaticus, and it has been a crazybobs delicious whirlwind. The previous occasion when I lay down the annals of my life for you, I was in Disneyland Florida, as you will recall. So I’ll begin with now, work backwards, doing some bits in the middle, then proceed to the end of the beginning bit. Or no, I’ll just start with Disney.

Given that life just made sense there, I decided to extend my stay beyond the kids’, and popped them on a plane back to London with Clara. They were having an awesome time, but Chrimbo is really so much nicer for irritants to spend with their grandparents, isn’t it? In the afore-mentionsed spirit of giving, it felt only right and proper for me to forgo my selfish maternal needs, and that Max and Mills returned to the bosom of the extended family. Plus, an incrediblé thing happened out there in Florida – even more incrediblé than the Burberry and LuluLemon prices at the outlet mall: I met my Prince Charming! Literally.

After a brief fling with a Mickey Mouse guy (it just didn’t work out; there was such a distance between us due to the immenseness of his ears, and frankly his attempts at reassurance, saying, “All the better to hear you with, my dear”, quickly became tiresome and creepy), one day I was watching the parade at the Magic Kingdom for the 87th time, and there was a chap on a float, playing Prince Charming. As our eyes met through the adoring crowd, he held my gaze, doing his charming waving posing thing, and in that moment, time stopped. Suddenly it was as if only he and I existed in the universe, while all around us became just a blur of… of other stuff going on, and stuff.

It must only have been a matter of seconds, though it felt like a lifetime, and then, I knew. So, long story short, I shacked up with Phil, once the irritants were departé, checking out of the resort, as it would’ve been unethical for a Disney employee to be fraternising with a guest, and I didn’t want him to put his character career at risk. My principles just wouldn’t allow me to do that, and also the whole place was booked solid. I located a very droll motel next to a highway, and made that my HQ for the remainder of the trip. It was hilarious because it was just like the motels you see in films, and one half-expected to be awoken in the middle of the night by a Quentin Tarantino villain in possession of a suitcase full of automatic weapons. So fun.

Phil and I had a simply divine time, and it’s extremely true that at Disney, dreams really do come true. We did some serioso Netflixing and chilling, let me tell you!! Mostly Disney films. He’s an actor/ dancer/ singer/ model on a one-way trajectory to Hollywood (of that I am certain, and as you know, I have yet to be wrong about anything), and apart from my British accent and fabulous physical being, he adored the fact that I am distantly related to the Royal Family, and that I have a ton of media contacts worldwide, and a boatload of fans in my own right. We just clicked, you know? Therefore thusly, it was with some considerable annoyance that I received a call one sunny afternoon while he was at work, and I lounged by the motel pool (imagining myself in Gone Girl), from my mother. She rudely demanded to know when I would be flying back to “attend” to my children, which I thought was pretty rich given that she was failing horrendously to attend to my needs as her child, by interrupting this special period in my life. Just like that, I went from Gone Girl to Girl Interrupted. The painful irony was, of course, entirely lost on her.

What could I do, babeses, as a doting mother, but dash back to London as soon as very possible?? So that’s what I did, after a few more beautiful days with Phil. He was just perfect for me: he smiled and waved, and smiled and nodded, and was completely charming all the time. I wondered how my life would have been, had I married Phil rather than Don, all those years ago. Unlike Max and Milly, our children would’ve been (could still be!!) a cosmic combination of my searing intellect and his smiley, wavey charm. How far they would go in this world, with those qualities!

In my excitement, I told Clara about Phil and she must’ve been in a bad mood (why are so many women in such a bad mood all the time?!) because her less than enthusiastic response was, “EJ, do you really think that’s the basis for a mature, lasting relationship?”

Why I had expected her to be happy for me, I do not know. Too often people delight in the misery of others, I observate upon reflection, rather than in their joy, and that explains a great deal about the human condition and the state of the global economy and just goes to show that everything Plato and Buddha said was true. They’d back me up here, no doubt.

