Driving Sales

Yesterday The Parents signed the agreement to buy their parking space – refer back to my blog entitled ‘Spaced Out’, August 30th for more on that – so, soon, they will be the proud owners of their very own rectangle of concrete. This may not seem very exciting to most of you but in Hong Kong, parking spaces are like gold dust. It’s a savvy investment and means that they will no longer have to pay the monthly rent on their old space. Plus, this space is enclosed by a wall on three sides, meaning that they will not have to park next to anyone else – it will be their own little cocooned space. Ironically, although this is one of the things that attracted them to this particular space (there is so much to consider when buying a parking space) as it means that they will no longer have to put up with inconsiderate drivers parked right up against the line and they are less likely to be knocked, scraped or scratched by others, it actually made it a whopping HK$300,000 less than other spaces. Other spaces that were in fact in worse positions. Apparently, this is because many Chinese drivers do not like to be enclosed by wall as they worry that they will bash the doors of their huge BMWs and Mercedes against it. The space is plenty big enough to accommodate such cars (even if most of Hong Kong isn’t – monster ‘look how rich and successful I am’ cars are completely unsuitable for driving in a crowded city but of course they hold the most status and driving, as is most things in Hong Kong, is all about the S word) but most Hong Kong drivers are crap. Fact.


There are a few things you have to learn in order to be a competent driver in Hong Kong:

1) Your indicators are purely for decoration - you do not have to employ them at any time, and especially not when turning.

2) By contrast, your hazard lights should be used as often as possible – they are a brilliant multi-usage tool and can be used to indicate that you are slowing down, turning left or right, stopping in an inappropriate spot, having a conversation with your children, or changing your the station on your radio.

3) On a highway, you can drive in any lane you like, whenever you like. Fancy having a bit of a spin in the outside lane, even though you are pootling along at your own leisurely speed? Go ahead. Don’t want to move lanes at all? Just stay in the middle lane. There are a whole four lanes – just pick whichever one takes your fancy!

So you can understand why most drivers would prefer to pay thousands of dollars more in order to park their very expensive cars more easily. I am personally slightly worried about my own driving skills – with lanes in Karratha as wide as two lanes back in the UK and parking spaces big enough to fit the biggest of 4WDS, I think I might get a bit of a shock when I return to the narrow streets of Reading. Tight parallel parking on our street is not going to be fun. And, just remind me, what are traffic lights?

The Fun To Be Had With A Tyre

When we were busy trying to get our tyres out of the sand on Sunday, we could have been tyre-throwing (which, incidentally, was just what I felt like doing on several occasions that afternoon). If there’s one thing the outback is good for, it’s random events. Country towns don’t get major art exhibitions or West End stage productions so they have to create their own entertainment. Not content with sporting competitions, fun days or fetes, the Karratha Enduro and Motorcross Club hosted a car and bike show which included a, and I quote, ‘His & Hers Tyre Throwing Competition’. I am devastated – if only I had known, I would have been the first to sign up. I do love me a bit of tyre-throwing.


After a quick search on Google, the only other reference to tyre throwing competitions I found was in The Bahama Journal, a local newspaper in the Bahamas. They too hold such a contest, the first one being last year, and, if the paper is to be believed, it went down an absolute storm. What I loved was this comment made by the organiser: ‘"I came up with the idea by simply brain storming on something Bahamians can do to have fun and I hope this becomes a fun hobby for us in The Bahamas. You don't need to go to the gym, you don't need to get fit, you can go to any junk yard or tyre shop and get an old tyre, practice, and have some fun," he said.’ Who needs museums, art galleries, cinemas and theatres when you have an old tyre?

That Sinking Feeling

“Bloody Poms!” As we drive unsteadily away from the beach, that is exactly what I imagine the two large Australians must be saying to each other. Followed, I expect, by much laughter, their rotund beer bellies shaking with mirth. Flash back an hour and we’re lugging our chairs, esky and bags laden with towels and books and the essential first aid kit (beaches are prime biting/stinging/chomping areas –anything could happen both in sea and on land) up the beach and over the sand dunes to where we left the car. I had wanted to stay a bit longer to explore the rock pools that were gradually being formed by the receding tide but The Husband insisted we leave to get back to play some tennis. I was still talking about the fascinating marine life we could have discovered when we were in the car reversing but The Husband wasn’t listening to me – he looked distracted, concerned, slightly panicky. “I need to concentrate,” he said, “so will you please be quiet for a moment?” From the tone of his voice, I knew it wasn’t just a tactic to get me to stop talking for the sake of it. He was worried. And that was when I realised that the car was juddering forwards as he attempted to manoeuvre it. Then it wasn’t juddering. It wasn’t doing anything except making a screeching noise. “We’re stuck,” he said. “Oh God, we’re stuck!”


