My workplace is situated in the Indian Quarter of Purgatory. I like it, as it is not tourist-oriented like the Chinese Quarter or, to a lesser extent, the Arabic Quarter, and because unlike the rest of this faceless "could-be-anywhere-in-the-world" city it just seems real. And it seems properly Asian too. From he moment you walk out of the train station the sights, smells and sounds hit you - the chaos of the streets in this part of town where no-one observes jay-walking laws and bikes happily trundle against the supposed one-way flow of traffic; the heady mix of aromas from the fruit and veg stalls, the spice shops, the curry houses and the incense; the noise of people, of traffic and of exoctic, mystical sounding music wafting above it all. Something about this area makes me feel quite alive!
Unfortunately not everyone feels this way. A large section of the majority Chinese population, alongside a fair few western ex-pats, view the Indian Quarter with suspicion and occasionally outright disdain. "Not safe", they will say, "Too much crime", "Too much drunken behaviour", "Unclean". And to an extent they are not incorrect... it's just that, in their stereotyping, they are not really correct either.
Crime - it does happen in purgatory, despite the reputation the city has for being largely free of such a blight. I have found it to be more opportunistic crime than outright - you leave your wallet alone for two minutes and it will disappear, but you're not likely to be mugged for it. But I have seen no more evidence of this in the Indian Quarter than I have anywhere else.
Drunken behaviour - well, the Indians can claim to take their place alongside the Scots and the Irish when it comes to drinking a lot and, yes, some of them go too far. I have seen a couple of fights break out outside bars but then I have seen that in the posher areas of the city too.
Cleanliness - at night when leaflets are being distributed and discarded and when bits of fruit and veg are being scattered in the streets, yes it does look unclean. But around 4am an army of cleaners are passing through the streets making sure that the new day will have a fresh, clean start.
But then there is one other thing that puts people off, women in particular. That is the stares they get from the men. Women I know get particularly uncomfortable on a Sunday, the day when the immigrant labour force from India, Bangladesh and other countries get their one day off and descend on the area to meet their friends and families and to socialise. The thing is, a lot of these guys are from countries where women dress a little more conservatively than many women (especially Chinese and western women) in Singapore and as a result they are not used to seeing cleavage (both breast and buttock) on such prominent display. I am not saying that their staring is not impolite but when you are brought up in a country where there isn't really much to stare at then how are you going to learn that it is not polite?
There are reports of women being groped as well, a crime here known as "Offence of Modesty" and punishable by fines or jail time. I have only ever seen this once and that was actually perpetrated by an elderly Chinese man, but I have had friends tell me their stories. One in particular, an Indian woman herself, has told me she will not be coming to my bar again as the last time she was there she got hassled afterwards whilst trying to get a cab. All of which is understandable but still a real shame... because it creates this image of the Indian Quarter as the place where these things happen, the place that should be avoided. The truth is, however, that it is not that much different from elsewhere in town.
Towards the back end of last year I was performing with my band in The Scottish Bar, located in the midst of an "entertainment zone" at the riverside. This is not a cheap place to go out and, as such, a disproportionate percentage of it's patrons are ex-pats, although two bars along the same stretch are targeted to the Indian and Chinese communities and their clientele is representative of this. This particular evening a close Indian friend of mine came down to watch us perform. It was not the first time she had been down but, with her housemate away and her sister ill, it was her first time alone. She found a free table, ordered a drink, and settled down to listen... at which point a slightly intoxicated caucasian guy ambled up, plonked his drink on the same table, and propped himself up next to her.
Now, this is a busy bar with few tables, so when someone has a whole table to themselves it is not unusual for them to be asked if they would mind sharing. This guy didn't ask... ok, my friend could live with that. But then he tried to strike up a conversation with her. Personally, I'm quite a shy guy, unless I've got a couple of drinks inside me, so I know how hard it can be to try and start up a conversation with a woman, and I do think women need to be a little more forgiving when a man tries to talk to them, even if they don't like the guy. They should be flattered, for a start, and if they are not interested they can politely send the guy away. Which is what my friend tried to do... but guys, once you get that brush off you should smile politely and say goodbye. This is not the movies, your persistence is not charming.
