On Not Being Able to Shop

I’ve been a little bored today (I know!! Shock, horror, right?!) because everyone I know was at the Diane Von Furstenberg talk for Singapore Fashion Week, and I couldn’t go because I had to take Milly for an urgent dental appointment. Kids! The bane of my existence.

The appointment lasted just long enough to miss half of the DVF, but not long enough to take up the rest of my morning. There weren’t even any Mega Threads on Facebook : (. As I was at a loose end, I took myself off down Orchard Road, and was hit by a dreadful new insight (I wish I wasn’t so keenly self-aware; it truly is a curse, not a blessing). I wandered through the shops from Orchard Central to the Paragon to Taka, then on to the Ion and Tang’s and Wheelock and the Forum and the Palais Renaissance, and it was just as I was getting my third coffee of the morning at Tanglin Mall that I realised that there was absolutely nothing I needed to buy. Not even vaguely needed, and I am running out of places to put things at home. The helper has, for some reason known only to herself, stopped tidying away my stuff in the bedroom and in my dressing room. Instead she just leaves things pretty much where I’ve dumped them, and puts them into piles that get higher and higher. One of the piles fell over yesterday and Froo Froo got taken out by a Tampax box and a v heavy pair of socks. She nearly lost an eye! I need to have strong words with the help about this hazardous issue. Maybe I’ll send her a text later.

So it felt really depressing that there’s a ton of nice stuff out there to buy, and I couldn’t buy any of it!! I don’t think this has ever happened to me before, and it was quite upsetting. While I was waiting in the coffee queue at Brunetti’s, guess who appeared, to brighten my day (noooooot!!)… Mrs Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey. Ugh. I didn’t want to risk getting into conversation about the last time we met (when I happened to mention that her hus engages in intimate relations with his male PA), and she gave no indication of recalling it, so I asked her if she was going to any of the Fashion Week events. I told her I’m going to an awesome party this Friday night at H & M, and I’m struggling to get an invite to Victoria Beckham’s thingie on the last day. Annoying!

“Oh hell no”, she said, “I’m not going to any of that nonsense! A celebration of vanity!! An Emperor’s New Clothes charade of telling fools they need more stuff, stuff that’ll end up in landfill! Better to send money to Nepal than spend it on lining corporate pockets! What a complete waste of human endeavour. It disgusts me how much these brands are making. The margins are obscene! And I don’t know if this is true, but I heard that the so-called high-end shops – god what a stupid term – don’t even pay rent here… Can you believe that?! Because their presence alone is so valuable to the big malls. Madness. I hope it’s not true.”

“Uh yeah, I heard that too, but it’s defo not truesome”, I said when I could get a word in, “Because someone in the um… high-end retailing business told me it’s not, and why would they lie?”

D & G stared at me, like she thought I was making a joke, and I decided to just keep on talking.

“And I don’t think it’s that fair to say that because something is expensive it’s a complete waste of human endeavication. Most of this stuff is amazebobs, and super well made and lovely, so designer items will be a credit to anyone’s wardrobe for years to come. Investment pieces, you know?”

“Ha, ‘investment pieces’! Lol!! You really buy that idea? That’s what they say when they’re trying to persuade people to part with ridiculously huge sums of money for things that no one actually needs! And you say ‘for years to come’, but this time next year, or even in a few months’ time, there’ll be another range of Chanel espadrilles that makes the last ones look dated.”

I noticed that I hadn’t inhaled or blinked for ages, such was my dismay at the anti-capitalist ranting to which I was bearing witness.

I grabbed my skinny decaf latte from the counter, and said, “Babes, I gotta run! Great, as always, chatting to you. You have such interesting thoughts. Ok byeeee!!”

I didn’t wait to hear her reply, and dashed downstairs to Cold Storage. At least I always need food! And it was lucky I did because they had a fab offer on for Marlborough Sauv Blanc (must tell thousands of expat wives about that via the FB groups… Wait, actually no must not because then they’ll sell out). After sorting out the delivery order for 60 bottles, I made my way back down Orchard, stopping at Chanel to get a new and improved pair of espadrilles. I realised I’d been salivating when D & G mentioned them, so it was indeedy fortuitous that she reminded me! The shoe cupboards, at least, have apparently remained within the helper’s self-assigned remit, and there is ample space for more footwear. Thank goodness for that!!