Coming back to non-Disney London has been a shock to the system, I won’t deny it, but I’ve been rushed to the bone with my performance work. Thanks for your support, my loves, Expaterati or otherwise. Below are some fab pics  – thanks to these mega cutting edge film peeps for helping me with the stills – of me doing a full-house performance at the London Comedy Store. It was a weird one because how it works is that a whole bunch of freebie comics show up (obviously I’m not a comic, more of an edicator, sharing the message of my glamorous life, but let’s keep that to ourselves) to get judged by the first rows of the audience, and the first rows are the ones who bagged their seats early, so they’ve had some loooong drinking time. Super smart business model, and if I ever wore a hat, I’d take it off to that venue; but I don’t wear hats because they suck the chi from my fiery locks.

So I said some important stuff

So I said some important stuff

Yes it IS

& made some valid points

Tee hee

& it was all going great

Rap

But then I did my Chrimbo rap (available for download as a ringtone, so ping me because you won’t want to be without it next Christmas!)

Seriously??

& suddenly my time was up… Without even getting to the dog in a bikini or my camel toe issues!

Not sure about putting the clip on my YouTube channel, as the compere repeatedly used the C word shortly before my set (not with reference to me, por supuesto), and there’s just no way to stop children getting on the Internet. Could cut that bit out, I guess…

Finally, I’m very excited to say that I’m planning my visit to Singas next month!!!! It does depend on childcare arrangements as I appear to have somehow lost Mummy’s willingness to assist, but Don has turned up… Yes, he has! Will save that for another post, even though I know you’d love to read another couple thousand words from me right now. Sorry!! Delayed gratification is a good thing though, for many people (not me), so I’m doing you a favour.

What with my visit, I am urgently wanting to contact a hot Aussie chap by the name of Jonathan Atherton, as it would be way cool to do some performance while I’m over there. If anyone knows him, feel free to put in a word on my behalf. Just say hi or guarantee him a sell-out night at the Blu Jaz Café, or just hi.

Sending lots of love. Xx

Well, Happy Holidays, Babeses

Magic Kingdom

I’m having the best xmas everrrrr at Disneyland Florida, babeses! It’s crazy to think that only a year ago I was busy having a sh**ster time being persecuted by my mother, and then suffering the terrible pain of two weeks in Boracay (Boragrad), holidaying sans help in extreme heat.

I see on Facebook that my glamorous Asia Expaterati girlies are having awesome sauce times on various beaches from Bali to Bondi, but are they fully engaging in family life the way I am, and thereby experiencing the deeper meaning of this holiday period..?

No, I think not. They’ll be checking their kids into wrap-around childcare, to indulge in every pleasure available chez the fabulous Four (Seasons – I call it the Four due to my intimate acquaintance, but not everyone can do that). And the ones without irritants, or whose irritants have stomped from the nest: they’re having spa treatments with hot stones and gongy tunes, doing ridic fun stuff on boats, drinking cocktails and chatting cool bants from glowing red sunset into the starry night. Never cold, even in a bikini… Toes sinking into white sand, washed clean with each new warm wave, as every year comes to flow over us, offering redemption…

Renewal

Opportunity

Possibility…

But anyway, regardless of what my girlies are getting up to, Disney is great because there are lots of rides (for Clara to take the irritants on), and because dreams really do come true (I keep hearing that and why would Disney lie?), and because the Orlando Premium Outlet Mall has Burberry cashmere jumpers and hot Lululemon gear at a fraction of U.K. prices (haven’t yet worked out which fraction, but it’s definitely a fraction).

My ex-accountant rang me this evening, which was odd because I thought I’d dismissed him given that I’ve done an online accountancy course, and have been therefore thusly managing my considerable fortune autonomously. I was unable to take the call as I was experiencing character dining with each and every Disney princess. There are an awful lot! They’re such great role models. They’re pretty, they’re passive, they wave, and they’re just looking for their Prince Charming to complete them. How sweet is that?!

Clara, au contraire (I think she might be a communist) says Disney sells an “oppressive myth that a woman can’t be complete without a man, and encourages women to subjugate themselves as servants or beautiful objects, rather than existing as equals “.

Yeah, Clara, that’s why you’re single.

