The Big D

'tis the reason why


Menyusun jari meminta ampun,
mengundurkan diri Kak Teh memohon,
tugas mendesak hari dah singkat
akan kembali bila dah tamat.

Dear all,
As much as I'd like to stay on and merapu, I really need this intermission to finish some urgent work. Have fun, wish me luck and I will resurface once in a while for some fresh air.

Thank you all for making a very blur Mak Cik happy!

Thank you for the wishes and doa's and thank you to my fellow researchers.

My wonderful fellow researchers


Yaaaaawnnn! 

Syaer Sang Spammer

Tersebut kisah makhluk sang spammer
merayau masuk ke blog sume
tak kira sapa spam saja
nak jual barang nak promote apa?

Entri syaer ku banyak dah kena
dan kawan-kawan juga di sini sana
kami tak perlu viagra dan pill apa-apa
semuanya segar bugar sehat belaka.

Wahai Sang Spammer yang baik budi
tak ada kerja kah sehari-hari
Kak Teh dok delete dah sakit jari
pi lah buat blog sendiri.

Blog Kak Teh janganlah kacau,
kalau dikacau malam-malam mericau,
Jadi, sebelum kita jadi musuh
tolonglah – pergi main jauh-jauh!

Kalau tak juga reti bahasa,
nanti siang tak lena malam jaga,
OOD kuhantar pasti menangis,
baru lu cai makan tak habis!

Syaer Sang Isteri...[1]

Tersebutlah kisah seorang isteri,
pilu dan rawan setiap hari,
resah dan gundah tiada terperi,
dilanda rindu menggigit jari.

Dua hari sudah berlalu,
makan minum tiadalah lalu,
sesuap dua berhenti selalu,
teringatkan kasih hatiku pilu.

Pergimu itu tiada ku tahan,
dua purnama amatlah perlahan
masa berlalu menjadi dugaan,
pesananmu tiada jadi alpaan.

Sebelum kekasih pergi melayang
pesannya satu tiadalahlah kurang:
‘Tinggallah intan tinggallah sayang,
anak dan kucing berilah makang.’ (Treng.sp)

Pergilah kasih pergilah sayang,
lambaianmu masih lagi terbayang,
tiadalah lagi senda gurauan,
untuk penawar hati yang rawan.

Bisik dan janji akan kukenang,
air mata berlinang-linang
membilang hari sampai kau pulang,
tiadalah lagi hati kepalang.

Jaga diri baik-baik Tabby!

A Day at Sandhurst with Officers and Gentlemen

My earliest memory of a British soldier is one so tall that his head was touching our ceiling. But of course, it could be because I was small and short at that time, a mere toddler, (with bedak sejuk plastered on my face), that he would carry on his shoulders.

He came to the house with Pak Lang who was on leave from duties in Hong Kong. Beside him, Pak Lang looked like a midget. But he was such a gentleman, I remember that so well, because he never sort of dismissed me as a child only to be seen and not heard. I remember the black and white photograph of this officer with my Pak Lang – already yellowing at the edges.

But of course he was a gentleman. He was from Sandhurst – the Royal Military Academy – an academy that provides ‘education for gentlemen’.

The past few days, I have been mingling with such officers and gentlemen, who stood to attention when speaking to you and called you ‘maam’. And gosh, the officers do look so much younger these days and you wonder how you can trust them to defend the country.


It has been a hectic few days as the Malaysian monarch is here and what is significant about his visit is that for this year’s passing out parade, our King was given the honour by Queen Elizabeth, to represent her as Reviewing Officer at the Sovereign’s Parade. This is such an honour – there’s only a handful of other monarchs being given such honour.


Anyway, so there I was at the Royal Military College yesterday on a warm summer’s day. The weather, I was told by a young cadet, was just ideal for those on parade. Just the day before, seven passed out in the heat.

Watching the Sovereign’s Parade, so full of pomp and ceremony, so steep in tradition, brought memories of marching in step with the band, flooding back. I was in the school band and I tell you doing the slow march with the drum strapped to your body, while concentrating on how to do the drum roll at same time is not easy. I have never been much of a coordinated person, but I lasted just a year. I think I did better marching with the angklung – not the whole ensemble but just the one with the E note.

Malaysian flag over Salisbury Plains
Anyway, the sound of Negaraku, our national anthem being played in an institution so British, brought tears to my eyes. It had the same effect on me when i saw the Malaysian flag flying over Salisbury Plain the day before when I trooped along with the King’s entourage to a military site in Larkhill.

And yesterday, Malaysia’s 303rd cadet to graduate from Sandhurst was so chuffed that his Reviewing Officer was none other than his own King.
It really made his day. Malaysia started sending military officers for training at Sandhurst since 1950 and our very own King spent two years there from 1964 – 65. As His Majesty was telling us, (Ceeewah!!) as we relaxed on the balcony at Queen Building in Larkhill, after lunch of rice and vegetable curry, watching the cattles grazing in the rolling fields, he truly enjoyed the training offered by Sandhusrt. He had the opportunity to do military exercises in Libya as well as Normandy and experienced walking days and nights in the desert.