This guy does not get that, so he tries some chatter. She gives one word answers and eventually just ignores him. I can see her from the stage getting pissed off. Then he leaves, only to return two minutes later with a drink which he shoves in front of her without saying a thing. She tries to decline but eventually finds it easier to just accept it. And so he tries talking some more, to which she tries to be polite out of some gratitude for a drink that she neither wanted nor asked for, but it's taking its toll on her and I can see her getting exasperated. Then comes the hand on the shoulder, which she brushes off... but it doesn't take long then to find its way to the small of her back. She is now physically squirming in her seat... I look at the bar staff and see they have noticed but have not got a clue what to do. I try to catch the managers eye and beckon him to the stage, but he is engrossed in conversation elsewhere. I look back across and even from a distance I can see that she is now completely tense and she is practically begging him to leave... I later learn that she had even gone down the road of pointing at me and saying "that's my boyfriend", to no avail. We have played three and a half songs since he arrived, that's a good fifteen minutes of harrassment, and I cannot stand here and watch my friend being treated this way, so when the song ends we announce the end of the set (a song early) and I march through the crowd straight to where they are.
I am not a violent person. I have never thrown a serious punch in my life and I have always resolved my conflicts through words. But at this point I am so furious I can feel myself shaking... I know I won't hit him, that's not me, but I don't really know what I am going to do until I get there and grab his shirt, pull him towards me, and say "If you touch my friend one more time I'll break your fucking neck". Extreme, I know, and most unlike me...
He holds up his hands in inocent shock - "I didn't realise she was yours" he splutters. "She's not", I reply, unaware of her earlier claims. "She's my friend. But that's not the point. She made it more than clear she wanted you to leave her alone."
The manager came over and removed him from the area. If that had happened in my bar he would have been thrown out but this guy was with a large group of friends who were spending money. Typical. But that is not my point...
The workers in the Indian Quarter stare - a lot - and I have heard of them standing too close to women on escalators, or their hands "accidentally" brushing past, all of which are doubtless disconcerting and I am always hearing from ex-pat women how scary it is that they might get "harrassed" by one of the "natives". But the aggressive pursuit I saw that night at the riverside is, I believe, much worse - especially as there are more than a few well-paid ex-pats out here who have the mentality that they can just click their fingers and get any Asian girl they want.
Incidents like this can happen anywhere. They shouldn't, but they do, and I cannot and will not force anyone to come to the Indian Quarter or the riverside if they really don't want to. I just wish people wouldn't blindly stigmatise a vibrant area that has a lot going for it...
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, December 31, 2007
Fresh Starts...
A Happy Hogmanay and New Year to one and all... May 2008 bring us all health and happiness.
With Love,
OS
With Love,
OS
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Another day for Yule and me in Purgatory...
Just about recovered now from another typical Christmas day...
8.30am - wake up after two hours sleep, having been dancing (read: drunkenly lurching) in a little back-street Indian club throughout the night. I've been there a few times, showing some of our visitors the other side of Purgatory, and the boss there loves it when I show up. So do most of the crowd, especially when the DJ takes the piss and throws on "Play that funky music white boy" as one of my barely upright members of staff attempts to mimic very Indian dance moves.
9am - set up breakfast for those of our visitors who can make it downstairs. Very few do. Bossman and I raid the alcohol store for booze to take to his barbecue later on. We have gentle choir-sung Christmas carols playing, in contrast to the red hot sun outside and the Indian community of this area of town going about their usual business.
10am - take my favourite shoes to be fixed by a little Chinese chappie who sets up a stall outside the local wet-market. I casually wonder if he gets the leather for his repairs from the same place as the stalls inside get the meat that they sell. It would, after all, make sense. Then I head back, take a shower, and change into less sweaty clothes.
11am - speak to brother, sister and cousin, all currently in Oz. Quite possibly the first time sis and I have spoken since last Christmas. But that's for another post... she seems jovial, pleased to talk to me even. Bro and cuz sound slightly drunk already. Kind of runs in the family, I think to myself as I sip on the first vodka of the day.