SO EXCITED ABOUT FASHION WEEK!!!! Can't wait to get some investment pieces (as soon as I've made some space in the wardrobe).

SO EXCITED ABOUT FASHION WEEK!!!! Can’t wait to get some investment pieces (as soon as I’ve made a bit of space in the wardrobe).

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Free Anti-Ageing Techniques, For Expats and Non-Expats

I believe I may have mentioned once or twice, that expat wives can be very competitive. Cousin Clara says it’s about, “establishing a hierarchy in a mixed environment, wherein cultural norms such as class system are less clear-cut than among static populations”; but I think it’s more like Froo Froo at Tanjong Beach Club. She does that sniffing thing all dogs do. I won’t degrade her by going into details, but I think you know what I mean.

Anyhoo, today I was lunching with my Expaterati girlies – some friendses and some not so much – and a discussion emerged about personal anti-ageing preferences in the facial region. My totes babesome BFF Flo has had a fair old whack of interventions: regular meet-ups with Lady B, a touch of collagen, a few teensy implants, a little eye-lift, and some other minor bits and bobs. She is gorgeous. Trust me. Hot as.

Au contraire, Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey (why does she still get invited to our lunches??) shuns all beauty enhancements, and instead chooses the Abandon All Hope approach to physical signs of ageing.

As loyal readers will know, I espouse the Ladeee Luuuuuv view, that we ladies should be free to decide what, when, why and how we do whatevs we want with our appearance, as long as we look and feel our utmost hottest at all timeses. And we should totes support each other in those decisions, rather than put sistas down.

Me and the gals were therefore thusly being super supportive when we said to D & G that maybe she should consider doing something about her face; at least opting for waterproof mascara, given the realities of this climate (she seriously looks like an owl and I’m seriously not joking TBH). I feel mahusively sorry for her because I secretly know that her hus is heavily involved with his male PA (I’ve only told six other people, including Flo), so we were doing her a favour by trying to force her to make an effort. For her own sake, you know?! It’s what her Guardian Angel would have wanted.

In a way, we were just being the earthly embodiment of her Guardian Angel. At the time, I even formulated an intention to chant for her in my meditation space with the Buddha water feature and a nice Nag Champa burn, offering up these words: May the Universe throw forth eternal blessings to make Mrs Doom & Gloom look a lot better so that she can be a bit hot, namasté.

So I was serioso horrificated when D & G said to Flo, “I completely respect what you’ve done to your face, and your right to choose that. But I choose not to do those things, so you should respect my right not to. And no offence, but you don’t look your age, or anyone’s age, you just look like someone who has had all kinds of stuff done to your face. You basically look like everyone else who has Botoxed, collagened, and whatever elsed their faces beyond recognition. I don’t even know what you really look like!! Do you?!”

Weeeeellll, that was a step too far, babeses.

I was shocked (Flo was too, though you’d have to know her deep down to see it, due to the lack of facial cues), but I remained sufficiently in retention of my verbal and empathic skills to intervene.

“Hon”, I said, with my sweetest Kate Middleton smile, “Just because you choose to pay zero attention to your appearance, despite the fact that you’re probly pushing 49, and you’ve obviously had way too much sun on your face during your youth, it’s really quite unfair to judge others, ya get me? Partic when they look way hotter than you, and their husband isn’t screwing his dude personal assistant”…

Oopsy!! It just came out! Oh dear. All cool though because almost everyone there (except D & G herself) knew about it anyway. So that was fine.

D & G stared at me, with the weirdest look. It was like a combination of, “I hate you and I want you dead”, and “OMG, babes, thanks so much for letting me know!”

More the latter, I felt, so when she stood up to leave, it seemed right for me to give her a great big hug. People need warmth and intense suffocating closeness after hearing difficult news. I know that because of my six-month counselling training.

After my lovely hug, she left, and I was happy for two reasons: 1. I felt secure in the knowledge that I had done all I could to boost her self-esteem. And B) I wanted to get back to my pastrami Reuben – my only carb and mayo shots this week. No way I’m not going to enjoy that!

Once she was gone, we normal happy ladies had a nice chat about how we manage to look so young. I shared with them two of my amazing anti-ageing gems that are 100% free. Because I am v generous, I will share them with you too, dear readers.