The King & I 
It was indeed a rare opportunity, to have the Monarch speaking so freely to us humble journalists, but we were truly honoured and I swear he must have waved at me from his helicopter as it circled above us before flying away.

Back to yesterday’s ceremony, I was so pleased to have this once in a life time opportunity to be there and witness such a grand occassion. It was almost like Ascot ..but for the military. The women were in really fine clothes and beautiful hats, while the men looked so elegant in their military uniforms with medals and swords. So, so handsome and smart. Our own officers were there in the crowd with their wives and you see an interesting assortments of colourful tudungs, with interesting looking hats and songkoks.

On arrival, (the security was of course very tight), we were greeted with 'Selamat pagi', by a Gurkha soldier. Aaaah, of course, I remember them. And when the King and Queen arrived, they lined the route to the pavilion where the Royal couple were sitting.

Excuse me, are you from Malaya? 
Then, as I took my seat, an elegant lady asked me, “Are you from Malaya?”, “Yes, I am from Malaysia”, I said, correcting her. She was so pleased as our presence there and the King’s made it so much more memorable for her as her grandson, the handsome chap on the white horse was commanding the parade that day.
Also, she said, she treasures so many happy memories of Malaya, where they lived for several years when her husband was the State Secretary of Penang. Her son grew up there.

Oh, there’s so much to tell, but I will let the pictures tell the rest of the story.

The Queen's 'Malay' Guard
But one last thing. As we were having our drinks in the building after the parade, we were joined by another dashing, young officer . “Hi, saya orang Melayu,” he said, not quite convincing me. Its true, he insisted, and proceeded to tell me that he was born in Jalan Imbi. His father is English and his mother, a Malay. However, he has joined the British Army and next week, this Malay officer will start his first duty, guarding the Queen of England!
Sandhurst 

Wartime stories - with the War Veterans

Its 9th August - Singapore Independence Day! And its time I dust my shelves and take out old files and albums again.
Three years ago, I attended a gathering of war veterans at the Imperial War Memorial Museum in South London where ex war prisoners met up to remember the 60th anniversary of the fall of Singapore into the hands of the Japanese on 15th February, a day that Winston Churchill described as the greatest disaster in British history. Here was what I wrote then...

"It was a cold bleak day in February when more than 100 Far Eastern PoWs and civilian internees met at this reunion, to yet again relive the experiences of working in labour camps and the notorious Death Railway and to remember their friends and relatives who did not make it home. It must have been a darker day in February 60 years ago for the Singaporeans then as well as the Allied soldiers.


Many were accompanied by their children and grandchildren and it was not difficult to spot the veterans. These British war veterans, who had served in Malaya and Singapore, came with their medals, walking sticks and in their wheelchairs and the painful, bitter memories of their embittered years as prisoners of war.

One even came with a painting of a harrowing image that still haunts his days and nights, but putting it on canvas has helped him to cope. Besides their impressive array of medals and name tags, they had colour-coded dots to help us identify them. Those with red dots, and there were quite a few of them, were prisoners of war. Green-dot bearers were civilian internees while those with blue dots were those who managed to escape and the ones with black dots were child evacuees.

But there was one distinguished-looking man whose surname could not have made it very easy for him to turn up and mingle with the rest. He was Brigadier James Percival, son of Lt-General Arthur Percival who was in command of the Allied Forces during the war. He was also the one who surrendered the supposedly-impregnable fortress of Singapore to the Japanese, which to Churchill was "a grievious and shameful blow to British prestige." The fall of Singapore did have dire consequences for the thousands of men, women and children who were forced to work in terrible conditions. Many did not survive. A few came to tell their stories again.

For the junior Percival, who himself served in Malaya fighting the terrorists in the Fifties, criticisms levelled at his father were unfair.
"He never had any conscience about surrendering Singapore because he always felt that if we had not surrendered it, the civilian population would have been annihilated by the Japanese," Percival said of his father. Although his father never spoke about the surrender, he knew that his father was bitter till his death, as all the blame for the loss of Singapore was on his shoulders. "The reason we lost that particular campaign was one of resources and we as a country were very pressed in the Middle East (and) on the Russian front. We didn't have many tanks in Malaya or sufficient ships. "So that was the result. He didn't have enough to fight with. We didn't know very much about fighting in the jungle and the Japanese knew a lot about it. He was a very honourable person and with his upbringing, he kept a stiff upper lip," said the younger Percival.

General Percival and his troops remained as prisoners of war until the end of the Second World War. He died in 1966 at the age of 78.

Robert Brook was a mere child when he and his parents were thrown into Changi prison.
"As children, we were better treated by the Japanese. They were strict with education and insisted that we be given sterilised milk," he remembers.

