Organic-Ally

This time of year, every year, I dread having to do my accounts for tax purposes. I am fairly numerate, but when it comes to accounting, I wallow in the abyss between the debits and credits. My dear husband, trained in accounting, thankfully tolerates sitting down with me to sort out the numbers. Always we row over my poor book-keeping(??), my lack of analysis, and ... O dear! So last year, for Christmas, I was given Book-keeping for Dummies which I attempted to read, and even did exercises, etc. Last Saturday we sat down to do the accounts. I had made a start on the Trial Balance and the numbers on various bank accounts were adding up properly, etc. But still I managed to put some DRs and CRs in the wrong columns -- which he spotted, and I failed to find a record of my last payment to the accountant (!). But, BUT, we managed to balance the account without getting too cross with each other. Whew! Profit/Loss? Apparently I made a tiny, teeny profit, not enough to buy a half-decent han

(A shorter, less controversial version of this was published in the Straits Times online section on 11th October. I had assumed that the Editor was not going to run it. Apologies for the overlaps.) The English-Singlish debate has thrown up a vociferous group defending the use of Singlish, largely because they see Singlish as being tied up with a Singapore identity. (I tried to explain how being a good Singaporean should not preclude us from learning to speak good English in a letter to the press .) This group seems to be made up of people who are able to speak (or at least write) excellent English when they choose to. There is a deafening silence, at least in the English cyber-media (and understandably so), from the Singlish-speaking group who could most benefit from learning to speak good English. If I were a Marxian sociologist (not the same as being a Marxist, nota bene ) I would say that this ‘good English’ group own the “means of production” and the ‘Singlish’ group do not. In or

Some of you might recognize that this is the title of a 'classic' by Paul Willis. It tells how working class boys learn to become working class and take on working class jobs. We recently had a downstairs toilet refitted to make it easier for our aged visitors. It was put in single-handedly by a young man of 30 (30 is young to me now!) who originally came from Bosnia. Us here in the UK are very familiar with the tea-drinking antics of workmen. A point not lost on the author of the The Yellow Tractor , for example. But I was quite taken aback by how hard this young man worked. He was always on time. He never asked for tea or coffee unless I offered. I didn't even see him taking lunch (although I'd seen him drinking Red Bull twice). He cleaned up every day after he had finished. He was meticulous. If something didn't go as planned (like finding a loose floorboard) he would check with me, suggested solutions, waited for approval and then acted on it. He did not even tu

Recently I sent this letter to the Straits Times : To be or to be – what is the question hah? “Should Singaporeans speak a standard English or Singlish?” is the wrong question. We need to “ go stun ” (back up a little) to ask whether Singaporeans need, or wish, to speak and write a language – any language – fluently enough to hold a sustained, logical and sometimes protracted discussion. Then only do we know how/which to choose. Many have observed that code-switching within a sentence (English, Mandarin, Singlish) is a common phenomenon in Singapore. My Sociology professor reasoned, “But you can’t translate the concept ‘ pek-chek ’, can you?” No, I can’t. I cannot even spell it. This difficulty in writing down the language is an intrinsic part of the problem. We borrow words like “ anomie ” and “ Weltanschauung ” in Sociology because there are no accurate English equivalents. Similarly, when discussing localisms the use of a Singlish term may be appropriate. However a lot of conversati

This election has been so lacking in ideology. Max Hastings calls this the "ostrich election" as politicians and voters alike bury their heads in sand and hope that the real problems we face would just go away. It is like a toddler putting his little hands on his eyes and saying, "You can't see me now." Then toddlers grow up and realize, hey, other people can still see them even when they covered their eyes. So, too, we must grow up. None of the major parties seem to have any undergirding ideology in the recent years. There is no real 'vision' for this society. Everywhere there is just a bit of tinkering here, a bit of polyfiller there. Meanwhile the voters want lower taxes, higher benefits, higher pensions, better schools, better health care, better transport, but how do we pay for that? Many taxpayers (of which I'm one, just as women, of which I'm one) do not mind paying taxes to help those most in need. We don't even mind helping those wh

I am often not sure whether to worry about climate change given all the conflicting evidence, lobbying and mud-slinging. (See earlier post.) But I believe that doing something positive for the earth, to preserve its fertility cannot be bad. After all, the earth "belongs to the Lord". As my son once said when he was six: "There is no right in doing wrong and there is no wrong in doing right." So these two Telegraph articles are interesting: Britain facing food crisis as world's soil 'vanishes in 60 years' and Spend more on food rather than holidays, says organic lobby . When it's gone, it's gone. No soil to farm with. No water to irrigate. No food is to be grown. What good is the ability to buy cheap clothes when you cannot farm food to eat? Can you eat your cheap clothes? We are looking forward to our "holiday" (aka visit to my home country) which we try to do once in two years. My son knows no other "foreign holidays" apar

Chatting with husband at lunch (still recovering ever so slowly from pneumonia) it transpired that our son had been smacked not once -- as I thought -- but twice. Husband recounted how he had to smack son when he was much younger after doing exactly what he had been warned not to do. It's like, "You do that one more time and you will be smacked." Son did it one more time and immediately -- smacking is only effective if it's immediate -- and was smacked on the back of his hand. "I had to do it only once. Never had to do it again," he said. And of course there is this other thing about "always carry out your threat". It must have been something quite serious to warrant a smack. Back to Organic-Ally . Become our fan on Facebook .