Noon - Bossman and I escort some of our visitors to the wet market. He has invited those that wish to join us and the staff at his place for the barbecue, which is a nice gesture. At the wet market we pick up huge amounts of rump steak for the equivalent of 5 pounds sterling for a kilo. It's good meat too... I collect my shoes and the heavens finally open. It is the rainy season here after all. Bossman and I leave the visitors there and brave the weather to get his van, drive back to pick the visitors up, and head north. Lack of room results in one of the female visitors sitting on my lap in the front - I don't know which of us is more embarrassed by Bossmans suggestive comments.
1pm - we have arrived and set up everything. Bossman gives out instructions to everyone that give away his old-fashioned world-views - lads stocking the beers and sorting the barbecue, lasses making the salads. I end up doing the salad anyway, which is fine by me. We crack open some cans and sit back in the sunshine - the rain has kindly avoided this end of Purgatory. The atmosphere is relaxed and peaceful, one of the few residential areas that has a rural feel. It's nice to be out of the city.
2pm 'til 7pm - steak, beer, vodka... repeat ad infinitum. I speak to Ma and assorted other family members in the UK, although the line is bad and we don't really understand each other. The lads work up their appetite some more by kicking about a football (Australian variety, not UK or US). The Aussies are all about a head taller than me so I rarely get the ball, but when I do they are impressed with my kick. I learn quickly that as long as you keep your eye on the ball you can do just about anything to your opponent and I make my presence felt... Eventually I shower and change into another set of clothes, noting that the sun had indeed been strong and I now have very prominent tan-lines around where my wife-beater vest-top had been. Now in my smart jeans, favourite shoes, nice shirt and new cufflinks (a Christmas pressie - they had belonged to my Grandfather) I head back into the city with one of our staff, Junior.
7pm 'til 11pm - plastic Irish pub (same one as last year) to meet Cocoa, his sister Emerald and their mum. Cocoa is shit-faced and has had an argument with his girlfriend Kitty and Emerald and their mum are heading off for food, leaving him in our care. I don't much like this bar, but we bump into a few friends and it's generally a good time, although Cocoa is behaving like a twat. Eventually I get fed up and Junior and I head to the sleazy building next door - it's full of hookers but I know of the one bar where they are not allowed to solicit and it's actually a nice, relaxed and pleasant atmosphere. We intend to go home after one (it's been a long day) but I get a message from Crewcut, one of our other staff members, telling me he has sent the visitors down to meet us... Crewcut has an obsession with this building. It's going to be one of those nights.
11pm 'til 2am - We meet the visitors. Junior sensibly disappears, leaving me with a group that includes a couple of fresh-faced young girls who have no idea what this place holds. The non-hooker bar has now closed so, at the insistence of one of the male visitore, we head to one of the other bars. This one happens to be full of transsexual prostitutes. To their credit the girls find this quite amusing. One of the lads looks visibly terrified, but the others take it in their stride. One even buys one of the hookers a drink - a bad idea as she now thinks she's on to a score. The girls ask me if they are the only 'real' women in there, to which I point out a table across from us. How do I know they are women, I am asked. 3 reasons: They do not have perfect bodies, so they have therefore not paid for them; They are wearing baggy clothing, not designed to show off their figures; They are with some lads who are probably their boyfriends or husbands and they are very obviously pissed off at being in a bar filled with men who have better figures than they do. Eventually we move next door to a bar where the women are women, even if they are still hookers. At least this bar has a decent band.
2am - I am tired and not really in the mood for this place. Thankfully Crewcut has now arrived. It's his bed, so he can do whatever he wants in it.... I'm heading off to sleep. As I leave a building notorious for it's ladies-of-pleasure a shifty Chinese guy sidles up to me - "You wanna girl?" he says. I raise my voice, loudly pointing out that if I wanted a girl wouldn't I be leaving with one already, telling him I should get the cops, demanding why he should assume that I am after a girl. Is it cos I is white? He shifts off sharpish and I get a little round of applause from some drunk girls across the street. I feel no guilt at having publicly berated this man. When someone stands outside a four-storey self-contained red-light district offering girls you know that the operative word really is "girl". If they ain't inside the building it's because they ain't old enough to be. And regardless of opinions of prostitution in general (a grey area, in my opinion) what this guy was doing disgusts me.
Christmas in Purgatory. It's not greetings-card perfect but I think that's why I like it. No bullshit saccharine - you can have a nice time with your friends but it's still real. And the next day? It's just another working day...