The first one is to think of a beautiful female celebrity who’s at least ten years older than you. Fully appreciate that a ton of work and cash has gone into how she looks. And know that she will always be SO VERY MUCH older than you.

And that’s it! It’s basically my reformulation of Einstein’s theory of relativity, applied to ageing. You’re welcome!

My other genius tip is to say that you’re older than you are. For centuries, women have been making the ridic error of claiming to be younger than they are. Whyee?? If you say you’re younger, people are more likely to be looking at you, thinking, “Yowzer, she looks rough!”. Say you’re five or ten years older though, and they’ll be thinking totes the opposite, begging you to reveal the secrets of your amazebobs youthfulnessification. A great thing about this technique is that after you’ve said it a few times, you will start to partly believe it, so you can fully embrace the positive feedback you receive.

Then, unless you develop an as yet unclassified mental health disorder of believing your own age lie, you’ll also partly still not believe it, which will remind that you’re really 35 not 45 (or 50 not 60, 60 not 70, you get the pic). That’ll keep you totes aware of how young you actually are, in contrastation with the age you’ll be a decade from now.

All my girlies agreed that both ideas are incredibly wise. So it’s fair to say that this proves beyond reasonable doubt that if you follow these strategies, along with my previously provided beauty advice and my fashion go-tos, you can be as hot as me for many years to come. If only D & G read my blog. It could save her marriage. There’s just no helping some people. Shame.

 

Froo Froo in her dokini at Tanjong Beach Club. Even the dog is hotter than Mrs Doom & Gloom.

Froo Froo in her dokini at Tanjong Beach Club. Even the dog is hotter than Mrs Doom & Gloom.

 

The Great Big Bagel Debacle

bagels

I was mega-busy this morning with The Fake Scale campaign (deets coming soon, peeps, and a gazillion thanks to the ladies who have come forward to co-captain the mission). Because yesterday was no-helper day, I got abso nada done and I really need to get the logo sorted. Argh!! I should also launch a campaign to get Don to agree to a second helper. It’s just ridic how much I have to do on Sundays. Cleaning the juicer is shear hell, and I’m sposed to do that at the same time as supervising the irritants!! How, might I ask?? Don, of course, does not feel my pain. 

I was v busy with #thefakescale for a good 36 minutes, but then I had a brunch date at Sacha’s with the Expaterati girlies – some friendses, some not so much. The meet-up wasn’t until 11AM, and although it’s only a little walk across the street for me, I had to leave home an hour early, to take the long route and get lots of steps in. I’ve joined up with some of the girlies to compete on getting our daily Fitbit 10,000 steps, and I knew they’d be at the brunch. Frankly, I’m not doing so well. I’m only in the lead most days because I put the damn thing around Froo Froo’s leg when the helper takes her out, or some nights I just wave my arm back and forth a lot. Cheating like that isn’t part of my modus operandi and must be doing untold damage to my chi : (

So I knew I’d be seeing the Fitbit gang, and I abso had to get my numbers up. Expat wives can be so competitive!! Ugh. I did quite awesomely though, arriving at Sacha’s with a lovely healthy glow, in my hot gym gear. Some of us ladies can really rock the gym bunny look, while others, unfortunately, can’t rock any look. That’s what I was pondering while air-kissing the assembled wife tribe. A couple of the not so much friendses had obviously made an effort to look their best, but ouch!! If I wasn’t so busy, I would become a fashion consultant for expat wives. I did a weeklong course once on iconic looks for tropical weather at the London College of Fashion, so I’d be fab at it.

The brunch was fairly fun, with everyone saying how brilliantly I’m doing to keep coming out on top with the steps, but then emerged: the bagel debacle.

Doom and Gloom Wifey started to critique the bagels, saying that it’s so difficult to find a decent bagel in Singapore, and that there just doesn’t seem to be a genuine New York bagel anywhere. “It’s absurd!”, she said, “We’re only 10,000 miles away from NYC. It’s 2015! We should be able to get anything everywhere! How hard can it be?!”

Ever the voice of reason, Flo responded, “Babe, I’m sorry, but what’s the big deal? This place uses proper Jewish recipes, and the bagels here are amazebobs. You’re not from New York. You’re not even American!”

