Software trauma

Goddamn, I spent FOUR HOURS tonight trying to update our Norton anti-virus software. Having taken my money in about 60 seconds flat my new subscription then failed to upload. I was about 5 seconds away from heaving my laptop out the window when I was offered the option of on-line chat with a member of the Norton support staff. Jeswin (is that a guy or a girl?) finally sorted out the problem and I was able to collapse on the sofa, gin and tonic in hand, to join hubby in watching Goodbye Pork Pie to relax.
Sometimes I hate computers.

What...No Toys???

Tonight we enjoyed a really nice bar-b-q at our friends place down the road, the ones who live in the cool new pent-house apartment which we would have walked to if it hadn't been HOSING down all evening. Normally when we go out at night we get a babysitter to hopefully get the kids into bed on time, but tonight we thought we'd take them along. The bbq was starting early, about 4pm, and we could be home at a reasonable time so we thought sure, what harm could it do?
An added bonus was that we all went to Wild Wild Wet this morning which is a water adventure park kind of like Waterbom but about a third of the size. It's fun, the kids loved the slides, the wave pool, the groovy water playground, and we got back in the car just as the heavens opened and rain of biblical proportions descended upon us. So they were tired.
In my limited experience as a mother of two incredibly active kids, the key to stopping them turning a freinds lounge into a wrestling ring or using every cushion in their house to make a fort in the middle of the terrace is to bring along a) a pile of their favourite books b)a pile of their favourite toys c) a pile of paper and pens although if you are visiting chic pent house apartments the probability of getting ink on furnishings is so great as to outweigh any potential benefits, so we didn't bring those. Anyway I had a secret weapon hidden in my handbag: not one, but TWO new DVD movies. The first is a classic I fondly remember from my childhood, Clash of the Titans. This is the original monster flick with plastercine monsters and hand-coloured scenes. Brilliant. The second was Pirates of the Carribean which is a sure fire winner with any little boys.
So the bbq was progressing well except for...did I mention the rain? It's the tail end of a cyclone which just hammered the Philippines so was pretty impressive even by tropical standards.
As the Singapore skyline disappeared behind sheets of water we took the only reasonable course of action: battoned the hatches, closed all the doors and windows, and left my friends hubby out on the balcony to char the sausages on his own! Well, we did pass him a beer every now and then.
Halfway through the second movie, Carl goes up to my friend and tugs on her sleeve. Giving his best puppy dog impression he asked "where are your toys?"
"My what?
"Your TOYS. Where are they?"
Consternation all around as this is not a household with kids. "Ummm...we don't actually have any".
Carl looks at her as if she is a bit slow and says a bit more loudly "I said, where are your TOYS?"
"I'm sorry, we really don't have any toys".

The look on his face said a thousand words. No toys???? How is that humanly possible?
With a big sigh he slouched back to the sofa to watch the rest of the new movie, at the end of a fun packed adventurous day, with a tummy full of food which had just been cooked for him, obviously thinking to himself "do I have to organise everything for myself around here?"

New chef at Blu hits the spot

A few months ago when my Dad passed through Singapore on his way to several months of wallowing in the balmy climes of Southern France, we took him out for a meal to our favourite restaurant, Blu at the Shangri La Hotel. We were a little disturbed to learn that the chef who had so long titillated our tastebuds has moved to The Line restaurant, also part of Shangri La.
New Chef Kevin Cherkas popped out for a chat and proved to be a very enthusiastic and friendly guy, bursting with enthusiasm and eager to share his vision of how the cuisine would evolve under his leadership. He was at that time awaiting $1 million of new dinnerware to arrive which apparently was essential to appropriately present his food. Yes, that's one MILLION dollars worth of plates. Gulp.
This Saturday we headed back, curious as to what we would find now that he's had a chance to settle into Blu, re-shape the menu and put his new plates through the dishwasher a few times. We weren't disappointed.
Perhaps we had given the impression we were under-cover food critics on our first visit after asking so many questions but in any case as we waited for the entrees to arrive Kevin himself appeared at the table and apologised for not being able to deliver the dish hubby and I had ordered, cheekily called 'The Egg Came 1st". Apparently the sous chef had overcooked the eggs. Kevin assured us that if it hadn't been us waiting for them he would have sent them out anyway, but in deference to us he had thrown them across the kitchen then come out to offer us an alternative. He had some delicious fresh Scottish scallops - would we perhaps like those instead? Would we ever! I LOVE scallops and haven't had the pleasure of eating any Scottish Loch scallops (known as Queen scallops) since a wonderful meal we enjoyed in Glasgow a few years ago at The Ubiquitous Chip restaurant. Kevin chose to present them sliced through the middle, dusted with herbed crumbs and then quickly deepfried until just cooked. Interestingly he paired them with a beetroot sauce and by way of apology, liberally dotted the edge of the plates with caviar. Apology accepted.
On to the mains, and here hubby and I diverged as he plumped for the roast lamb while I chose Irish Stew which promised to be fabulous despite it's humble origins. It had apparently been cooked 'forever'. Again Kevin was there to explain the dishes and I loved the large rib bone poked into the stew, his "Flinestone touch". It was as rich and tender as I had hoped, and in fact could have been eaten with a spoon, so soft was the meat. Hubby did his best to make me jealous by raving about the fabulous lamb but as I said, it's a good excuse to go back soon.
Our dining guests loved their lobster thermidor and baked Sea Bass, which were accompanied by light-as-air foams, a quirky touch to otherwise classic dishes.
Dessert was 'Lemon vs Lemon' which was deliciously tart; not being a dessert person I love anything a bit sour and this hit the spot.
To sum it up Blu remains our favourite restaurant and we are now avowed Kevin fans. If you're looking for an exceptional meal at a great location, Blu is where you'll find it. And yes, the plates are lovely.