A Glorious Few Days

It has been a glorious few days in leafy Highgate, since the cold weather has abated. Difficult, nonethelesssomuch, to think that my Singapore Expaterati girlies are right at this moment lounging poolside in bikinis or taking air-conditioned shelter in malls, gyms or places of work, if work is their thing. So difficult to imagine… It’s not that I’m jealous – no, not at all because jealousy exists only in the unrefined mind and I think you’ll find that my mind is refined. As dear readers will already exclusively be aware, of course! (It’s the newcomers I’m addressing here, given my burgeoning UK following, who will not, at this early stage, be capable of fully grasping the deepest dichotomies of my psyche.)

The gloriousness is due to the fact that I have at last located appropriate staff!!! Thank bejesus for Shahira! Bless her, she made it over here somehow and is super keen for work at Singapore helper rates, so I was like, “When can you start, honey??” Praise the Universe for bringing us together in my time of need.

It’ll be awesome because I’m soooo over my mother and cousin Clara hanging round the house. Seriously, don’t they have their own lives?? (I did mention they keep coming over, right?… Did I not mention that?)

Also glorious because I have finally found the BEST nail place in the region (on the Holloway Road, so it’s edgy as well as amazebobs), and at the same time simultaneously I’m luvvin preparing for my second sell-out gig next Tuesday!

 

Over shoulde for post 27.11r

 

I’ve been thinking about Don reaching out to me, sending me the link to Adele’s Hello. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if I should get on Tinder. He has shown me zero respect, so I’m thinking wtf, I should just get out there and meet someone who actually deserves me and my awesomeness. Am I right, babeses?? Please let me know in the comments because otherwise I just won’t know.

 

 

Max here

Mum left her compurter on and went owt so I will tell you stuff about mum. (Lol she hats wen I call her mum not mummy lolol)

1. She is a big lyer
2. We dont live in Highgate we live in Archway and that is not the same place becos rich people live in Highgate not in Archway.
3. Dad is not in Hawai he is in England. I know becos he calls me on my mobile some times.
4. Mums hair is not reel she dies it
5. Granma is reely nice and looks after us a lot but mum is not nice to her. Aunty Clara is reely nice too.
6. Mum is a big lyer so dont beleave what she sez ever and also she is not very clevur which you shud know by now

She wont even notice I rote this on her blog becos she doesnt know how to chek her stats even or any thing. And dont tell her or I will get in trubble and that will be ur folt.

Whose a irritant now Mum?

 

Mentirosa 2

2 face mentirosa. I cant spell but at leest I know langages like all expat kids

PS I am not adicted to Minecraft I jus really like it.

Plz So Stop With The Guilt Trip

I’ve a bone to prick with you, dear readers, and prick it I will now, as follows.

After all I’ve done for you over the past year plus, keeping you a-nipple of the fascinating twists and turns of my life, generously sharing my deepest thoughts, and providing you with hot pics of my hot self, as well as seemingly endless reams of expert advice on Singapore, beauty, fashion, expat marital bliss, expat marital disaster, and a whole bunch of other stuff – after ALL THAT, this is how you repay me??!!!!!

Really?

Really??

Really??? (I heart this repeated “Really?!” thing. Dunno where it came from, but long may it prospiferate. Let’s all keep doing it. A lot. Forever.]

You repay my generosity by making me feel guilty every waking hour for not having enough time to blog hashtag sadface. Weeeeell, that’s very nice, isn’t it!!?! So than-Q awfully muchly indeed. I didn’t expect this of you, loyal readers.

It’s not that anyone has exactly pacifically said anything to this ends, but the fact remains that I do feel constantly wracked with guilt for not being able to write, given the lack of suitable support staff (yes, we don’t all have 24/6 help you know, over here in the West! Sheeesh!! So spoilt, you are…), and I can’t possibly blame myself for this feeling, so whose fault is it, if not yours..? I hope you feel proppa ashamed of yourselves.

OK. Now that I have gotten this off my perky chest, not wanting the misery to seep into my chi, I’ll tell you what I shall do for you: I shall take your profound apologies as a given from this moment henceforward, and babeses, I hereby forgive you : ) x

So we’re fine now! It’s all good.