8.30am - wake up after two hours sleep, having been dancing (read: drunkenly lurching) in a little back-street Indian club throughout the night. I've been there a few times, showing some of our visitors the other side of Purgatory, and the boss there loves it when I show up. So do most of the crowd, especially when the DJ takes the piss and throws on "Play that funky music white boy" as one of my barely upright members of staff attempts to mimic very Indian dance moves.
9am - set up breakfast for those of our visitors who can make it downstairs. Very few do. Bossman and I raid the alcohol store for booze to take to his barbecue later on. We have gentle choir-sung Christmas carols playing, in contrast to the red hot sun outside and the Indian community of this area of town going about their usual business.
10am - take my favourite shoes to be fixed by a little Chinese chappie who sets up a stall outside the local wet-market. I casually wonder if he gets the leather for his repairs from the same place as the stalls inside get the meat that they sell. It would, after all, make sense. Then I head back, take a shower, and change into less sweaty clothes.
11am - speak to brother, sister and cousin, all currently in Oz. Quite possibly the first time sis and I have spoken since last Christmas. But that's for another post... she seems jovial, pleased to talk to me even. Bro and cuz sound slightly drunk already. Kind of runs in the family, I think to myself as I sip on the first vodka of the day.
Noon - Bossman and I escort some of our visitors to the wet market. He has invited those that wish to join us and the staff at his place for the barbecue, which is a nice gesture. At the wet market we pick up huge amounts of rump steak for the equivalent of 5 pounds sterling for a kilo. It's good meat too... I collect my shoes and the heavens finally open. It is the rainy season here after all. Bossman and I leave the visitors there and brave the weather to get his van, drive back to pick the visitors up, and head north. Lack of room results in one of the female visitors sitting on my lap in the front - I don't know which of us is more embarrassed by Bossmans suggestive comments.
1pm - we have arrived and set up everything. Bossman gives out instructions to everyone that give away his old-fashioned world-views - lads stocking the beers and sorting the barbecue, lasses making the salads. I end up doing the salad anyway, which is fine by me. We crack open some cans and sit back in the sunshine - the rain has kindly avoided this end of Purgatory. The atmosphere is relaxed and peaceful, one of the few residential areas that has a rural feel. It's nice to be out of the city.
2pm 'til 7pm - steak, beer, vodka... repeat ad infinitum. I speak to Ma and assorted other family members in the UK, although the line is bad and we don't really understand each other. The lads work up their appetite some more by kicking about a football (Australian variety, not UK or US). The Aussies are all about a head taller than me so I rarely get the ball, but when I do they are impressed with my kick. I learn quickly that as long as you keep your eye on the ball you can do just about anything to your opponent and I make my presence felt... Eventually I shower and change into another set of clothes, noting that the sun had indeed been strong and I now have very prominent tan-lines around where my wife-beater vest-top had been. Now in my smart jeans, favourite shoes, nice shirt and new cufflinks (a Christmas pressie - they had belonged to my Grandfather) I head back into the city with one of our staff, Junior.
7pm 'til 11pm - plastic Irish pub (same one as last year) to meet Cocoa, his sister Emerald and their mum. Cocoa is shit-faced and has had an argument with his girlfriend Kitty and Emerald and their mum are heading off for food, leaving him in our care. I don't much like this bar, but we bump into a few friends and it's generally a good time, although Cocoa is behaving like a twat. Eventually I get fed up and Junior and I head to the sleazy building next door - it's full of hookers but I know of the one bar where they are not allowed to solicit and it's actually a nice, relaxed and pleasant atmosphere. We intend to go home after one (it's been a long day) but I get a message from Crewcut, one of our other staff members, telling me he has sent the visitors down to meet us... Crewcut has an obsession with this building. It's going to be one of those nights.