That Shirt, Part 2

So I was going to tell you about my birthing shirt, and got distracted by my ‘enjoy’ shirt. It was actually a more important story from my life but I really did want to tell you about the birthing shirt, so here goes.
As a woman approaches the ninth month of pregnancy she becomes obsessed with things that those who have never gone through the experience – and especially men - would never dream of. In my anti-natal class the instructor had told us to make sure we had a comfortable shirt to wear during the birth. It should be loose and comfortable, long enough protect our modesty in the early stages, yet provide easy access to the vital bits when the action hotted up. Logically you would just pick your favourite t-shirt or not bother about wearing anything at all, but frankly that’s just not me and logic rarely applied past the 37th week. Oh no. If I have to go through a major experience whether it’s giving birth or going on holiday to a new location I research it to death and obsess about the detail. So I trawled through various shops until I ventured into a lingerie retailer in Lochem that sold a good line of night shirts. I picked out the perfect one: loose fitting, short, in a practical dark blue (won’t show blood stains!) and with a tiny cute silver angel printed on the chest. Just what I wanted. It went into ‘The Bag’ in preparation for ‘The Day’.
My preparations continued, including exhaustive reading and re-reading of what was considered the authoritative book on giving birth, and practising all of the fifteen different stages of labour. I felt prepared, calm, only mildly hysterical. The due date arrived, although I wasn’t too concerned as only 5% of babies arrived on the actual date and most first babies arrive later. How wrong I was.
I won’t bore you with the story of how Niels was born because I know how much you desperately don’t want to know about it, but it did involve us racing to the hospital early in the morning. Friends later said it that when they entered our flat that day it was like a spooky sci-fi film where everybody has been vaporised: a piece of toast with one bite out of it rested on the bench, two half-cups of coffee stood cold and congealed nearby…
At the hospital the decision was made to induce labour. Before I knew it I had a drip in my arm and drugs were being pumped into me to bring on contractions. The nurse left the room to let us ‘get on with it’ and I suddenly realised: I don’t have my birthing shirt on! At that moment it seemed (to me) humanly impossible to give birth without having the correct attire.
“Quick, open The Bag and get out The Shirt!” I ordered hubby. Only then did we realise that because I was already hooked up to a drip, I couldn’t get my current clothes off, let along any new ones on. Believe me the last thing you want to be wearing when you are giving birth is a bra so there I was, the t-shirt and bra I’d quickly pulled on that morning pulled over my head and hanging pathetically from my wrist above the drip, my body exposed for all to see. Did I give a shit? Did I hell! A 40 piece brass band could have marched through the room and I wouldn’t have blinked an eye.
As the drugs pumped into my body contractions kicked in with a suddenness and severity that literally took my breath away. “Give me The Book!” I shrieked at hubby but it seemed we’d gone from chapter one to chapter 14 in less than ten minutes and I threw it in despair into a corner. A belt around my waist hooked to a monitor was supposed to transmit signals to indicate when I was having a contraction, but it had slipped down without anybody noticing and as I groaned in agony hubby calmly consulted the screen then announced “that’s not a contraction, it didn’t even register”. My snarled explosive response can’t be repeated here without me being kicked off Blogspot but let’s just say I was less than impressed by him.
Four short hours later Niels entered the world and I – white, shaking, in shock and completely pain-killer and drug free (this is Holland after all) - held him in my arms for the first time.
A few weeks later I was looking for something to wear to bed and I came across my Birthing Shirt. Better late than never I guess.