We got out of the car to assess the situation and discovered that we were indeed stuck in the sand. We had parked there twice before without a problem but it appeared that the recent rain had softened the sand, causing the car to sink into it and lose traction (or that’s what the aforementioned large Aussies said anyway). There followed forty five minutes of a series of failed attempts to get the car out of the soggy sand. The Husband dug out the sand around the wheels, he placed rocks behind them (which I hauled across the dunes like Xena, Warrior Princess... OK, more like an ungainly Neolithic cavewoman, unattractively bent double with swinging arms but Xena is a better image), he got into position to push the car as I attempted to drive it. Naturally, loud arguments were had. And The Husband got a face full of sand. It was not a pretty scene. Eventually, I persuaded him that he had to swallow his man-pride and ask for help. I was not going to be stranded on a beach all night with no sleeping bag and just a cereal bar to keep my hunger at bay. Head bowed low in shame, he trekked across to where we could see a couple of trucks in the distance. Ten minutes later, one of the large Aussies roared up to me on a quad bike, jumped down, belly wobbling like jelly, and assessed the situation. He looked around the car, under the car and in the car, before peering at me through thick, wiry eyebrows. “This isn’t bogged down, it’s just a bit stuck,” he said, through a Father Christmas beard, “we’ll have it out no problem. Now, does it have low range?” I looked at him with clear confusion and confessed that I had no idea what low range was. After that, he didn’t ask me any questions. In fact, he didn’t even look at me. It was as if I wasn’t there. I mean, fancy not knowing what low range is. I expect I’ll be forever known as ‘that Pommy Sheila who didn’t know what low range was’.

Minutes later, The Husband appeared over the crest of a dune in a monster 4WD. He was sat next an identical large Aussie, also with Father Christmas beard and crazy caterpillar eyebrows. The Aussies knew what they were doing – they had probably pulled Utes out of rivers, across deserts, in from the sea through crashing waves. They looked like they had done it all, seen it all and took our little problem completely in their stride. They told The Husband what to do and he obeyed and within ten minutes they had pulled us out. We thanked them profusely and they told us not to worry, that everyone gets stuck at least once. I’m sure, though, that as we pulled away out of earshot they chuckled over our stupidity. Bloody Poms.

That's Just Swell

Regular readers of my blog will know how petrified I am of all the (many, many) venomous, man-eating creatures that this great country is home to. What you might not know is that this fear stems from the fact that if there is something in the vicinity that will bite/sting/claw/crush, it will bite/sting/claw/crush me. On every holiday I have ever been on, I have been injured in some way, usually by a nasty winged creature. I thought that I had been spared on our honeymoon, that it was God’s way of rewarding me for no longer living in sin. Thirteen wonderfully relaxing, indulgent and incident-free days went by in our luxurious beach-side resort in Mauritius. But God clearly hadn’t forgiven me as I was stung by a monster bee on our last day. It landed on my back. I thought it was a fly. I swatted it. It stung me. And, being a bee, it left its stinger in me. The (very new) Husband was ordered to run back to our room and fetch the first aid kit. I of course had insisted we walk quite a way down the beach to find the best spot – the best bit of sand, best bit of sea, best sun lounger, least number of people – so he had to run quite a way there and back. I think at this point he was probably wondering what he’d got himself into. I, meanwhile, lay whimpering face down on the sun lounger because it really, really hurt. Eventually he returned, armed with tweezers, bite cream and, most important of all, antihistamine tablets. Because, ironically, not only am I the most likely target for stingers and biters, I also react badly and swell up. It’s like they know, like they deliberately pick the human who will be most badly affected.


I suppose I should have been thankful that it chose the last day of the holiday to sting me. On holiday in Spain once, I was stung on the leg by a wasp on the first day and had to spend the rest of the fortnight with the affected area covered. This resulted in some rather interesting sunbathing techniques to keep that part of the leg in the shade but as much of the rest of me in the sun as possible. The lengths I will go to for a tan. At least I had no plans for the holiday but to lie and read and do as little as possible. Part way through the Tour of Britain, I was stung by a wasp right on my ankle. Not only did I have a very full and active itinerary, but the vicious, spiteful wasp chose to sting me four days before The Best Friend’s wedding. I took antihistamine immediately, put my foot up as soon as we were home and was grateful to note before I turned out the light that night that the swelling was minimal.