That’s called mindful conflict resolution. If only there was more of it about in these turbulent times.

Now that I do in de facto have a spare moment to write, I will enlighten you about my “gig” (it was an educative lecture and rap really, but no one beyond us need know that) what I did this week. In case you’re not a Liker of my Awesome Facebook Page, you can watch it here. [Um, but why aren’t you a Liker?? Get likin’, honey! You might miss something and then you’ll feel super hard-done-by.]

As you will note, I successfully got my message across to the vast audience, and they were fooled into thinking that it was comedy, which means they actually listened and no doubt learned a great deal. Singapore Expaterati readers will be gratified to know that at least eleven people in London now realise how much cooler Singas is than here, and how awesome it is to be an expat. These London people are, I’m certain, v interested in the glamorous lives of the Expaterati, appearing to know not a whole helluva lot about the subject; and the poors among them know v little about glamorous lives, period full-stop. They know what they see of the Kardashies and the Kate and Willsies, but ffs, that’s not real! So I gave a wonderful gift to the sell-out audience that night, be them poors or not so poors. I gave them the gift of Real.

IMG_3896.PNG

Blurry but awesome

 

To everyone who has offered their support and appreciation re the “gig” on my Awesome Page (did I mention I have a Facebook page?), you are truesomely the wind beneath my thighs, and I thank you whole-thighedly, and I know you just thank me right back, to which I reply: You’re. So. Welcome. And in your cases, I totes retract the first part of this post. Just ignore it. Pretend it never even happened.

Best go because tomorrow morning I have my first 1:1 boxing training session, so need to be tip-top. I’ve found this incrediblé lady who looks like a killer in her online pics, but is really v sweet. I’ll tell you about her some time. Thought I should take up a fighting sport now that I’m back in Londres. Sh** goes down here, you know? Toto I’ve a feeling we’re not in Singas anymore…

One last thing, in case I’m not back for a while (and don’t make me feel guilty for that, ok lah?!). I’ve been chatting more to my neighbour whoms I told you about in the last post, and he’s def going to come with me to Nike Town Oxford Circus to sort out my camel toe issue. I’ve now discovered that his name is Montgomery Nugent. I looked him up on the dark web (I know how to access that because it’s how you get the best gigs) and OMG, this guy!! Nothing weird or nasty, but if you’re on the dark web too, check him out!

Repatriation is Never Easy, I Know

Yet again, I’m find myself apologising for my silence, even though I know, my loves, that you understand implicitally and don’t feel due an apol. The reasons for why I have failed to show up on the blogosphere for thoroughly ages are threefold:

1. I still have this major childcare and house work problem in that I continue to interview potential staffs, but they are all dreadfully spoilt and demanding, and fail to meet my specificalations in return for a Singapore helper’s salary.  Rude.

Secondly, I am currently hard at work preparing for my debut on the London performance scene. I met this guy who came to the door wanting money for Battersea Dogs & Cats Home and he was mega charming, and asked me all about my fascinating self – what kind of work I do and stuff, and how come I’m so wedged up. I explained that I’m a celebrité blogger and rap artiste, and I want to continue sharing my glamorous life with normal dull people, whilst spreading my wings to horizons new and fields afresh. He told me I should do stand-up comedy, so I was like, “Wha?”, and he was like, “Yeah!”

So now I’m what’s called a platinum donor to those nice dogs and cats, I think. He was so nice!

I always thought stand-up was telling jokes and being funny, but he reckoned that I could just be myself, and get my message across about everything I know, edicating the general public re expat issues, far-flung places they’ve probably never been to or even heard of, and what it’s like to be a sizzling hot SAHM of two, living in North London, unable to find suitable staff.