That Shirt, Part 1

Rummaging through my ‘smalls’ drawer tonight (isn’t that a great expression? It must date back to my grandmothers’ time, or at least until before I had kids because frankly what used to be small in there, ‘aint so small anymore!) I found what I was hunting for. It’s my favourite nightshirt which in fact I call my Birthing Shirt. Doesn’t the name alone make you shudder?? And you don’t’ even know the story behind it, although you may think you do…
Long, long ago when I was pregnant with our first child, I had more than a little trouble getting to grips with the fact that I was going to have a baby. Yes, it was planned, and yes, I’d been married for several years but frankly I’m just not mother material. Never have been. I don’t lack compassionate attributes: in my lifetime I’ve had pet guinea pigs, axolotls (that’s a Mexican Walking Fish to you), eels, rats, sheep, cows, rabbits and even a horse. However until I met hubby the thought of actually going through the whole human reproductive process was unimaginable and frankly, more than a little repugnant. Yet there I was at 30 years old, with a husband whose biological clock ticked louder than Big Ben, and the realisation that it was Time. I went off the pill and hoped for the year that friends had rumoured it takes for conception to take place but damn! Within a couple of weeks I was peeing on a plastic stick and that terrifying blue cross was as clear as the North Star. I’d been knocked up. Hubby was thrilled and I was petrified. Logical really, he wasn’t the one who would have his body taken over by an alien and then have to eject the thing with as much gore and screaming as Sigourney Weaver in her memorable movie role. At four months pregnant, I decided matters needed to be taken into hand. This state of affairs was not going to ruin my life. I took myself into hand, gave myself a figurative slap in the face (or three) and told myself that this was a good thing, this is what we wanted. We were a family, and by God I would learn to enjoy it. I went out that very day and bought myself a shirt from a preggy shop which I have to this very day. It’s dark blue and in hot pink across the front is the word ‘enjoy’. I remember putting it on the next morning and driving to work. When I walked into the lobby through the revolving doors the sun shone down and I said to myself “you will enjoy this if it kills you”. And honest to God, literally from that second onwards, I loved being pregnant. It was the most profound way I have ever forced myself to change, and it happened with a day. I often think of that moment and draw on that experience because I now believe it to be one of the most profound of my life. If I could transform myself from a frightened, reluctant, overwhelmed pregnant person into a confident, joyous, mother-to-be in a day, I could do anything.

Loction, location, location...

I’m sitting here in the sultry summer evening heat grateful for the gradual and yet wonderful relief of the day cooling off. WHAT??? I hear you all shriek; the woman who has long vowed she never wants to see another winter again is complaining about the heat…in EUROPE??
Well, yes, but to be fair it has been ridiculously hot here. When we arrived last week, our plane touched down in Amsterdam to a frigid 13 degrees with soaking rains and leaden skies. The kids shivered their way to the waiting taxi, then shivered all night in bed despite the central heating being cranked up to 25 degrees. Welcome to summer in Holland. Yet within 48 hours the tables had turned and it was a sweltering 30 degrees with humidity which must have been in the high 80s. Now I know that’s normal in Singapore, and we are acclimatised to those temperatures, but the difference is that at night you can retreat to your condo and turn on the air-con. Here there’s no such luxury. Bedrooms heated to sauna equivalent remain that way until the sun rises and then heats them even further the next morning. And the sun doesn’t hold it’s regular 7:30 rise, 7:30 set pattern we’ve become accustomed to in the tropics; it hangs, bloated and sweating, in the stale over-heated haze until 10 pm before deigning to finally slouch its way below the horizon, only to leap back to bake the bricks again at 5:30 am. Acclimatising. It takes time. In the last month the kids and I have lived in three time zones and three different climates - New Zealand, Singapore, and Holland – and obviously it’s taking its toll. At least on me. I love the long dusks and early dawns, I just can’t get over the tiredness to enjoy it yet. The mother of one of my friends spotted me in the supermarket a couple of days ago but didn’t dare come to say hello because I looked too stressed and the kids were playing hell in the isles. Coping? Like hell.

The Waiting Game

...So we're all packed, ready to leave for the airport later this evening (late flight at 11pm). Just before we ducked out to Newton Circus for a last nosh of satay and fried rice, I had a feeling I ought to check our departure time in case anything has changed. I NEVER do this normally, in the past I've used the Changi airport site only for checking whether our visitors are arriving on time.
Shock horror, our flight has been moved from 10:55 pm to 04:50! That's tomorrow morning!
So now it's going to be either a very long sleepless night as I toss and turn stewing in fear that I sleep through the alarm at 2:30 am, or a very short night when I won't even bother going to bed.
Bugger bugger bugger. Dragging the kids out of their nests at 2:30 am isn't going to be much fun either.
However it all pans out you'll all get to hear about it later, when I log on in Holland from someone's computer. Either way you can be sure that my already lowly opinion of KLM is not going to be improved.

See you on the flip side. Jetlag, here we come.

Beautiful Ladies

It seems that our youngest son has developed a bit of a thing for Asian ladies since we moved to Singapore. Actually he's always been a ladies man, charming them with his smile from a young age and preferring to snuggle up to a (preferably well-endowed) bosom rather than tag along with the guys.

The delight on his face when he arrived at pre-school four days a week was a picture; ignoring the blonde Dutch staff he would rush up to Sarah, his beloved Singaporean teacher, and give her a big cuddle. Every single day without fail he would tell her that something about her was beautiful; from "you've got beautiful toe nails today" to "you've got beautiful hair". During our weekly visits to the large Maplewoods condominium for Niels swimming lessons he would home in on a group of Philippino maids clustered around the pool and plop himself in the middle, which would without fail dissolve into giggles and he would bathe in the glow of admiration and head pats his cubby blonde smiling face would generate.

Our wonderful babysitter Fe has become known as "my Fe", the staff at our holiday villa in Bali were wrapped around his pinky within 24 hours, and even the Asian Mums of some of his class mates are the target of his ample affections. However his all-time favourite Asian Ladies would have to be the air hostesses on board the Singapore Airlines planes. Of course they are lovely, with their long traditional batik dresses and slim figures, perfect make up and shiny black hair. To Carl, they are perfection personified and on our recent trip to New Zealand it was all he could do to remain sitting until the 'fasten seat belt' sign was turned off before he scooted out of his chair, yelling over his shoulder "I'm going to talk to the beautiful ladies" as he disappeared in the direction of the pantry. Fifteen minutes later he reappeared with pink cheeks and a handful of cookies. Half an hour later this was repeated, and so the flight progressed. On one occassion he reappeared just moments after he'd left; when I asked him why he replied dismissively "there's only guys back there now" before focusing his attention on the tv screen. As dinner was served one particularly pretty hostess gave him a big wink and a grin - Carl turned to me and whispered dramatically "that's the one I kissed".