“Well you’re not even Jewish!”, D & G retorted. God, she’s rude.

“No, but neither are you!”, Flo said, looking a bit flustered by that point, but only I could tell. You have to really know her because her face gives little away.

“No, I’m a Buddhist who knows a shitload about bagels, so screw you!”

O. Em. Gee.

I wanted to intervene, but my mouth was full of Reuben. Before I could say something wise to rescue the situation, D & G had picked up her gigantic LV handbag (this season! so jelly of that bag!!), saying, “I’m late for an appointment”, and swooshed away. Oh dear. I hate to take anyone off my awesome Facebook page, but that kind of behaviour is just intolerable. It’ll only get worse. She has to go.

Sneaky Snogging on Airplane?!

Holiday snaps of Vagi Wraps

Holiday snaps of Vagi Wraps

Well, babeses, I’m writing to you from the airport because, although I was having the best holiday everrrrrr, like I always do, it was also pretty crap. The encounter I had on the first day with my least favourite member of the Singapore Expaterati got me off to a bad start, and then the children were driving me over the edge, without our helper with us. Furthermore, spending so much time with the little irritants was in direct contravention of Item Six of my New Year’s resolutions.

Then yesterday Don said something about having lots of work to catch up with, so I thought, right! You get back to work, and I’ll get back to my proper holiday. Yayay!! Can’t wait to be home, rollerblading down Orchard Road, after a few glasses of Veuve Click, with the wind cascading through my fabulous flaming locks! Singas, look out! Momma’s comin’ home : )!!! До Свидания, Boragrad!


It’s a bit later and we’re on the plane back. I love using the internet on flights, just because I can. Plus, I wanted to let you know ASAP about the shocking revelation that has just revealed itself to mine eyes. You’re not going to believe this, but I SWEARS it’s truesome.

So. Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey’s husband, Fred, and his (male!!) PA are on our flight, but they haven’t spotted me as I’m quite inconspicuous when I want to be, and we’re sitting a few rows behind them (no, not in Economy!). Right after take off, they ordered champagne, clinked glasses, had a quick glance around to make sure no one was watching (haha!!), and then… They snogged! OMG!! As if swinging among the Expaterati wasn’t shocking enough! Now we have this married expat chap having a flingthing with his blokie assistant!! What else is going on in our very midst? I dread to think, dear readers, I really do.

It’s no wonder though because that wife of his is a mega-drag and if I was a gay guy, Mr PA would well be on my wuddya?-hells-to-the-ya list!!

I’d better go because it’s only a short flight and I need to watch at least one film, as well as find something from the inflight shopping mag to buy that I don’t already have. Tricky!

Ooooh, tuna wasabi yum yum!

Ooooh, tuna wasabi yum yum!

Just the Usual Expat Hol in Paradise

A spot of beach art, where the other half (3/4? 7/8?) lives.

A spot of beach art, where the other half (3/4? 7/8?) lives.

Following my completes crappola Chrimbo (who would have thought it would’ve sucked so badly that morning when I was making my Expat Exmas Message, like Her Maj?), we are now on our fabulous holiday in Boracay. Boragrad, if you must know, babeses, LOL.

Another top-notch hotelee por supesto, to wind away all the stresses and strains of my equally fabulous life. That said, even with the kids’ club, I’m rather wishing we’d brought the help along. I had forgotten the full horror of the tedium that bath and bedtime can be with Max and Mills. I am having to do it myself!! And I don’t mean supervising! So, after a full day of lounging in the sun, and attending to my rigorous health and beauty regime at the gym and spa, I then get myself all worked up on the few evenings we don’t hire a sitter, thanks to the irritants. Well happy bleeping holidays to me! Don, as always, said that bringing the helper was “unconscionable”, and that holidays should be just the family. Hmmmmm. This means that I don’t really have a holiday!! Which leads me to conclude that:

Paradise – Help = Almost Hell

Gandhi said something very similar when he observed that, “Interdependence is and ought to be as much the ideal of man as”… I’ve lost the rest of the quote, but the skinny is that it’s totes ideal for me to depend on my helper because she depends on us for her livelihood; and it’s totes reasonable for me to have a bit of a sh** hol without her.