This morning at breakfast, husband still off sick, asked son due for a History exam this morning: "What is the middle name of Alexander the Great?" Son: Uh, uhm, "the"! So delightful he is now. Yet there was a time before he was out of nappies when he would keep pushing the boundaries. Well, he still does, actually. For reasons I cannot remember he was told he was not to cross the line between the hall and the living room. Maybe it's the staircase that we thought could pose some danger. What did our young man do? He walked up to the line/boundary and threw his toy into the forbidden area. Would Mum let me go out there to retrieve my toy? He looked at us and waited for a reaction from us. Can't remember what we did, probably ignored him. And he learned when mum and dad set boundaries, those remain as boundaries. Once while he was still toddling he took to biting, purely out of mischief. He was told off sternly, "Do not bite!" And every time he appro

I stole this from The Telegraph . I've found myself saying to my husband what joy our silly-stage nine-year-old is bringing us. Every day. The proof of the pudding is when he turns 13, 15, etc, really. Meanwhile I am finding great joy in watching him grow up slowly but surely in learning to be more and more independent and learning greater responsibility with each passing day. This article reminded me of "the cane". When growing up in Singapore, "the cane" was ubiquitous in households with young children. This was usually hung up high on a hook on a wall in the living room. Do/Did parents use the cane? Of course. But only once. The cane, when properly used, needs to be used only once, if at all, in the life-time of a child. Before that, parents and carers would point and say, if you misbehave, disobey or did something that might endanger yourself or someone else, the cane will be used. After it had been used -- once, if at all -- parents point at the cane and s

What a relief I saw my postie this morning! It's the same guy. Last week I had the privilege of receiving a proper letter. Not a bill, not a statement, not a flyer to the "Office Products Buyer" with an offer, but a letter. It's from a women's charity helping women suffering domestic violence. It was asking for a donation for a November fund-raising event. Since I had also been very much involved with the local women's centre I really wanted to do my part. I decided to send on two new sets of Hemp Table Napkins embroidered with my original designs for their raffle. When I say 'original' I mean I use either my own or a non-copyrighted idea/concept and then digitize it using my embroidery software, going into the tiny details of the stitchwork to get the 'picture' right. This usually involves hours and hours of painstaking and finger-squeezing mouse-work. The two sets of colour-co-ordinated Christmas theme Table Napkins are as follows: (Unfortun

I was just trying to sit down and it went. Went where? What went? Gone walkabout. My back. I heard a sound that resembled something being crunched, "crrrck," and I could not stand up. Then the memory was only of pain. I must not fall down, I must not fall down, I said to myself. If I fell here and lose consciousness, no one would find me for another, hmm, ten hours. Managed to get to the computer to send a couple of messages, then thought that lying down would help. It helped only insofar as Radio Four sent me to sleep and I forgot the pain for a while. Then I managed to have a phone conversation with husband. Until that point my fear was how do I get my son home from school? Do I call the school and ask them to ask another parent to send him home? Do I request a staff member to make sure he got across the road safely? Then what happens when he gets home? Could I get to the door to open it? What a relief it was that husband said he would come home to pick the son up. Meanwhil

Having been messed around by the Royal Mail a lot recently, selling to outside the UK has been even more difficult. So I'm trying to find another marketplace by opening another shop: Let's see if this works.

This morning I woke to the end of the an interview with Mr Martin Narey. What he said is basically: 'More babies should be taken into care to protect them from poor parents' . I don't think the sub-editor meant "poor parents" as in financially poor, but parents with "poor" parenting skills. This comment was raised following the awful, awful case of two brothers who pleaded guilty of torturing two other young boys. The previous post was referring to this case. Martin Narey speaks the unspeakable. Remember the furore he last raised about 'feral children'? Husband and I discussed this case at length and we said exactly that: take the babies away and put them up for adoption. Yesterday I witnessed two incidents which left me wondering what sort of people become parents. At a busy shopping centre a little girl, perhaps two years old was lying prone on the floor, having a tantrum. The parents -- big people, both bulky six foot something -- and anoth