Somehow I don't think it's just cookies he's after.

Birthdays? Nothing To 'Em!

There are many good things about getting older. Speaking strictly from my personal experience it seems that surviving your crazy teens and reckless twenties frees you up to enjoy your thirties and everything after that with a wealth of wisdom and, well, wealth, that you just didn't have back then. Your confidence is better, self esteem higher, sex more passionate, joke repertoire fuller. You've traded the tequila slammers for Tanqueray and tonic, Maybelline for Dior and finally start to reap the benefits of slapping on sun block for all those years. Ok, the face is starting to show a few wrinkles but by now I know my PHA from my Pro Vit B5 extracts and frankly the new range of serums are better than botox. And as for later...well there's always going to be Botox, isn't there?

Making it into my thirties relatively intact means that my kids are now toilet trained, so although occasionally one of their rooms may look like a vomi-bomb has just exploded (see yesterdays post), I no longer have to deal with someone else's poo on a daily basis. They can both run around so even if my back aches sometimes, at least I don't have to carry them any more. Having survived the first tough years of motherhood I also don't feel guilty about indulging in a weekly massage from my favourite masseur Grace, who can produce diamonds from lumps of coal using only the fingers of her left hand. In your thirties it's perfectly normal to have a handbag for every occasion, as well as several that may look identical to the untrained eye but are each essential wardrobe items and indispensible in their own way. And while I could tell the scantily clad 20 year olds hanging out on Orchard Road that the line between looking like a sexy siren or a slut can be defined within a few heavy handed applications of black eye make up, they'll find out themselves in a few years and think back "if I only I knew then what I know now...".

By your thirties you have the fortitude to say no to a job offer, something unthinkable in your twenties; you have good friends you can turn to for advice; and most importantly you have a life partner with whom you can make the tough decisions and look back and see how previous choices have worked out. And on days like your birthday, not only do they know your favourite brands, they have the means to splurge on you a little and make things like jet lag totally disappear for a few hours.

Back To Reality

It's an overcast morning in Singapore and as I write this, at 9:04 am, I'm trying to convince my eyelids to stay up and my brain to function through a fog of jet lag and sleep deprivation. The boys and I flew back from New Zealand yesterday, after a short week-long visit to see my grandmother (hi Nana!) before we head back to the Netherlands shortly.The first day back is always a strange day filled with feelings of displacement; it's hard to fully focus on life hear when half of your brain (and all of your internal body clock) is still focused over there.

People are often very sympathetic when they hear the boys and I are off to fly somewhere without their Dad - visions of nightmarish global treks with two screaming kids wrecking havoc on a plane filled with cursing vengeful passengers simmer just below the surface. But actually it's not that bad. I've flown 'solo' with them quite a few times; Niels first trip abroad was an oestrogen-charged trip to New York with three girlfriends when he was just five months old. Think Sex In The City with more boobs (that was me breastfeeding) and no sex. It was a great trip which Niels sadly remembers nothing of. One of my favourite memories is all five of us falling asleep on the grass in Central Park, thoroughly worn out by fun and one little baby.

Admittedly yesterdays trip had its trials. There's the old chestnut of who gets to sit by the window, how to stop a kid kicking the chair in front when their legs don't reach the foot rest so naturally just swing back and forwards, and the endless, constant, never ending retrieval of toys dropped on the floor into that dark fetid place between the life jackets which smells of feet and impending doom. Somehow growling "get it yourself" doesn't sound threatening over the roar of a 747's jet engines.

As for the kids meals, don't even get me started! Lunch turned up with a large roll of wine gum sweets, a chocolate pudding, and a bar of chocolate. Dinner was accompanied by a mini Mars bar and a Twix bar, plus the obligatory pudding. Hello, doesn't anyone planning airline meals know the effect of filling kids up with sugar then asking them to sit still for an 11 hour flight?? It's a wonder they didn't burst out of the plane like Coca Cola from a shaken can by the time we landed. At least it wasn't as bad as the last time we flew to Holland on KLM, one of the worst airlines we fly on; the kids meal was a full size Mars bar, a limp sandwich, and hot soup!!

We finally landed last night and the kids bounced up to the Dad full of enthusiasm and sugar, then bounced to the car and finally settled down enough at about 8 pm to go to bed, the equivalent of midnight New Zealand time. I had long before given up the ghost and could do no more than offer a quick kiss and unintelligible grunts as I unpacked my suitcase (which had miraculously gone from 15 kg when we left to about 25 when we returned). I made it to 10:30 before chucking in the towel, giving the bunnies a last smooch then heading off for bed.