I woke the next morning with a heavy feeling foot. Assuming it was pins and needles, I attempted to shake it but struggled even to lift it. Whipping back the duvet, I saw with horror that my ankle had ballooned. I had a fat person’s ankle with rolls. Actual rolls. It was huge. Over the next couple of days, despite packing it with ice and resting it as often as I could, it merely got bigger and turned an angry reddish/purplish colour. It would seem that, bar your face (a fate which could so nearly have befallen me as I am pretty sure I batted the wasp off my chin whereupon it landed on my ankle), your ankle is the worst place to get stung as it is in constant use. All that walking was causing fluid to build up and settle in my foot/ankle/lower leg, giving me the fat person look or, as The Husband referred to me throughout that period, ‘Club Foot’. This was clearly not good. I was due to be Maid of Honour in a matter of days. I had to be able to walk, I had to be able to fit into my heels, I had to be able to walk in my heels. The swelling had not gone down much by the big day but, luckily, I had shoes with adjustable straps and I just had to remember to pop the offending club foot behind me whenever the photographer loomed. And, as soon as the dinner ended, I kicked off my heels and threw on a pair of flat sandals.

Anyway, I have gone a bit off-point here but the crux is this – I am frighteningly long-overdue a bite/sting/claw/crush in Karratha. The difference is that in Australia a fat person’s ankle would be the least of my worries. Here, in the country that is home to many of the world’s most painful, poisonous and deadly creatures, I could be in real trouble. And that is why I am so petrified of anything that moves.

Editorial Apology

It has come to my attention that there were some factual errors in the blog entitled ‘Crossing the Great Divide’ (September 2nd) and I would like to make a formal apology to The Father for misrepresenting him. He has pointed out to me, and I quote, “Though mum may never have been north of Watford before meeting me, I had then already been to Scotland (as far north as John O’Groats), Lake District, Yorkshire Moors, etc. many times with my parents on caravanning holidays.” I was actually unaware of this great pioneering spirit in the Reed family – John O’Groats is the furthest north you can venture in mainland Britain – but then they did emigrate to Australia, which is a pretty long way to travel. Of course, although it may be thousands of miles from the UK, Australia is in the Southern Hemisphere so perhaps that merely supports my argument about Southerners. The Father has always been at great pains to highlight the fact that his family were ‘salt of the earth’ kind of people (though I’m not sure that many of the working class lived in a five bedroom detached house in the wealthy Home County town of Beaconsfield) and therefore, I’m sure, was deeply offended by the insinuation that he turned his nose up at the North. All I can do, in recompense, is offer him my sincerest apologies.


Of course, to be fair to the facts, I must also add his second correction to the blog referring to my comment that his family would always by-pass Birmingham. “The reason for staying on the peripheral motorway and not going into Birmingham was not because my parents were trying to get somewhere else but because we were all too frightened to go into central Birmingham, though we did on that trip go into central Glasgow ... with the car doors locked!” He may be a stickler for the facts, but I don’t think this latter comment backs up his case for being a man of the people. Indeed, it supports my theory that Southerners are a totally different kettle of fish to Northerners. They just don’t get each other. I lived in Birmingham for many years and yet there were parts of the city in which I always engaged the central locking and, back in the Sixties and Seventies, Glasgow did have quite a violent reputation so I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to venture into the centre even in a locked car.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the fact that Brits are not one homogeneous people. It simply makes for an interesting, diverse mix. One thing’s for sure - there’s nowt as queer as folk.

Happily Ever After

I love a good wedding. When else, apart from at Ascot, can you wear ridiculous creations on your head and still be taken seriously? When else can you get so dressed up in the middle of the day? When else can you start drinking at midday and not stop until midnight (other than Christmas when it is law that you must start drinking at breakfast)? When else do you become best friends with someone you’ve never met before (but have completely forgotten their name in the fog of your hangover the next morning)? I love how different weddings can be, how personal to the couple getting married in everything from the venue to the outfits. Most of all, I love that moment when the couple officially become legally entwined - the sense of joy, of celebration, of knowing that you’re witnessing something monumental, not in the grand scheme of things in the world but in that couple’s life. Yes, I’m an old romantic at heart and can’t help but well up during the vows. At the first wedding we went to this summer, the bride choked up and could barely utter her vows through sobs. Only a hard heart would find it difficult to tear up at that. The Husband did not shed a single tear but perhaps he was just trying to be manly.


What can often be the best part of a wedding is bumping into people you haven’t seen in years, especially when you had no idea they were going to be there. Of course, if you purposefully haven’t seen them in years (bitter exes, the guy you still owe a tenner to, people you just can’t stand), at least there is always a steady supply of alcohol to get you through it. Ditto for bad speeches, the interminably dull second cousin you’ve been sat next to, and that time of night when the music starts and you’re pulled onto the dance floor by the pervy uncle who you know will feel your arse throughout the entire duration of the song. Of course, alcohol can also be a bad thing, especially when you have been drinking since midday. When it causes you to trip over in front of the grandparents, dance like a stripper (even though at the time you are certain that you are the best dancer in the world), chat-up the cousin with the bad breath and lazy eye, and wake up the next morning with make-up smeared over your face and on your pillow, a head that feels like it might just implode and a tongue that feels too big for your mouth, that is when it is bad. All you can hope for in those situations is that everyone else was just as drunk as you and therefore a) didn’t notice you embarrassing yourself and b) caused themselves just as much embarrassment.