As if things weren’t bad enough, guess, dear readers, who is here. One of my all-time least favourite members of the Singapore Expaterati: Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey. Ugh-amundo. I know you feel my pain.

On our very first day here, I noticed Mills in the pool, playing with another little girl who looked vaguely familiar. Returning my attention to my iPad edition of Vogue, I heard a kerfuffle from the pool, as an adult waded in – yes, D & G Wifey – telling Milly to stop pulling the other girl’s hair. Oh Lordy, Mills! Being the responsible parent that I am, I had no choice but to put down my iPad, and dive elegantly into the pool, to pretend to reprimand Milly. Poor kid. The other little girl, Janine, has obviously inherited her mother’s dour looks and tote lack of humour, so I’m sure she got nothing more than she deserved, but what else could I do??

Once I’d forced Mills into a half-arsed apology, I then had to make polite conversation with D & G: how lovely to bump into you, what a coincidence (yeah, right), how’s your hol, are you having a good time, ra ra ra.

She was apparently gagging for someone to talk to, because she launched straight into her standard doom and gloom diatribe. I noted from her lack of woven resort bag (only available to the upper echelons) that she must not be staying in one of the villas. Probably in the main cell block. In the timeless words of Beyoncé, “Sucks to be you right nooooow”. Wise woman, that Queen Bee.

“Oh, I suppose I’m having a good time…” she began, her dull preamble warning of so much worseness ahead.

“I wanted to go home for Christmas, or maybe skiing, but Fred’s PA couldn’t take much time off, so Fred decided we’d better not go too far away. And they’re flying back before me and the kids anyway.”

“But, babes”, I told her, “Skiing is just so wet and cold, and accidenty. And England is totes miz right now, with the yucky climate, and all that economy stuff… still… I think… Here we’ve got the beautiful relaxing beach, and the lovely weather… Um, apart from the whole tropical storm thang, but that’ll pass”.

“Yeah, I know….,” she said, and for a moment I thought she might shut up, so that I could dash back to my sun bed. Alas, alack, and mega-bummer, I was profoundly mistaken. She went on.

“It’s just that we’ve been on so many of these trips: Bali, Langkawi, Krabi, Koh Samui, Yogyakarta, Hoi An…”, she continued, as I switched off and admired how smooth my freshly waxed Brazilian was looking.

“Bla bla bla, fa ba na noo fa bla, and at this point, the whole of Southeast Asia has just merged into one big blur of white sand, palm trees, and resorts. When I look back over the years, I can barely distinguish one holiday from the next. How sad is that?!”

I re-engaged with her bla when I noticed that the gel nail on my thumb was lifting, and much as I loathe nail-biting, I found myself gnawing at it.

“And what really gets me is”, she droned on, “I’m getting so tired of being the well-off Westerner, surrounded by locals calling me Ma’am, who bow and scrape in the name of good customer service. I can’t relax when I know that the people around me are so much worse off. It’s the inequality of it all! What does it teach our children?”

[OH GOD, kill me!! JUST KILL ME NOW!!!, I thought prettily.]

“And Thailand! Just awful. We were there last year for Christmas, and I heard such incredibly devastating stories about the tsunami. Whole families, wiped out. Babies, children. I thought, how can I sit on this idyllic beach, knowing what happened right here, just a few years ago? Horrendous.”

I tasted thick saltiness, and looked down at my thumb to find that it was bleeding. The woman was boring me so much that I had actually started to bite off my own hand. Enough was enough.

“Darling sweetie babes”, I managed to say, following a quick check-in with my higher power, “The fact is that without us well-off whities coming and spending our spondooli, these nice people wouldn’t even have jobs. We’re doing them a favour! The least we can do is have a good time, honey. Don’t we owe them that much?!”

I hoped that my impassioned words might turn the situation around, but she got her mouth straight back in there: “That’s a ridiculous argument! The fact is that our spondooli, as you call it, is because of disproportionate salaries, earned through the exploitation of people just like the ones working in this hotel, borne out of their disadvantage and our good fortune. We did nothing to deserve this, any more than they deserve the poverty they come from!”

O
EM
GEE

I found, then, that I was sucking my (half-eaten, bloody) thumb – something I haven’t done since childhood. Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey woman, I shouted silently in my head, it’s only Day One, and you have RUINED my holiday.