11pm 'til 2am - We meet the visitors. Junior sensibly disappears, leaving me with a group that includes a couple of fresh-faced young girls who have no idea what this place holds. The non-hooker bar has now closed so, at the insistence of one of the male visitore, we head to one of the other bars. This one happens to be full of transsexual prostitutes. To their credit the girls find this quite amusing. One of the lads looks visibly terrified, but the others take it in their stride. One even buys one of the hookers a drink - a bad idea as she now thinks she's on to a score. The girls ask me if they are the only 'real' women in there, to which I point out a table across from us. How do I know they are women, I am asked. 3 reasons: They do not have perfect bodies, so they have therefore not paid for them; They are wearing baggy clothing, not designed to show off their figures; They are with some lads who are probably their boyfriends or husbands and they are very obviously pissed off at being in a bar filled with men who have better figures than they do. Eventually we move next door to a bar where the women are women, even if they are still hookers. At least this bar has a decent band.
2am - I am tired and not really in the mood for this place. Thankfully Crewcut has now arrived. It's his bed, so he can do whatever he wants in it.... I'm heading off to sleep. As I leave a building notorious for it's ladies-of-pleasure a shifty Chinese guy sidles up to me - "You wanna girl?" he says. I raise my voice, loudly pointing out that if I wanted a girl wouldn't I be leaving with one already, telling him I should get the cops, demanding why he should assume that I am after a girl. Is it cos I is white? He shifts off sharpish and I get a little round of applause from some drunk girls across the street. I feel no guilt at having publicly berated this man. When someone stands outside a four-storey self-contained red-light district offering girls you know that the operative word really is "girl". If they ain't inside the building it's because they ain't old enough to be. And regardless of opinions of prostitution in general (a grey area, in my opinion) what this guy was doing disgusts me.
Christmas in Purgatory. It's not greetings-card perfect but I think that's why I like it. No bullshit saccharine - you can have a nice time with your friends but it's still real. And the next day? It's just another working day...
Monday, December 24, 2007
Lies, Damn Lies, and Christmas.
I lied to my mother the other day, probably for the first time in 15 or so years. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some kind of open book to be read, every detail of my life pouring forth. I have been selective with the things I have chosen to share with her and have even gone as far as to gently tell her that I won't discuss or divulge certain things with her when she has asked. But to tell an outright lie? Okay, so it was hardly the biggest of untruths, trivial one might even say, and it was done out of kindness - a little white lie that she will never discover and will have given her one tiny piece of happiness. I told her I had put my presents under my "Christmas tree".
My choice of punctuation here is defined by the fact that what I actually have does not really count as a real Christmas tree, in my book at least. It is, in fact, two pieces of green, red and gold painted wood that have been fashioned in such a way that, when slotted together, they form a standard Christmas tree shape, roughly 18 inch tall. Ma bought it for me when she was over for the holidays last year to make my flat seem more Christmassy... wait, that's not exactly correct. I should say that Ma tried to buy one for me whilst we were out, but I told her that I neither needed or wanted one. I then discovered two days later that despite being together practically 24/7 she had somehow managed to sneak out, buy one and smuggle it back in, erecting it in a place where it would be visible yet not immediately obvious, thus ensuring that it's presence would gradually dawn on me rather that hit me full on. I tell you, despite her pleasant, friendly exterior she's a devious one!
It may by now be apparent that I am not what one would describe as a "Festive" individual. I have no love of greetings-card occasions and even my own birthday is little more than another night out, albeit one where other people pay for most of the drinks. But Christmas holds a special place in my apathy gland, with its incoherent mix of Christianity, commercialism and, latterly, political-correctness. Here in Purgatory the situation is compounded by the two entire months of decorations and Christmas songs prior to the day itself and the fact that, in such a tropical climate, it simply doesn't feel like Christmas anyway. Add that to the fact that this is a multi-cultural multi-faith society with religious and ethnic holidays dotted all over the year and enough non-Christian staff to keep most of the shops open on December 25th anyway and it just becomes, for me, a day off work (although as I will be at the bosses house for dinner this year we will probably end up talking shop anyway... whatchagonnado, eh?).
Ma, bless her, has an enthusiasm that borders on being child-like. I have not lived at her home for well over a decade, yet she still sends me a stocking filled with mini-presents every year, just like the ones I used to get from Santa. It's usually all completely useless crap that clutters my place up, but I know it's the thought that counts. She has always been aware of my adult lack of enthusiasm yet is unflinching in her efforts to inject me with at least a little seasonal cheer - and so my Christmasses had become a cliched BBC sitcom with me the miserable Scrooge-type being badgered into having "fun" to discover the true meaning of it all. Which I always coped with admirably by buggering off to the pub, something easy to do back home where she could always move on to the next friend or family member.