To bed, but alas, not to sleep. First Carl needed to go to the toilet, an activity requiring an audience of at least 1. Then the bedroom door burst open and in stumbled Niels, covered head to toe in what turned out to be vomit. Holger dealt with him in the shower (coward!) while I went to change his sheets and discovered the entire room had been covered in dark purple stinky puke. His sheets. The mattress. The pillow. The floor. His beautiful pirate rug. The bottoms of my feet.The bathroom floor. The bathroom door. The door frame. The bathroom wall. In fact everywhere except in the toilet.

It took us a good half hour of intense wiping and mopping to clean it all up, while he sat pale and exhausted on a stool next to the loo, occasionally retching into it. Finally it all seemed to be over. We packed him back into a freshly made bed, hoped the air con would scrub the smell of puke out of the air by morning and headed back to bed.

At 4 am both boys were wide awake and wanting to play (of course!). At 5 am hubby gave up and went to sleep on the couch so that when the boys came into our room every quarter hour, at least they wouldn't disturb him. At 7.30 he left for work and here I am, tired, jet lagged, with hands that still smell vaguely of puke. Just got a text from my cleaner saying she can't come today sorry, hope it's not inconvenient!

Oh...and it's my birthday.

Tropical? No, But Paradise? Maybe

This is beaming into your pc from sunny New Zealand, where the temperatures have plummeted and the boys can only sleep at nights with electric blankets, two teddy bears and a large warm Mummy in their bed. Yes, it's cold, but then again, it's still beautiful and well, it's winter afterall. The days are brilliant blue, the ocean is crisp and sparkly and even in winter the grass is lush and green and some plants are flowering. It's like a diet version of the coldest season: Winter Lite.
Bay of Plenty residents are still in shock after a large snowfall on the Kaimai ranges last weekend; this in a region where they don't even build heating into homes! After 34 degree days in Singapore it was a shock to the system to say the least. Fortunately my sisters rushed to the rescue with polypropalene lcothes, spare jackets, and one even gave me her hot pink warm fluffy pyjamas to wear. We hadn't planned to visit NZ but an ill family member was a good reason to see us jetting across the Pacific for a hasty week long stay. Hubby is left holding the fort, feeding the bunnies, and manning the phone as we are trying to get rid of our furniture in preparation for our upcoming exit from Singapore. At least he has the bunnies for company.

Back From Bintan

Yes, we're back from our short break in Bintan, complete with suntans and dirty laundry. As before we had a fabulous time, and this time around got to share it with my Mum who is visiting us and returns to New Zealand today. It's been a hectic time, hence the lack of posts, but here are a couple of photos to show what we got up to.

A highlight was riding along the beach on an elephant, the friendly Bani, an 18 year old male elephant who seemed only too happy to wander like a four-legged steam roller flattening a track in the sand in exchange for a large bunch of bananas afterwards. What a life. Actually he reminded me of a few guys I used to know at university.

The weather was gorgeous as always, so we were busy applying sun block and keeping our hats on. The kids and I were fascinated to watch one of the staff catching a long, thin bright green snake which was in one of the tres by the pool, but Mum disappeared in a cloud of smoke as soon as she heard the word snake.

Bintan is only a one-hour ferry ride from Singapore so it's easy and cheap to get to, making it more like an extension of Singapore than a piece of 'real' Indonesia. It's quite expensive if you compare the prices there - all in Sing$ - to Indonesian prices but for an easy, hassle-free break it's hard to beat.

Gotta Haves...

OK I know it seems a bit frivolous but here's a couple of 'gotta haves' which I picked up at a shop called Lims. Actually there are a few of them on the island and I believe I got these from the outlet at Parkway Parade, which is miles from here but I ended up killing half an hour before an appointment and....long boring story which ends with shopping. As you do.

Anyway, the Chinese paper boxes are simply gorgeous. Currently the green one is doing time as a pen holder and the other two are on stand-by. Every panel features a different hand-sown Chinese figure, some complete with hairy moustaches and hair dos. Very cool. They cost $4, $6 and $8 respectively.

The sea-shell plates ($6 each on sale) are perfect for snacks and tasty tidbits and look simply fab. Who says nothing good comes cheap?

Bin There, Done That

Actually this post is a bit of a cheat because...I'm not here! See if you can guess where we are...there's a pretty major clue in the header although if you're not from around here you may not get it unless you are an AVID fan who can remember where we disappeared to last year for a week.


Clue: we don't have to get on a plane to get there. And yes, it's hot and sunny.

If you guess and send me an email or a comment telling me the correct answer, I PROMISE I will send you a cool prize.

Back on Friday!

Sembawang Park - Something For Everyone

One of our favourite parks in Singapore also happens to be just down the road from hubby's work in Sembawang. This district, on the northernmost coast of the island, is a varying mix of almost deserted six-lane thoroughfares and modern HDB blocks, seemingly waiting for a population influx to come and make use of the new amenities, and old (for Singapore standards) Black & White colonial houses which were built during the time the British ruled this tiny nation as an outpost of the Emipre.

I once read in the newspaper that the Singaporean government wants to increase the population from 4.6 million to 7 million by 2020 and a lot of these new citizens will be living in the north. In typically well organised style, this means that the public transport, roading, public amenitities and housing all seem to be ready and in place before the people have actually arrived. Eerily efficient.