Gott sei dank, D & G’s helper suddenly appeared from nowhere, saying, “Ma’am, I am the one to take Janine for her nap?”

D & G nodded, “Yes please, Reyann”.

“Well, that’s lovely anyway!”, I chipped in, determined now to either lift this bleeping woman’s mood or get the bejesus away from her.

“At least you have the help with you!! Lucky old you, babes! Don never wants to do that, and frankly it’s a nightmare come truesome!”

“You say that”, (oh ffs, despite my awesome adorableness of niceness, she was finding a way to persist), “but the thing is that I knew she would have a better Christmas here with us than lonely in Singapore, while all her friends are working, or if we sent her home to her family. When she goes home, she comes back a stone lighter, and completely exhausted. Do you know what she does when she has a holiday at home?”

It was patently clear that I didn’t give a rat’s bottom, but evidently the woman has none of my empathic or intuitive skills when it comes to observing the responses of others. Instead of noticing that I was desperate to get back to Vogue, she…

Kept.

On.

Talking.

“She works on the family farm! For fifteen hours a day, every day! Can you believe that?! And not only that -”

While she was talking, her husband’s PA sauntered over, a vision in white linen.

“Mrs Davis,” he murmured – golly, such a treacle voice for a man! how divine!!, “Mr Davis asked me to tell you that he and I unfortunately have work to do, and will be gone for some time. He’s so sorry. He booked you a few treatments at the spa, and I’m awfully sorry I didn’t let you know earlier, because the first appointment is in five minutes. There’s a buggy waiting for you at the lobby. You should probably hurry. Have a great time!”

And with that, the delightful cloud of a man floated away on the honeyed gusts of his own voice.

What a charming chappie, I thought, and how fortuitous that:

A. D & G’s sweet husband had booked her a pile of fab treatments,

and

2.) She was gone, and I wouldn’t have to listen to her hideous whining any longer.

 

I got back to my Vogue, but promptly fell asleep. I must have been plain plum tuckered by that woman’s chi. Assaulted, I would say. I have had to do a veritable sh**load of chanting since then to cleanse myself.

Me & Malcolm X – We Both Had a Dream (I think)

Ohmygoodness, what an exciting and meaningful evening it was on Friday! True to my word, I organised a passionate feminist mission to address the Mrs Expat Singapore beauty pageant.

Will gave me a hand and was abso amazo. When we met up last week (nothing happened! just a v nice evening between friends, dear readers), he told me that his wife, Michelle, was a participant (LOLOL, she kept that one quiet!!), so he needed to wear a disguise.

Enlisting the help of Max and Milly, I produced some powerful placards – just like the suffragettes in whose footsteps I am honoured to tread – and together with Will, we made a spectacle of ourselves. We definitely put my point across!

FullSizeRender       Placard1

 We arrived at the venue entrance at 6.30 for the beginning of the event. Will disappeared suddenly, but I marched up and down with my placard as people arrived. I got moved along, to a point farther away from the entrance, but I continued to march.

Next thing I noticed was that Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey had turned up, also with a placard! What now, now?? She attempted to march alongside me, but, not wanting to be associated with her dullness, I zigzagged my way around her path, doubling back on myself where necessary.

Once everyone was inside, Will came back, still wearing his excellent disguise. He explained that he had needed to take an important work call. His dedication to his work is impressive. It reminds me of how I was, when I had a job.

Still avoiding Mrs D & G, Will and I continued to make a statement, loud and clear.

Then an official-looking chap came over and said, “Sorry, but if you persist in this behaviour, you may be fined or even arrested.”

I thought, hell no, this is far less than the suffragettes had to contend with, so while Will stalled him, I started quietly singing We Shall Not Be Moved. Fumbling through my (Chloë) bag for the roll of duct tape I’d brought along, I proceeded to tape myself to the railings of the nearest taxi stand. Once I was properly covered in tape, I let my song grow louder until I was shouting at the top of my voice.

Next, unfortunately, the official chap called for back-up, and within 30 seconds a bunch of coppas had arrived. Argh!! But I thought, if I’m going down then I’m going down in flames! So I took my top off to reveal what I had written earlier across my boobs and tum with permanent marker: SAY NO TO THE OBJECTIFICATION OF EXPAT WOMEN. Will had gone again because, as he later explained, he had another v important call.