Hence therefore thusly I did an amazing stand-up course with an amazing guy (I didn’t tell him that I’m not really doing comedy – more edicating), and I met some super-nice peeps. Who knew that people who take comedy classes would be so funny?! Carving my way elegantly to the chase now, the crucifix of the matter is that one of these funny people said I could do a “five” at her comedy night, Crown the Knave. No idea what Crown the Knave means, but as a seasoned comic, albeit yet to do my first “set” and I’m not really doing comedy, I do now know that a five means I have five minutes to share my wisdom with the assemblage. And a set is my thing what I’ll be doing. It’s astounding how much I’ve gleaned in a mere six Saturdays, but I’ve always been a fast and perspiratious learner, as my love-you-long-time dear readers will know.

Where I'm on at. Image credit: http://acraftyglass.co.uk/pubsbars/the-mug-house-london-bridge#comment-22764

Where I’m on at.
Image credit: http://acraftyglass.co.uk/pubsbars/the-mug-house-london-bridge#comment-22764

Said “gig” is the week after next (a gig is what we pros call a performance) and I expect it to be a sell-out, with all 20 seats taken, and possibly one or two people standing at the back as well! Apparently there’ll be a few other acts, and I think I’m on in the first half which means I’ll very much be setting the standard for the evening. So I hope the others are up to scratch!! It’s agony to watch comedians bomb! I’ll feel so sorry for them, having to go after me. I just can’t reign in my empathic tentacles. I’ll experience their pain as acutely as they will. Possibly moreso moreover.

Three: Don got in touch yesterday, quite out of the blue, and that is now absorbing me and invading my think space. He didn’t even say anything. He sent me the YouTube link of Adele’s beautiful Hello song (sooooooo much better than Lionel Ritchie’s version). What now, now?? Really?

Really?

Really?

You know, like really??? I mean, helloooo!! (Is it still cool to say that..? It’s def cool to say “Really?” over and over, but “Hello!!”, I dunno…)

Anyhoo, I was just almost getting my life together and the last thing I need is my philandering hus showing up. Hashtag stressful hashtag anxious face.

That’s the threefold list, and I’ve just thought of another thing. I’ve still got this outstanding issue with Nike going on, and I really need to resolve it soon because it’s messing badly with my chi. Not wanting to take on a corporate giant alone, nor enter Nike Town Oxford Circus in possession of camel toe-ness without morale support, I’ve been trying to find someone to come with me. I’ve asked a bunch of my London girlies, but they’re all busy avoiding Town (come on, babeses! Town is a 7k jog away, wtf??), and when I broached the matter with last-resort cousin Clara the psychologist, she raised her eyebrows and changed the subject. What is it with these therapy people?? So effing precious. Like they never have poop skids on their white g-strings! Yeah, right. I for one wouldn’t be seen dead at the crematorium in a white G (particularly since the loss of my tan… Miss Sing so much!!), but I’ve heard tell of this revolting phenomenon. Apparently it’s a Thing on Instagram. Argh!!

Then though though, the coolest thing happened which was very much Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist-ish (OMG such a classic text, what an awesome writer), in that the other day when I was outside re-positioning the recycling because it matters in these parts what’s on top, I got chatting with my next door neighbour. He was here before we dashed off to Asia so I’ve known him for years, but I don’t know him at all which is one of those great Londin tings.

Because I was situating two Nike shoeboxes so as to hide some Waitrose Essentials items (“essentials”?! so Tesco’s! what has gone wrong with the John Lewis gang – did they also get bought by the Chinoiserie?), whilst balancing out an Hermes scarf box with a bit of Street, Mr Neighbour called over, “You really like your Nikes, don’t you?”

It was sweet of him to show an interest in my shopping choices so I decided to tell him the unabridged tale of my Nike leggings camel toe debacle, and that they’ve invited me to come for an inspection, but I’ve no one to go with. Bless him, he then offered to accompany me on my important mission. He said he doesn’t “have a lot on at the moment”, and would be “delighted to provide any level of assistance required”.

So there I’d been, getting hetted up about finding someone to help me with this tricky business, and he was right under my naturally unique nose all along! #fate

You gotta embrace fate. I do. You should too, babeses. Or dahlins. People say “dahlin” over here. They say it like dah-LIN, with the emphasio on the lin. I might go there with that transition, if you don’t mind, Expaterati babeses/ dahlins. Lemme know if it grates, but I’m making no promises. It’s important for the re-pat to to de-pat.