This time last year Ma was seriously grating on me. She was halfway through a fortnight visit during rainy season and we had been largely cooped up together in my flat or in small bars and cafes. As the only person she knew here buggering off to the pub simply wasn't an option - and now she had bought me a crappy wooden fucking Christmas tree. I may not have hidden my contempt as well as I could have, for her usual cheeriness was still evident yet muted and almost apologetic. I was just looking to get through that day, waiting for Christmas morning to arrive, not so I could open presents but so I could drag Ma down to the hotel where we would be lunching with my friend Cocoa, whose mum was also over visiting - I knew that, with there being eight of us, I would at least get some other conversation and would be able to pawn her off on the others from time to time. Yes, I am a bastard sometimes. Aren't we all?
The 25th dawned, we exchanged presents (hers to me - a beautiful miniature Mah Jong she had remembered me saying I would one day buy; mine to her - something so thoughtless that I cannot even remember), got dressed and made our way to meet the others. Lunch was a free-flow booze event, which meant little to my moderate Ma but suited myself and the others down to the ground, and by 3pm we were, to be frank, not far from shit-faced. Ma was enjoying herself, though - I perhaps hadn't realised that she had maybe also been finding it hard work with only me for company. The free-flow ended and we headed off to the plastic Irish pub down the road, meeting some other friends along the way, and proceeded to get steadily unintelligible. Once or twice Ma suggested that we head home, but one or other of us always managed to persuade her to stay for "one more". All seemed well...
About 8pm Ma and I stepped outside to call the family in the UK. For me it was just one of those obligations I had, and the alcohol ensured I got through it breezily, asking each person what they got, thanking them for what I got, telling everyone what the temperature was here - to be honest I may as well have used an automated recording of my voice. Ma, on the other hand, was asking them to go into details about what they had done that morning, what they would do later... and as she spoke I saw tears welling up in her eyes, and it began to dawn on me.
When she finished on the 'phone I asked if she was okay. She immediately burst into tears. In my apathy, my selfish indifference to Christmas, I had failed to realise just what she had given up to spend just a little time with her son. She had tried so hard to do it my way, to not put me out, but she was missing her own mother, her brother and sister, her other son and daughter. She was missing sitting around a tree opening the presents, going for a walk in the bracing air, going to the Christmas church service, playing board games in the evening by a roaring log fire. She was in an alien country with people she had only known a few days and I, her only link to those things she was missing, had become one of the aliens.
We went home shortly after. Over the next few days the rain eased up and we managed to see a few sights, visit a few places. She still got on my nerves - I don't think you can ever do anything about something like that - but I made sure it didn't show.
I haven't put up the tree this year. It's not really my thing and, to be honest, I am working so much I have barely spent five minutes in my flat and it's currently an absolute mess. I haven't even taken the presents that my family sent me out of the box they were posted in. You see, I didn't go through that BBC sitcom epiphany that should have left me the jolliest man on the block after last year. In fact my outlook didn't change at all. Except in one crucial way...
I lied to my mother the other day. It was probably the best Christmas present I could give her.
My choice of punctuation here is defined by the fact that what I actually have does not really count as a real Christmas tree, in my book at least. It is, in fact, two pieces of green, red and gold painted wood that have been fashioned in such a way that, when slotted together, they form a standard Christmas tree shape, roughly 18 inch tall. Ma bought it for me when she was over for the holidays last year to make my flat seem more Christmassy... wait, that's not exactly correct. I should say that Ma tried to buy one for me whilst we were out, but I told her that I neither needed or wanted one. I then discovered two days later that despite being together practically 24/7 she had somehow managed to sneak out, buy one and smuggle it back in, erecting it in a place where it would be visible yet not immediately obvious, thus ensuring that it's presence would gradually dawn on me rather that hit me full on. I tell you, despite her pleasant, friendly exterior she's a devious one!