So there I was, naked from the waist up, surrounded by coppas, and the doom and gloom expat wife woman. The oldest one told me off like I was a naughty schoolgirl, while the younger ones cut the tape, and D & G woman wrapped her beige pashmina around me. I struggled during the wrapping – get that effing bla colour off me, bitch! – but she must do more press-ups than me because she forced that thing around me until I was on the verge of suffocation.

Then Will turned up, cool as a cucumber, bless him, and while the oldest coppa was reading me my rights, he opened his wallet and started to peel off $100 notes.

“So what’s the fine, Sir?”, Will asked the coppa.

“$1,500 if she stops now, but you cannot pay in cash. Fill out this form with your payment details. I will need to see your IC”, came the reply.

So, Will gave the charming coppa what he asked for, and filled out the form. Which was sweet, I thought. I put my top back on, batting away D & G woman’s nightmarish pashmina, and asking her to please cease and desist with her interferment of my mission.

Once we were free to go, I felt totes elated with the stand we had taken. So when Will suggested a visit to the casino, I was IN!! I love a bit of roulette. I didn’t particularly want Mrs D & G to tag along, but, annoyingly, she did. Will said, “the more, the merrier”. Hmmmmmm. (Doesn’t he realise how dullsville this woman is??)

Even more annoyingly, she kept winning! Thankfully, after a few wins she cashed out, and said she had to get home. Ok then, G’BYE sweets!!

Will and I went up to the terrace at Sky on 57. He was really interested in hearing more about my blogging experiences, so I shared those with him. Nice because Don is really not interested at all, and Will was v sympathetic about that. He told me a bit more about his marriage and how awful it is. Poor guy : ( Michelle sounds like a truly awful person to have to live with, and parent with, in the long-term, as gorgeous as she is. (Seriously, she looks like Angelina, and I’m not kidding.)

When he put his arm around me, it wasn’t like he was making a pass at me. Not at all. It felt more like we had been through an intense shared experience tonight, battling together on behalf of womankind. And when he put his hand on my thigh, that was just what he felt like doing in the moment, overwhelmed perhaps by my great beauty and feminine energy. So when he kissed me, it didn’t feel out of the ordinary. I am v attractive, so I totes understand. My hair was also looking awesomeness.

All in all, a hugely successful night. I got my point across, and Will learned a lot about WordPress.

THEN, dear readers, the weirdest thing ever happened! I woke up and it seems like maybe I dreamt the whole thing!! Argh! What was super-bizarro though was that there was a fake beard duct taped between my legs. How’d that get there??

Melbourne Cup! (Australians are SUCH wannabes)

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Ok, so, I have a lot of Australian friends. Tons. And you know who you are, preeeety ladeeees! Love ya!! Amazo fun chicks. What I’m writing about today is so totes N.O.T. about you, girlies : ) Mwa-Mwa xox

What I didn’t realise from living in London is that Aussies are seriously such wannabes. In London they just all seemed super nice. Back-packery drinking types. Since joining the elite expaterati though, I have inadvertently stumbled upon a profound realisation. Basically, at the end of the day, if I’m honest, Aussies want to be real British people – well, people from the south of England, I mean – like they could’ve been, had their ancestors not made some really rubbish decisions.

What proves my point is Adelaidians. I am reliably informed that people from Adelaide are a cut above other Australians because they are descended from the only free settlers in the country. And so, people from Adelaide speak with a more plummy, more English accent (LOL, well they think they do!! I beg to differ, Your Honour!!). Now if it is generally accepted that people who are more like us Brits are superior, then we can quickly establish beyond even the faintest shadow of a doubt that therefore all Australians want to be English. Not only that, but ideally they also want to be related to the Queen. [I haven’t mentioned this, and I’m not one to boast or name-drop because I don’t need that sort of fake ego-boosting (Clara says it’s a defence, and the thing about me is, what you see is what you get, I’m totes my own person, & I don’t need to pander to the crowd), but I am related to the Royals. On my second cousin ex-husband’s side. Yes. True story.]