However I digress. Nestled against the coast facing Malaysia across the narrow Johore Straits, Sembawang Park is a large, rambling affair which almost makes you forget its huge bustling neighbour, the Sembawang Shipyard. The Shipyard was a British Naval Base from 1938 to 1968. Stands of mature trees are home to hundreds of birds, and on any visit you are guaranteed to see a dozen different species. Many of the paths in the park are restored original walkways which were used during the British occupation. Wandering through the park you feel about a hundred miles from the hustle of Orchard Road, although in 45 minutes you could drive to the southernmost point of the island. Yes, it's that small.

The park is also where you can see one of Singapores last remaining natural beaches, and it's a very popular camping spot. You can camp here for free any weekend, although a permit is required. Standing on the wooden jetty watching locals catching blue crabs and fishing for small yellow finned fish, it's fun to watch the kids squealing with joy as they throw themselves from low-hanging branches into the warm waters below. In fact this is in my opinion one of the best parks to meet the locals as it's a real family spot popular for barbeques, picnics and camping year-round. On any weekend you will see clusters of little pup-tents sprouting like colourful mushrooms along the sea-front, although nearly always they are clustered together under the concrete-floored rain shelters which can't be all that comfortable. I don't know about you but the last time I fitted inside a pup-tent I was about 12 years old so it doens't appeal to me, but clearly there are plenty of adventurous Singaporeans who love to get out there and drop off to sleep enjoying the sound of the sea lapping the shore at night.

Many of the locals in this area know quite a bit of the rich history of the area and are willing to share their stories, including those about the large New Zealand Navy battalion which was permanently based here until the early 1980s. We must have made a good impression because they are always keen to ask me if I'm a kiwi when they hear my accent and share a few anecdotes.

Next to the beach you can visit Beaulieu House, an unusual flat-roofed Black & White which was once home to the British Admiral. The house is now a restaurant where you can buy great coffee-to-go if you happen to turn up early on a Sunday morning with a hangover. As you do.

This brings me to the main attraction for our lot, which is of course the large kids playground. Big enough to keep them happy for a couple of hours running around in a pack with a dozen new friends they've met that day, the playground is surrounded by huge trees and provides ample shade for weary Mums. Or those with headaches and a temporary sensitivity to loud noises and bright lights.

In all, Sembwawang Park is a great place to visit. If the nature doesn't interest you then the humungous ships and American Navy vessels being built and repaired at the shipyard next door will certainly keep you fascinated. And if you don't fancy lunch at Beaulieu House, head around to the Yacht Club on the other side of the shipyard for a slap-up Chinese meal for half the price you'd expect to pay for such good food.

Heels From Heaven

Don't you just hate it when your heels get all cracked and dry, looking and feeling like battered armour plated appendages that seem to be the missing link proving our connection to the great apes. The marble floors in the apartment have played hell with my feet over the past 21 months. Yes, I am cave woman, and I have the feet to prove it. Or at least I did, until about half an hour ago. Cast thine eyes downwards and behold: feet, reborn.

Why oh why have I never had a pedicure before?? I've hated my feet for ages when all I needed to do was lie back in a compfy chair, reading my book and sipping honey and ginger tea while a pink-robed magician worked magic on my tootsies, transforming them into something I'm quite proud to show off in a pair of strappy heels. Ooooooh, I feel the urge for a new pair of shoes coming on...

First I was soaked in a hot footbath of purple crystals which slowly transofrmed into a moisturising jelly. My feet were then individually wrapped in warm towels before being given a foot massage. Not one of those comfy fall-asleep massages mind you, but a proper Asian reflexology probing. Apparently any insomnia and digestive problems will be solved after a few sessions. Forty minutes later, after just a couple of squawks of protest (from me, not the masseuse!) my soles were draped in a therapeutic lotion-infused wrap and left to marinate for half an hour. After that, the real work began. I won't bore you with the details but let's just say that after the work out my feet gave her as she filed away, that woman could now arm wrestle professionally. Finally, my feet were well rubbed wtih a gentle moistuirser and it was time for me to leave.

As I slithered home, my feet so oily and slippery inside my sandals that passing motorists probably thought I had a displaced hip , I vowed I will do this every month to keep my feet in shape. Believe me, you should be grateful there are no before or after photos.


No more heels from hell for me!

Fidgets, Our New Favourite Playground

One of the great things about living in the tropics is the weather. It's always warm (sometimes too warm) and even when it rains, the temperature never drops below about 26 degress. Ah yes, the rain. Well, maybe there is something less than great about this aspect of the weather. When we were living in Holland long grey days of drizzly rain were not uncommon. But here, when it rains, it absolutley completely POURS down. There doens't seem to be an in between on the equator: you're either dry or you're one blocked drain away from swimming.

It's a hassle when you've got young kids generating enough excess energy to make it worthwhile selling to the national grid . Our boys need to move, and move a lot. For this reason we've become well acquiainted with most of the indoor playgrounds around the island. So far our favourite is SAFRA at Toa Payoh (Lorong 6), which has a large multi-level play structure and is very reasonably priced at about $7 for unlimited time. The lack of any facilities other than toilets mean you need to take your own drinks and food which keeps it cheap, and healthy too. We've been to Go Go Bambini at Dempsey Hill a couple of times but find it quite pricey and always too busy and incredibly ear-splittingly noisy. Just too many kids in too small a space, although the facilities (cafe and play area) are very nice and quite new.

