Did I ever introduce you to my Kitten in Pants? This is he. The sketch was done by a very good cyber and real-life friend of mine, Kittenpants. He’s to be a tattoo eventually with green eyes and red y-fronts. I’ve known Kittenpants for what feels like donkey years and for most part of it, we have communicated via a midwifery forum we both belong to.
For those who are long-term readers of this blog, you might remember Kittenpants as being one of my partners-in-crime during my weekend long shenanigans in Moffat, Scotland.
Recently, I have been toying with the idea of being rid of Facebook. Scandalous as it may seem, I grew a bit tired of it and I started devising plans for a quiet exit. The Internet and social media have a lot to answer to for the emergence of keyboard wizardy and trolling championships. They have also done a lot in making some people I know, including myself I must admit, feel that I could do better. I don’t need to go far in my search history to come across blogs regaling the myriad of fun but yet educational activities other parents are having with their children, while I sat there absolutely in bits because yet again I was dealing with a screaming child who was having her accidental dreads brushed out of her hair. While I agree that all enjoyable blogs come with some degree of creative writing and artistic licence, but by ‘eck, don’t some of them go overboard with the rose-tintedness. So much so that it was the topic of an earlier post of mine where I pondered out loud if some deviate so far from the truth that it actually does a disservice.
I got so far with being convinced that I could do without updates from a distant friend who has developed a habit of taking home stray cats and dogs (this is the high school friend that once presented me with a kitten that she found in a drain on the way to school – I should have seen this coming from that point) and that I needed to compartmentalise my life more. Be more tres mysterious and less accessible. That was until my sisters started uploading photos like these online.
This was taken at a beach in Kota Kinabalu, Sabah when I was 6. We were the first non-native family to have moved into a small undeveloped town, Tuaran. I went to kindergarten there, where the language(s) of instruction were English and Hokkien. I spoke basic Hokkien until we moved back to West Malaysia. Even at that age, I was good at avoiding schoolwork by distracting my teacher with tales of our family secrets.
A photo of my rather glamorous mother with me at our house in Kuala Lumpur. I hadn’t seen this photo in ages. When I left for England at the age of 18, I left pretty much everything behind – memorabilia, favourite teddy, half written novel. I don’t think I had any concept of how far and how long I was going.
And then, there were the photos of my sisters as how I remember them. Young, single and ever so enviably fabulous. My sisters are much older than me and when my father was the Headteacher of a boarding school near an army barracks, my sisters were notoriously well known (much to my Father’s dismay) .
They used to go driving in the evening, around the time the new recruits would be doing their daily run and heckle them with comments about their pert buttocks.
They were awesome role models for me.
Then there are the photos that really highlight just how much I’ve missed out on by being thousands of miles away from them.
Here is one of my many nieces (my Mother has 23 grandchildren – I think). The last time I saw her she was younger than The Small Shouty One and she had left a lasting impression on Slaveboy by kicking him where it really mattered.
Probably the biggest recent event in my Malaysian family’s diary. A grandchild’s wedding. The first of many, I hope. The VonSponge family couldn’t make it and had to experience it vicariously through the hundreds of photos on Facebook.
My childhood memories is peppered with wedding events. These were huge family affairs, involving months of preparation and very unlike the shotgun wedding Slaveboy and I had where we almost ran over with his
transit van Renault Master van one of our witnesses* before the civil wedding ceremony……………………….. which is why, SniffSnorters, you need to convince Slaveboy that we ought to have a remarrying party. I will have cobras and pythons draped around me and Slaveboy needs to don a gold lame unitard.
*Witness is alive still, happy and gay in Dublin.
So if you don’t mind, I shall hang on to my Facebook, endure the mad cat collector and humour the smugs and the worthies.