I am Alive! Barely.

Well that three weeks went quickly, no?  There’s been much toing and froing, almost entirely in the bottom-sagging comfort of the air-conditioned car, because it is now too hot to go outdoors, and certainly too hot to actually move around outdoors.  Everyone is sweaty and tetchy, and gagging for a Summer’s day in Ireland.  Which, assuming the visa process  - (happening as we speak, in the Spanish embassy, somewhat randomly; frankly, I can’t imagine two cultures more wholly juxtaposed than the Singaporean and the Spanish.) -   is successful, will be underway in just over two weeks.

In the meantime, highlights (a very generous description) from the past few weeks as follows:

Some good intentions on my part, mostly unattainable, including the virtually impossible Never Raise My Voice To The Children Ever Again. This is going splendidly, as you can imagine.  (Actually, I am mildly impressed at myself – only once today, and once yesterday - but am also somewhat concerned about the emotional impact all this retention of negativity is having on me.  Bed-time (theirs) comes and I want to MURDER someone, but I have desisted (so far) which is good, because infanticide is probably a bit worse than shouty-face.  So instead I sit and neck alcohol in a manner that can only be described as devoted, committed and murderous.)

In another vain attempt to better myself, I’ve also been trying to practice mindfulness once a day for a few minutes.  I had to do a bit of research about it for a work thing, and it’s basically Meditation-Lite.  I amuse myself by seeing the most ridiculous situations I can do it in (eg, hurtling around the supermarket - feel the trolley handle under your hands!  Hear the squeak of the wheels! Hear the shriek AND feel the thud of the tiny man you just knocked over etc.)

Speaking of the supermarket, ENORMOUS excitement at my regular Pit of Grocery Hell this week when I discovered a shelf laiden with Tesco goods!  This apparently was the English section of the International fare. Sadly, I was too overwhelmed by misguided love for all things Tesco Basic to think to take a photo.  I will say this however – whoever is responsible for the ordering needs to stop drinking on the job and put away the cocaine.  Otherwise people are going to think that English people subsist on a diet of lite-chocolate sauce, custard creams, (own-brand) coco pops, strawberry jam, salad cream, and mint sauce.  (Despite this, the aisle was packed with a throng of English women squawking in glee and fanning their faces with their hands in deep excitement.  This should give you some idea of just how unappealing your average Singapore supermarket is.)

My phone remains unfixed, my fingers shredded.  I’ve sort of gotten used to it now, and it’s no longer on top of my Things To Do Urgently list.  You’d think that the nick I got from it on my ear the other day while making a phone call would have hastened its repair, but no. Which means, of course, it will only get done once my ear starts to bleed into the phone and renders the screen totally, as opposed to only partially, unreadable.

The Baby has a new phrase.  SHUT UP MUMMY!  It’s lovely.  Especially when paired with “I WASN’T TALKING TO YOU.”

A few moments of parenting pleasure watching the Boy as he watched Raiders of the Lost Ark on Sunday afternoon – the scene when Indy is getting a thrashing from the burly bald guy who’s about to have his head minced by a propeller. (Ideal viewing for a 6, 4 and 2 year old).  “Get him.  GET HIM!  Go on.  Pow!  POW!  Smash him. SMASH!  Blood.  BLOOD!  Bloodbloodblood.  YES!”  Disturbing and hilarious in equal measure.

I’m sure there was more to the past three weeks, but the heat has melted my brain. 

Coming up: I go to open a local bank account and storm out of THREE banks in a fog of teeth-grinding fury; I try to bake a birthday cake for the Girl’s pre-birthday party (don’t ask), worthy of a fairy princess, but die from heat exhaustion and complications arising from melted icing;  I fail to get all the class-contributions from the Boy’s class-mates’ parents, and realise I have approximately 6 pence to spend on two teachers’ gifts; and I try and fail to find a dermatologist who can tell something about the brown patches spontaneously (and I mean really spontaneously – as in: not there at 9.05am and there at 9.10am) on my skin, other than “oh they might clear up in a few weeks, we can’t be sure.” 

That'll be worth waiting three weeks for, no?