However now there's a new kid on the block and it's become a firm favourite: Fidgets at Turf City. This is the biggest indoor playground I've found here, getting close in size to the structures you see in New Zealand and Aussie. Not surprisingly, it has been imported from Australia. With two long slides and a couple of cool innovations like the giant ball pen and large plastic bubbles fitted with steering wheels the kids can sit in, there is plenty to keep the kids happy.

Parents will be pleased to know there is an automatic ball washing machine in the ball pit; the kids put the balls into a transparent tube which sucks them up, whizzes them along the side of the structure and shoots them through a machine which washes and disinfects them, then blows the cleaned balls back into the pit. The mechanisms relies on kids feeding it balls but believe me, this isn't a problem.

Another plus for us long-suffering parents: there is a cafe serving a range of muffins and cookies, plus some reasonably healthy sandwhiches, although the selection (roast chicken with apricot sauce, roast beef with horseradish, and egg mayonnaise) wouldn't appeal to most young kids so next time I'm taking our own sandwhiches (Fidgets staff if you're reading this: sell plain Vegemite, peanut butter or jam sandwhiches and you'll make a fortune!) Finally, comfortable seating for us weary mums. So many places neglect to provide somewhere comfortable to sit and before you start thinking I'm going soft, on our second visit to Fidgets we stayed for FIVE HOURS, so imagine how you'd feel if you had nowhere decent to sit.

Price-wise the place isn't exactly cheap at $15 per kid, but this is for an unlimited play time and the facilities, such as the kid-sized toilets and hand basins and the large flat screen tvs hooked up to cameras so you can watch the kids play from the comfy sofa lounge, are by far the best I've seen.

The boys and I give Fidgets a big thumbs up. Next time you're there I'll be the harassed looking Mum listening to her iPod and writing her next blog entry long-hand in a notebook to fill in time.

Learning By Osmosis

Despite the hype about living in the digital age and how kids need to learn to use computers from a young age and programme software by the time they hit puberty, I've never really been all that keen on the kids spending a lot of time behind the screen. They both get computer time at school, so at four years old even Carl knows the basics. However both of our boys have the energy of tree squirrels on speed and need plenty of outdoor exercise, so the idea of them blobbing out behind the computer and storing up that energy until some innocent passerby like, say...their MOTHER has to try get them to sleep at night doesn't appeal. For the same reason they don't own Gameboys or Playstations. Yet.

However, the great thing about computers is of course the internet. If they get birthday money from Nana, they browse the websites of the big toy chains to see what they want to buy before we head into town. Feel like a movie? The kids check out the trailers on line first and if we decide to go, we buy the tickets on line too. Looking for cool pictures to colour in? Try the Starwars or Lego sites for instantly printable pages, and while you're at it check out the great kids games there. Niels loves You Tube for it's collection of home-made Starwars movies made with the Lego figures and clips of planes. Even Carl has his favourite site, the BBC's CBeebies site which has a huge collection of games based on their pre-school programmes. You can even choose to play games that only use the mouse, an easier option for littlies. He sits there, flicking through the game menus using the mouse with two hands, switching between full screen and regular view, closing the pages he doesn't want and hunting down his favourite characters. It really is learning by osmosis as often I'll be sitting there with him and think "I didn't know he could do that". So although their computer access is limited to about an hour or less every third or fourth day, clearly it's enough.

Au Jardin - Location, Location, Location!

For some time now we have been meaning to try out Les Amis au Jardin, a restaurant located inside the famous Botanical Gardens in Singapore. It's taken us this long because the place is always fully booked for Saturday nights, which means you need to be organised enough to place your reservation more than three days in advance. My flair for what I like to call spontaneity, and everybody probably calls disorganisation, means I rarely think to book a restaurant before Thursday. However since we were looking for somewhere special to celebrate our 11th anniversary last Friday I booked us a table and off we went.

Finding the place was the first challenge. But wait, I hear you say, how big can a garden be? Well pretty damn big actually, and the 'uncle' who was driving our taxi had no clue how to find it. The address of the restaurant is Cluny Rd and after a lengthy detour through Cluny Park Road (wrong side of the park!) we finally headed to the right entrance - the visitor centre. We stepped out into the humid darkness, silent apart from the croaking of frogs and the distant traffic noise from Bukit Timah Road. Of course at 8 pm the visitor centre and surroundings are dark and deserted, but oddly there was a man in a snappy tuxedo standing next to a golf cart. We were expected.

A quick wizz along a dimly lit fern lined path took us to au Jardin, which is inside an old Colonial house inside the grounds. Smiling staff welcomed us into the regal surrounds, and we seemed to be one of only about four couples there. We climbed the red carpeted staircase, admiring the original wood panelling and beautiful decor and were ushered to a table intimately set on a small enclosed balcony looking out into the lush ferns and tropical trees outside. What a fantastic setting!