Plastic Bags Basically Murder Squirrels

Hilly Muswell Hill

Hilly Muswell Hill

I see that the haze has returned to lovely Singas, and as always, I am dreadfully soz for my Expaterati friendses. When I get all the guest rooms sorted, you must jump on a plane and come to stay.

Despite Singapore being soooooooo much better than England, and being a glamorous expat also being soooooooo much better than not, I don’t miss having the view outside my window obscured by smoke. The haze was, in de facto, my second least favourite Sing Ting, and I’m glad to see that it is finally hitting the world news as it truly is ridic and must be stopped.

My first least favourite Sing Ting was the plastic bag situation. You might not know this about me, given my many fascinating aspects, but I am a keen environmentalist and all round eco warrior – espesh now that I’m not flying thousands of miles several times a year, and can therefore thusly be more integretated in my environmentality (am planning a trip to Florida for Xmas, but that’s only a teensy pop across the Atlantic, and I’ll put the kids in Economy as that’s presumably more envo-friendo… why else would it be cheaper??). Also, there’s this truly wicked camouflage trend over here which I have whole-heartedly adopted as it looks fantastic on me, so dressing as a warrior is cool, and puts less strain on the earth’s resources because camouflage actually absorbs methane and greenhouse gases, according to an online study I read somewhere. SO, if I buy even more camouflage stuff to add to my suddenly vast collection which I won’t be wearing once it’s way passé next Spring, I’m actually supporting the desperately needy Asian economies (well, mainly China, but that’s fine because it has been lovely hosting President Xi Jinping this past week and it’s obvious that he totes <3 ‘s us and all things Britannia, so I’m happy to participate in the lurv), as well as doing my bit for the environment.  Win-win!

I digress though because the point is is that in Singapore they positively throw plastic bags at you in the shops (not the high-end clothing shops, of course; they use a paper-based material that is related to trees and thereforely easily grown in forests), and when I did any supermarket shopping for myself (the help did tend to get the wrong stuff despite ample tutelage), I had to practically shout at the assistant, “No bags, lah!”, as they over-zelottedly packed my incrediblé expensive cheese and Veuve Click into damn plastics! What super annoyed me as well was seeing the customer before me and the customer after me accepting said plastic bags… for single items which could easily have fitted into their enormous LV handbags or the stout arms of their offspring. I gave those people some looks, I can assure you, but no one seemed to care nor have the leastest awareness that there are seals suffocating in the South Seas, and squirrels who’ve had their tails entangled in plastic due directly to this default handing out of unnecessary bags. It’s a disgrace. If those squirrels lose their tails, they’re basically done for. And how would you feel, as a squirrel mother or father, knowing that your little one had been taken down by a Singaporean plastic bag..? Not great, I would wager. Given that I am a big on making a difference where it counts, I did contemplate the initiationification of a campaign to tackle this issue (like, could the check-out person just ask, “Do you really really need a bag?”), but my Singaporean bestie said I shouldn’t as it might cause problems for expat vs local relations. In the end I was so busy juggling my life as a celebrité blogger/ rap artiste, with being an awesome wife and mother, whilst maintaining my rigorous health and beauty regime, plus my serioso hectic social life, that I didn’t really have time to make a difference. That said, I guess I have made a difference by sharing myself with you, dear readers, and I do not under-estimate the valuation therein.

Anyhoo so, in the UK (well in London at least… UK..? I’m not sure… where does that cover exactly, outside London?) they’ve just introduced a charge on plastic bags , which I think is amazebobs. I ventured to Muswell Hill earlier this week to see how things have picked up there – they so have!! A Sweaty Betty next door to a Le Creuset! Praise be!! – and I dashed into the new little Waitrose to get Max’s preferred brioche. I was just about to extract a cloth bag from my Burberry Prorsum Bloomsbury when I realised how tacky it looks now to not pay for a plastic bag. Argh!! Hashtag mortified!! Luckily my astute brain clicked in early enough to avoid social mortificato, and I got three bags: one for the brioche, one for the chicken sag masala (love that now I have to cook for myself), and one for the very padded loo paper. It felt wrong to put the input and output goods in the same bag. Just wrong.