When we take our kid out, we make sure he behaves himself. I remember my sister-in-law saying of her children (now grown up), "Rather they behave badly at home than they behave badly in public." Us Chinese have this notion called jiajiao (literally "education by/in your family" which can be translated roughly as "parenting" or as I prefer "family honour"). So if a child behaves badly, a grandparent is likely to mutter, "Don't do that. No jiajiao ." Those words alone were often enough to stop most young children from misbehaving. So when we go out with son to an event we make sure he is polite. We also help him with his food when he was much younger, and wipe up any spills, etc. to ensure that we do not trouble the hosts too much. Last Friday was a very emotional day for me. I was in tears a lot in the morning. I was finding it hard to get over how our neighbours' eldest son had died so suddenly, and it was his funeral. This dea

This time last year we were in sunny Singapore. I often borrow some crime fiction books from our local library to take away on such home visits. It helps to settle the jet lag. Last Saturday I took our son to the library so that he could pick up more books for his "reading challenge". Asked absent-mindedly if they have books on the "#1 Detective Agency". I first heard this on radio and was fascinated. The librarian -- maybe she's on HRT now -- said, "Alexander McCall Smith, isn't it?" and then bounced over to the shelf, "Let me show you where they are." "Bounced" is the operative word. I felt obliged to borrow a book or two after this. The Sunday Philosophy Club took my fancy (why? later ...). I started reading this on Sunday evening. I was really chuffed because the author has allowed the heroine Isabel Dalhousie to sprinkle the book with philosophical musings. As I twittered on Monday morning: "Loving the Alexander McCal

This morning I meditated on the goodness of my Lord. This time last week I could not stand up straight. I was walking around bent over. We figure it was my attempt to put the washing on the line first thing in the morning that did it. A basket of wet laundry is quite heavy after all, for me at least. That is why I once went into an awful strop at Toddlers when there were effectively just two people putting out all the toys and equipment. I could not stand back and not help, but I knew that if I did I would have massive problems the following day. For months we could not understand why I found it so painful to get out of bed on Saturday mornings. We decided that it was the lifting and bending over, etc, on Friday Toddlers that did it. Any way, so I was at CenterParcs, OK with cycling bent over, but walking rather awkwardly. We brought our microwave wheatbag/hot water bottle. It was there on my back pretty much the whole day. Then I slept on it. Tuesday morning I had this fear: what if I

Hectic morning at Toddlers on Friday. Difficult mum did not show up so we could not put into action what was planned for her. Back home I realized that in the hurly-burly of the week I had completely forgotten to buy HIM a birthday card for HIS 50th. So having sorted out what I needed to sort out I hurried along to the shops thinking that I would just have time to buy the card and head back to school for the Leavers Service . I rummaged for my purse as I entered the first card shop I came to and searched, and searched, and searched, and realized that I had forgotten to bring my purse in my distracted state of mind (having to switch TV on for mum-in-law for her to watch Wimbledon, eg). There wasn't time for me to get home. I rummaged again and thankfully found some loose change I had thrown into the bag, and two plastic coins from my son's toy cash register. In the end I was delighted to find a 'husband 50th' (not '50th husband, note !) card that I could afford. Yay!

Son's school sports day today. We had the best weather and son was amazingly positive today. Two mothers came up to congratulate me on his achievement in gaining the Chief Scout's Silver Award (mentioned by the Headmaster in the school bulletin last week). Somehow we got round to talking about my making him tidy up from a very young age. This is really the 'luxury' of a stay-at-home mother. (One mum expressed how because she always had an au pair , her son never had a chance to do this.) I had the choice of tidying up for him and get it over and done with in two minutes, or making my son learn how to do it, even if it took 20 minutes. I opted for the latter. When life got a bit messy I used to say, "Let's see if you could put five toys back in the box." He would then count five toys into the box. "OK, I think we need to put another seven in." Sometimes it was nine, ten, or whatever number of toys. Sometimes it was five green colour toys (eg five

Yay! I've been given an appointment to see someone at the neurology department some time in July. My GP ran all the tests and found nothing wrong with me, but I am still getting the numbness in both my hands (usually when I sleep) and we both want to know that it is not the onset of some degenerative nerve disease. They now have this 'choose and book' system. One is given a long list of hospitals we could go to (previously one could go to the one decided by the GP, I suppose). We then check them out online, see how long their waiting list is, and try to book an appointment. The hospital I chose did not have an online booking system, so I had to ring up. The hospital had not issued any dates. So it could be two months or twice that. Who knows? I was told that if the hospital does not contact me within two weeks, then I must go back to the GP for advice. What? Go back to the GP? Do you know how difficult it is to get an appointment to see my GP? So I put it down in my diary t

My son is nine (NINE!) today. I also took another plunge and started another 'shop' on Etsy where I hope to interest a non-UK market in my embroidered stuff. I am really getting excited about this crafty/creative business. As I noted in my Etsy page, most of the fun is in the digitizing process.