Luckily, at the first wedding I was dancing the ceilidh so much I didn’t have time to drink (and was so thirsty each time I came off the floor that all I craved was water – those Scottish barn dances are brutal!) and as Maid of Honour at the second wedding I didn’t start drinking until later in the evening so by the time I was slurring my words, so was everyone else! Being Maid of Honour was a real, well, honour, and I performed my duties with gusto. The best weddings, really, are those in which you care deeply about both bride and groom and get to watch them make a lifelong commitment to each other. You get to be there on the best day of their lives and share in their happiness. That’s what really makes a good wedding – the constant smiles on the faces of the newlyweds. For, in the immortal words of Ewan McGregor’s Christian in Moulin Rouge, “Love is a many splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong, all you need is love!”

Keeping The Doctor Away

It seems that a trip to Somerset really isn’t complete without a healthy intake of cider, for on my return to the West Country county, with The Husband in tow this time, we visited a cider farm. You can taste cider at numerous establishments in Somerset – in every village there is some sort of a sign, usually homemade, painted with an unsteady hand (perhaps after a few too many tastings of their own) and often with more than one spelling mistake, advertising the opportunity to sample ‘authentic Somerset scrumpy’. Cider has had somewhat of a renaissance recently. Until only a few years ago, anywhere outside of Somerset it was seen as the drink of choice by fifteen year olds, tramps and old men but it has suddenly become trendy again. With dozens of special blends in retro bottles hitting the shops and cider festivals now a firm summer date in many West Country cities, cider is being tried by those who might usually turn their noses up at it. Like me. With memories of cheap, fizzy, artificial-tasting mass-produced cider drunk in my youth and a really rather terrible murky, fetid-smelling cider once tasted in a horrible pub in Taunton, I was not keen on sampling any more of the stuff. But, when in Somerset and all that. And a farm on a lovely summer’s day couldn’t be a bad way to spend an afternoon – there was also the promise of huge chunks of cheese to be gobbled so my taste buds and tummy would be happy even if I didn’t like the cider.


After a romp across the Mendips, we felt we had earned some cheese and cider so off we drove to a farm we were assured was authentic, cheap and, most importantly, produced magnificent cider. What we weren’t told was that it was nigh-on impossible to find. Our local expert, Somerset born and bred, had been once before but got a taxi there and was highly inebriated when he left (so much so in fact that he accepted a lift back by a couple of locals with whom they had been drinking – he sat on a garden chair in the back of a white van. It was OK though, he wore a hard hat). We took a few wrong turns up farm driveways and narrow, twisting country lanes bound for nowhere before we eventually spotted a sign on A4 paper, in biro, with a tiny arrow pointing towards ‘Wilkins Farmhouse Cider’. This was a local farm for local people. They obviously weren’t bothered about cashing in on the tourist craze for cider. And that appealed to me greatly – we were about to visit a truly authentic farm.

Pulling into the farmyard, we weren’t disappointed. There was no car-park, no maps, no signs, no explanations, no ‘History Of...’ boards. Just a farmyard, a farmhouse and the outbuildings in which the cider is made. Plastic school chairs are dotted inside the outbuildings, sat on by bearded men with scruffy hair, reading newspapers and chatting about tractors and racing as they sip their mugs of cider. The Wilkins family have been producing cider since 1917, and have got fairly good at it. We were given glasses of cider straight from the barrels, with a choice of sweet or dry. I plumped for dry but later tried a combination of dry with just a dash of sweet – my own special, customised blend. This is the sort of place where you’re encouraged to stay for hours, going back to pull yourself further half-pint tasters whenever you want, and the owner himself likes nothing more than a bit of a chat. We drank our cider out in the sun on a picnic table after a wander round the orchard (where Wilkins picks each apple by hand) and I don’t know whether it was the setting, the weather or if it really was good cider, but I thoroughly enjoyed it. I’m not the only one – Johnny Rotten is a fan and Mick Jagger’s brother often pops in for a cider or two. Wilkins, a ruddy-faced man with a thick Somerset accent and deep laughter lines, has won awards for the quality of his farmhouse cider, something he attributes to the fact that he ‘tastes it, not tests it’ – he has been drinking cider since he was six and admits to drinking at least four pints a day (it used to be sixteen but he has since cut down)! He actually insists that cider is good for you - 'never been sick a day in my life, I haven't'. Well, you know what they say - an apple a day keeps the doctor away!

We left after trying several glasses, having bought huge chunks of cheddar and stilton (both absolutely divine)and twenty pints of cider (in two 10-pint vats, one of which we would consume that night) and paid only a few pounds each. This could be the last place in England where you can get a true bargain.