When I got home I was faced with yet another layer of mortificationism as the cleaner had placed low-value detritus at the top of my recycling boxes… Outside the front of the house!! A woman’s work is never done, I thought to myself as I covered up the Sainsbury’s mild smoked salmon sleeves with Gucci online shopping packaging, and then a Nike shoe box to add a touch of Street. As if life as a single mum in London wasn’t hard enough without a cleaner who shows scant regard for recycling etiquette!!

I <3 gentrification!!

I <3 gentrification!!

A Woman’s Work???

Although I am def heading for celebrité status locally, I have to say that I remain super chuffed that most of my dear readers are expats; particularly those in Singapore who can sympathise with my horrendous plight borneded out of my ongoing subsistence without a helper. As I shall illustrate below, some others here – those who I perhaps naively, nay nostaligically, nay foolishly call my “friends” – are being far less understanding…

Since returning and not having a live-in, I have had virtually zero quality time to myself, and therefore thusly, I am hardly ever able to share my glamorous (#notsomuchnow hashtag sadface) life with you. There have been dreadfully dark days when I’ve thought, “If I have to fold another towel I will literally lose my mind and throw myself off Archway Bridge”, despite the mega-precautionary structures which are installed thereon, so desperate and fervent has been my distress. How do people live like this?!

 

Beautiful Archway Bridge. Credit: Nigel Cox

Beautiful Archway Bridge. Credit: Nigel Cox

It’s not that I don’t know what I must do. I am trying. I have made every attempt possible to locate appropriate staff who match my specificatations, as I shared with you previously, but the working classes here are so spoilt and unrealististically aspirational that they believe they are worth a living wage for minimal work. A nanny, apparently, despite her enormous fee, won’t even wash windows. “Call a window cleaner if you need your windows cleaned”, was the disgracfeul retort I received at Nanny Interview Number 107. (I have an Excel sheet for everything now, thanks to my online accountancy course.)

Will someone not tell these people that the American Dream (as fabulously as it works over there, where people get the opportunity to work three jobs and then have awesome stuff happen whereby they magically climb the social ladder through merit and hard graft and all that, and end up as Kanye)… Will someone PLEASE tell them that we just don’t operate like that over here?! In Blighty, you are what you are – deal with it. That’s Britishness, so suck it up, babeses. We are incrediblé lucky to retain our amazebobs Royal Fam because they preserve the sensible order of a class system, thank eff, which is beautifully reinforced by the public school thing, and the sweet pre-prep thing before that. I like to compare it to the whole caste jobbie in India. It just makes sense, you know, and has been so fab for those nice Indian people, as evidenced by their slammin’ economy. They are nailing it!! Go them! Essentiallially, all it is is that it’s Darwinisation, so come one: “Inequality”..? What even is that? It clearly rocks, whatevs it is.

So anyhoo, in my limited, v precious time I have been trying to touch base with my old girlfriends over here because they obviously want to catch up with me, and who could blame them? What with FB, they know that I’m back and I have had to formulate a Specific Intent (that’s what my life-long yogi practice has taught me) to get in touch with at least two of them each week. This week I had Evie and Robbie next on the list.

I squeezed together some time for a gel mani-pedi at Margot London in Crouch End (totes awesome BTW – so speedy, such lovely ladees, and nails now divine), during which I was able to Facetime with Evie. Evie is one of my London besties from way way back when we were both juniors at the same law firm. She was almost as talented as me, but she already had a kid at the time which of course meant that she couldn’t compete with me, let alone the chaps. Then she divorced, re-married and popped out three more irritants (what now, now??). So currently she has three children under five, AND a frankly insane teenage daughter. Plus, the blokie she married later is a musician or something, so b’byeee corporate lifestyle! What was she thinking?? She moved outside the M25 into Commuter Land, and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Can’t 100% see the point in staying friends with her, if I’m honest, because I mainly like people who live in London, preferably zones 1-2. They’re just better, you know?