It may by now be apparent that I am not what one would describe as a "Festive" individual. I have no love of greetings-card occasions and even my own birthday is little more than another night out, albeit one where other people pay for most of the drinks. But Christmas holds a special place in my apathy gland, with its incoherent mix of Christianity, commercialism and, latterly, political-correctness. Here in Purgatory the situation is compounded by the two entire months of decorations and Christmas songs prior to the day itself and the fact that, in such a tropical climate, it simply doesn't feel like Christmas anyway. Add that to the fact that this is a multi-cultural multi-faith society with religious and ethnic holidays dotted all over the year and enough non-Christian staff to keep most of the shops open on December 25th anyway and it just becomes, for me, a day off work (although as I will be at the bosses house for dinner this year we will probably end up talking shop anyway... whatchagonnado, eh?).
Ma, bless her, has an enthusiasm that borders on being child-like. I have not lived at her home for well over a decade, yet she still sends me a stocking filled with mini-presents every year, just like the ones I used to get from Santa. It's usually all completely useless crap that clutters my place up, but I know it's the thought that counts. She has always been aware of my adult lack of enthusiasm yet is unflinching in her efforts to inject me with at least a little seasonal cheer - and so my Christmasses had become a cliched BBC sitcom with me the miserable Scrooge-type being badgered into having "fun" to discover the true meaning of it all. Which I always coped with admirably by buggering off to the pub, something easy to do back home where she could always move on to the next friend or family member.
This time last year Ma was seriously grating on me. She was halfway through a fortnight visit during rainy season and we had been largely cooped up together in my flat or in small bars and cafes. As the only person she knew here buggering off to the pub simply wasn't an option - and now she had bought me a crappy wooden fucking Christmas tree. I may not have hidden my contempt as well as I could have, for her usual cheeriness was still evident yet muted and almost apologetic. I was just looking to get through that day, waiting for Christmas morning to arrive, not so I could open presents but so I could drag Ma down to the hotel where we would be lunching with my friend Cocoa, whose mum was also over visiting - I knew that, with there being eight of us, I would at least get some other conversation and would be able to pawn her off on the others from time to time. Yes, I am a bastard sometimes. Aren't we all?
The 25th dawned, we exchanged presents (hers to me - a beautiful miniature Mah Jong she had remembered me saying I would one day buy; mine to her - something so thoughtless that I cannot even remember), got dressed and made our way to meet the others. Lunch was a free-flow booze event, which meant little to my moderate Ma but suited myself and the others down to the ground, and by 3pm we were, to be frank, not far from shit-faced. Ma was enjoying herself, though - I perhaps hadn't realised that she had maybe also been finding it hard work with only me for company. The free-flow ended and we headed off to the plastic Irish pub down the road, meeting some other friends along the way, and proceeded to get steadily unintelligible. Once or twice Ma suggested that we head home, but one or other of us always managed to persuade her to stay for "one more". All seemed well...
About 8pm Ma and I stepped outside to call the family in the UK. For me it was just one of those obligations I had, and the alcohol ensured I got through it breezily, asking each person what they got, thanking them for what I got, telling everyone what the temperature was here - to be honest I may as well have used an automated recording of my voice. Ma, on the other hand, was asking them to go into details about what they had done that morning, what they would do later... and as she spoke I saw tears welling up in her eyes, and it began to dawn on me.
When she finished on the 'phone I asked if she was okay. She immediately burst into tears. In my apathy, my selfish indifference to Christmas, I had failed to realise just what she had given up to spend just a little time with her son. She had tried so hard to do it my way, to not put me out, but she was missing her own mother, her brother and sister, her other son and daughter. She was missing sitting around a tree opening the presents, going for a walk in the bracing air, going to the Christmas church service, playing board games in the evening by a roaring log fire. She was in an alien country with people she had only known a few days and I, her only link to those things she was missing, had become one of the aliens.
We went home shortly after. Over the next few days the rain eased up and we managed to see a few sights, visit a few places. She still got on my nerves - I don't think you can ever do anything about something like that - but I made sure it didn't show.
I haven't put up the tree this year. It's not really my thing and, to be honest, I am working so much I have barely spent five minutes in my flat and it's currently an absolute mess. I haven't even taken the presents that my family sent me out of the box they were posted in. You see, I didn't go through that BBC sitcom epiphany that should have left me the jolliest man on the block after last year. In fact my outlook didn't change at all. Except in one crucial way...
I lied to my mother the other day. It was probably the best Christmas present I could give her.
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