Anyway, so I went to the Melbourne Cup party here in Singapore a couple days ago, with all my gorgeosa Aussie girlfriends. I wanted to update you on it asap, but yesterday was just a wash-out. I had to stay in bed all day because my head was pounding. I don’t think it was the champagne or the late night. It was more the pressure of the fascinator. I had it bespoked, and it was quite heavy because of the battery pack for the flashing lights, and the wireless router so that I could display my Twitter feed via a small screen on my head. What with the weight of all that, the headband part needed to have a very tight grip on my skull to stop it falling off. Ouchey!!

Don’s bank was one of the sponsors, so he came too. He acted like it was suuuuuch a big drag for him (especially after catching the red-eye back from Cape Town the night before), but for some utterly unknowable reason he wore one of his best suits. So of course, he won the best dressed man! Meanwhile I came third for most creative hat. Is there no justice in this world??

Despite the fact that it was such a major bore for him, he looked pretty happy to be chatting up the 350 women there, many of whom were trolleyed and abso gagging for it. Hmmmmm. It was sickening how these women were coming onto him. And he was lapping it up, positively purring to himself. A revolting spectacle.

At one point during the roof bar after-party, I had to take Don aside and have some strong words with him. He feigned ignorance, as if he had zero clue that these be-hatted whores were hanging on his every word.

Not long later, he said he had to go because the travel had caught up with him. Liz left around the same time which was such a shame. I was looking forward to chatting with her about her previous work in publishing, and my promising career as an author.

Once Don was gone, I felt a bit disappointed that Will wasn’t there (work), but he would’ve hated all those women throwing themselves at him. So not his scene. Plus, Michelle disgraced herself, as per usuo, and that would have been completely upsetting for him.

Doom and gloom wife was there, wearing vomitly vile shoes, and she somehow ended up in our gang. She was talking about how terrible it was that the two horses died (ya, bloody terrible for me!! They were the only two I bet on! Wtf, horseys?!), and saying that it’s barbaric and disgusting that we were getting drunk on champagne and having a laugh, when the animals at the centre of it all were being exploited. And that 15,000 racehorses are slaughtered every year just because they’re not fast enough. And that we should all sign a pledge to stop betting on horses because we’re “betting on cruelty”.

“Oh god, here we go!”, I thought. I didn’t want that miserable woman plundering my buzz, so I told her quite plainly that exploiting, degrading, and abusing animals for pleasure is just one of those things that we humans do. We’ve always done it! Since the dawn of time!! So deal, baby. Get over it, and get over yourself!! That sorted her out. She moved to a different table, thank phewie, so that the rest of us could get back to our interesting conversations about helpers and holidays.

Doom and Gloom Expat Wifey

This morning I was at the Forum getting my nails done, and I struck up a conversation with the woman next to me. Actually, she struck up a conversation with me, to ask if she could borrow my iphone charger, but anyway. (Ahem, who goes out without a charger?!)

As it turned out, this woman was all doom and gloom about being an expat. Excuse me?! She pretentiously called herself a “reluctant expat”, saying that it was her husband’s idea and she had only agreed to come as a short-term compromise. She was saying that she finds this life un-grounding (what does that even mean?! Who cares about feeling grounded when there are all these exciting new places to go and people to meet?), and not only that, but that she thinks it isn’t the healthiest way for children to grow up. Bizarre. Why would anyone not want their housing paid for, as well as the private schooling for the kids (which would cost an abso bomb at home), and to be able to dash off to Bali at the drop of a hat?? She said they’re not on that kind of package though, and that lots of people aren’t these days. Argh! What a miserable woman, I thought, and I was totes relieved when her nails were dry, her Havaianas back on, and she left.

After that, I had pilates, and then I met up with Michelle for lunch. I love her! She is a major LOLs lady. Champagne and oysters : ) Now there’s a woman who knows how to have fun (and without too many calories). Next we went to a friend’s photography exhibition, and for cocktails with some other ladies, and for dinner and drinks at Marina Bay. Thank goodness we have a helper to put the kids to bed! I can barely type, I’m so tired now. I think I might have to cancel my meditation session in the morning. I am extremely dedicated to my meditation practice (I’ve been doing it for years, and I’m also a committed yogi), but it does get kind of samey.

Some great tunes tonight at the bar in Marina Bay. I’m thinking of adding a new page to this blog: DJ EJ. Likee : ) You can really get to know a person from their musical preferences. Maybe I’ll do that tomoz instead of going to meditation. Just skip it this once.