I was telling Evie what an awful time I’m having for want of decent staff, as a single mother in this glorious hectic city that she clearly no longer relates to, and she was actually quite nasty to me. She said, “Oh well, EJ, I don’t know what it’s like to have everything done for me and the kids, so I can’t really offer much help. Why don’t you just get an au pair?”

An au pair!! It was then that I realised the full extent of the gigantic gaping chasm between us, which has arisen through no fault of my own, but due to her lousy choices. Had she made wiser choices, she would know for herself that an au pair brings all the downsides of having a stranger in the house without a sufficiently compensating number of upsides. FFS, au pairs are worse than the over-paid nannies I keep meeting! They do practically nothing, are constantly making toast (so I’m told, and that’s a lot of bread), and then bugger off back to Bulgaria or wherever as soon as they witness their first stabbing. So no, Evie babes, thanks for your poor-person advice, but I won’t be going down the au pair route.

Praise be, three of her four irritants started to yell while we were chatting, so that closed our hashtag awkz conversation.

Next, because I had some time left, I phoned Robbie (Roberta, not Robbie Williams), who is also a v old friend of mine. We met when we did our Law degrees togev and she was always a right-on feminist type. I’m sure she fancies me (all mega-feminists are lesbians, let’s face it), but she is generally single or mingles, gender-wise.

“EJ”, she said, “I hear you! I’d rather have a wife than be a wife, any day. And the word, ‘wife’!… It shouldn’t even be about gender. It’s about convenient servitude. Women are told all the time how f***ing rewarding it is to raise children. But we live in a patriarchal society! If it was so damn rewarding, men would be clamouring to do it. Are they..? No, of course they aren’t. Then there’s all this nonsense like the thing going around on social media this week, suggesting that women should be grateful, or feel guilty if they don’t – did you see it? ’10 Things Mom Is Grateful For’… Are those the only choices available to a mother in 2015? Grateful or guilty?? Honestly, Eeej, it makes my blood boil!”

As likers of my awesome FB page will be aware, I have seen said post, and here’s my take on it:

 

Vom

Vom

At least Robbie understood my pain. Though probly mostly because she wants to get into my pants. (Which might be cool, now that I’m back in London – mightn’t it? I’d be a very hot lesbian I reckon, and it’s still so trendy.)

My Fascinating Camel Toe Resolution Process With Nike

As likers of my Facebook page will be acutely aware, this week I have had a problem of the camel toe variety. And first world problems are totes still problems, are they not, babeses?? The point is, is that they are.

So despite being an incrediblé busy single mum, struggling gracefully but mahusively to keep home and raise irritants sans helper, I needed to address this issue with Nike as a matter of urgency. It was interfering with my chi quite badly and I am certain that even corporate giants have hearts, and therefore thusly do not like to cause anyone pain unknowingly, particularly a customer as highly valued as myself.

The first stage of addressment of the camel toe problem re my recent purchase of workout leggings (as they’re American, they call them “training pants”, but that sounds like something to do with the toileting of toddlers, hence raises a degree of discomfort for me) was to fill out an online form. I explained that my issue simply could not be accommodated by an online form. What followed was an abso lovely exchange with a gentleman called Mo, and rather than paraphrase, I will post it in full below for your perusal. I know, dear readers, that you will find it riveting, but as always, there is no need to thank me.

[Unless you feel overcome with gratitude, in which case, go for it! I v much believe in freedom of expression – partic for those who want to say nice stuff. Otherwise, not so v much…]

 

 

Nike 1

 

So this was my mail:

Nike 2.1

Continued…

Nike 2.2

 

And these were the attachments:

 

CT issue

My dismay is all too evident

 

Lulu no CT

A Lulu tag on leggings I have since purchased at her Covent Garden shop. Wait… £118?! I didn’t see that! The things a Syrian refugee could do with £118!! Hashtag GUILT! (Just because it’s Canadian doesn’t make it right.)

 

And thusly came Mo’s sweet response:

Nike 3

 

Hencely the upshot is that I will be running to Oxford Circus at the earliest possible opportunity, labia-a’flailing, in order to present myself and the training pants for Inspection.

I shall keep you abreast of my progress, fear not.