The restaurant offers two types of menu: the 8 course degustation 'taster' menu, or the 4 course menu which you put together from a select range of fish or meat dishes. Opting for 4 courses, we were also offered a side dish of three kinds of the freshest looking mushroms I've ever seen - I expected the wiater to have dirt under his finger nails from picking them in the garden. The food was, in a word, superb. I choose the duck while Holger went for fish, and both were simply divine. The prawn and pea 'pot au feu' was a gorgeous conconction of fluffy pea souffle with succulent prawn fillets, and the tastiest fish boillion I've ever had in my life eleantly poured over the top at the table. My desert of chilled mango soup was superb, while Holger tucked into a tasty plate of suitably smelly cheeses. Something also worth mentioning was the brilliant service; our waiter knew each and every dish and could discuss the ingredients and preparation with knowledge, something you don't come across very often. Wine buffs would appreciate the wine list which was a book at least 2cm thick. We settled for a lovely Raveneau Vaillons 2004 Chablis which hit the spot perfectly.

Just when we thought we were finished and settled back to enjoy an espresso for the road, the waiter approached with slice of delicious chocolate cake on a plate decorated with Happy Anniversary written in chocolate! How sweet. We thoroughly recommend this restaurant for a special occasion or even just because, and in fact it may even come very close to rivalling Blu as our favourite - future testing will be required! One bonus was that the bill was quite a bit less than we would have expected to pay at Blu, although the fact it doesn't have a martini bar may account for some of that.

Check it out if you can, but don't forget: make a reservation!

Dragon Kiln & Pottery Jungle

There is a wonderful place hidden away down a bumpy bush lined road which in my opinion is a must see if you're looking for off-the-beaten-track Singapore. Or good, inexpensive pottery. It's called the Dragon Kiln & Pottery Jungle and is located in the west of the island just off the Jalan Bahar exit from the PIE. I first discoverd this place a few months ago but had Carl in tow and believe me, small children and towering stacks of breakable pottery don't mix, so it was a brief visit. Determined to return however, I gathered up a couple of girlfriends and headed off in the car. This is a place you can't really get to with public transport which may explain why hardly anybody seems to have heard of it.

As you enter the property the first thing you see is a huge expanse of pots spread out across what would be a big carpark if there was any room for cars left! Pots of every size and colour, from little tubs to huge pots you could house a small family in; whatever you want, its here and in 20 different colours. This display is just to get your interest piqued because the real draw is inside the sprawling complex of slightly ramshackle buildings nearby.

You first walk past the Dragon Kiln, a traditional Chinese 44 m long brick and earth structure that runs along the ground, slightly uphill. A fire is lit at the bottom end and the heat and smoke go through the kiln to exit at the other end. Temperatures reach up to 1400C! The Jalan Bahar kiln is one of the two remaining dragon kilns in Singapore. In the 1960s and 70s, it was used to fire latex cups for the surrounding rubber plantations, flower pots and other items, but fell into disrepair when demand for these items dropped. With the help of the National Heritage Board, Singapore Tourism Board and Nanyang Academy of Fine Arts, the Dragon Kiln was rescued and brought back to life in September 2006. These days it's only fired up once a year to demonstrate how it works. It must be impressive and incredibly uncomfortable to be near.

After the kiln its time to wander through the Pottery Jungle, a huge maze of pottery and ceramics from all over Asia (mostly China) covering every conceivalbe different style of pot. Traditional blue and white constrasts with modern swirls of vibrant reds and yellow; ginger jars and rice pots vie for attention with modern vases and abstract decorative pieces. Figurines, platters, bowls, fountains, foot stools, animals, wall panels, vases, urns and even complete outdoor picnic table and chair sets...all made from pottery in a thousand different hues. As you wander from one open-sided barn to the next you start to wonder if the collection will ever end. You'll soon spot the resident monkeys scooting around the beams in the roof. And yes, apparently they do break the pottery sometimes. One of the staff there told us that the monkeys "can be very naughty sometimes". Hopefully they don't actually hurl the pieces at hapless customers below!

It's an incredible place and what makes it even more appealing is that, for the most part, the pottery is quite inexpensive. What I would call the more contemporary collection of tall red/blue/yellow hued pieces were quite pricey but I picked up a traditional rice urn (to be used as a potato jar as it will provide cool dark storage) and a huge platter perfect for a pavlova or fruit or even a big salad, for just $35 each .

The staff are very pleasant and keen to answer questions. The lady who helped us was quite knowledgable about the origin of the various pieces we were interested in. Inevitably with such a huge open set up the pottery can be quite dusty, but you have to remember that a quick wipe down is all it takes to reveal the beauty beneath. This is no high street store; comfy shoes are recommended to navigate the dirt or wooden steps and pathways. We spent two hours there in the end, revived half way by bottles of chilled mineral water provided for free by the staff, a nice touch which was certainly appreciated.

My one splurge was the lamp which I bought hubby as an anniversary present, and obviously I'm not going to reveal what that cost! But it is beautiful. An air-conditioned room is stuffed with dozens of differnt lamps and lampshades, protected from the humidity by the cimate control. I've tried to photograph it but actually it's come out a bit dark; the red and blue is brighter than shown here but you'll get the idea. With typical Dutch reticence hubby's response was "hmmmmm................it's very big". I think that means he likes it.