But for others, there were no fond memories. Wing Commander Peter Kingwill, who was a flight lieutenant with the Royal Air Force and served in Kuantan during the Japanese landing in Kota Baru, spoke of the starvation and tropical diseases he had to endure. He worked on the Death Railway for three years after his plane was shot down in southern Thailand. Not many escaped but one did and lives to tell the story. Roy Pagani, who was a corporal with the Reconnaissance Regiment, stained his skin with burnt rice and walked barefooted for 400km wearing a lungyi.

"What can I say; we were slaves on that railway track and many people died carrying the sleepers. So I had to escape."

Escape was not the end of the story, for it was only the beginning of nightmares for some.How does one cope with the trauma that haunts every waking hour only to turn into nightmares at night? Ronald Delavigne, who was imprisoned in Japan exorcised his nightmares onto canvasses. What he showed us was harrowing, what he experienced was worse. "The older I get, I become more intolerant of people who complain about being hungry, cold and wet. I think to myself, they don't know what it means to be hungry, cold or wet. But I am glad they didn't know," Delavigne says. Bitter as he is, he cannot hate his captors. He told a story about a Japanese worker, who gave him tobacco at the risk of losing his own head. The Japanese worker also helped him with his digging chores as Delavigne had broken his leg. On the day of his departure, he met the old man again and was invited into his house.

"He gave his tobacco pipe as a memento. He helped me," he sobbed. "So how can I say I hate all Japanese?"

The people in that room that day share a lot together. They appreciate solidarity, friendship and human kindness although it can be difficult for them to explain to those who never went through their ordeal. "

But pls continue sharing your stories in the entry below - ones that you hear from your parents or grandparents.

Wartime stories with Pak

It was usually late at night and this was before we bought TV from Rashid’s little shop down the road. We’d sit at his feet, breathing in the aroma from his pipe - that Curve Cut tobacco which to this day, reminds me of Pak.

Of course we had heard it so many times before, but it was nice to hear Pak talking about his youth, about the brush with the Japanese, the kinship with the British soldiers and about the not so wonderful years eating ubi kayu during the Japanese Occupation. It got better and more interesting when joined by arwah Pak Teh Ei(Ismail), huffing and puffing his cigar, with more beautiful and jaw dropping war time stories, complete with dialogues in Japanese and sound effects.


Pak was a young clerk at the land office then. Tall, fair and handsome and I imagine he cut quite a figure walking through the village collecting ‘hasil pintu’ from house to house.
And when he wasn’t doing that, he’d be playing his violin. Somehow this reminded me of Isa in Mochtar Lubis’ "Road with no End" - anotehr wartime novel. But I think, my Pak was better than that. He played his violin, while Isa let Hazil play his.

Anyway, back to the violin. It was the violin and the way he played it that put him in the good books of the Japanese. Very cultured people, the Japanese and I suppose, after all the hard work barking orders at people, they needed to let their hair down. And of course after all those other ‘strenuous’ work dealing with any form of oppositions or opponents, they needed some entertainment.

We were like ‘wow’ and imagined Pak on his not-Harley Davidson with the violin carelessly slung over his shoulders and Panama hat at a certain tilt on his head, certain to have broken not a few hearts, making his way to the cafe where he played. He was always in suits – white suit, complete with a handkerchief, neatly pressed and perfumed, tucked in his top pocket.

I often wonder what he played to entertain the Japanese. Never thought of asking. But I suppose if the Japanese soldiers said 'Play' – you play, whatever came to mind, if not no place for Panama to rest on. So, in a way, my parents who by then had one child, were quite fortunate to escape the wrath of the occupying troops. Mak said, because Pak was so fair and almost reddish in complexion, the soldiers would come and hug and sniff him first, to see whether he smelt British.

There were many other horror stories about the atrocities. And we would listen mouth wide open and knees shaking not quite believing that the Japanese were capable of that, until I watched some of their daring fear factor kind of programmes. But you see, those were war time situation. What excuse now for those test your endurance kind of programme?

And he’d sing us a Japanese song – a compulsory one for all to learn and sing in the presence of Japanese soldiers. I once sang that to a Japanese friend and she shuddered! We heard too about those Japanese currency - often referred to as 'duit pokok pisang' - which became quite worthless towards the end of the war. And very, very often when we didnt finish our rice, Mak used to remind us the days when they had to survive on tapioca and nothing else. That did the trick.

Pak also told of one lucky escape by a British soldier who was running away from his captors. Risking his own life and that of our family, he hid the soldier in the house, and Mak put the young soldier's uniform in the tub of water under the house. For that he should be given the Purple heart, no?

Oh, well, quite recently, I chanced upon a book by Adibah Amin - 'Tempat Jatuh Lagi Dikenang', a beautiful war time story as told by a five year old girl. It was funny, informative and well-written, Kak Adib style , of course. And that too brought me back to the days of sitting by Pak's feet in the front room, listening to his wartime stories, breathing in the aroma of Curve Cut tobacco from his pipe.

Remembering Hiroshima

The deadly mushroom

I was deep into the intrigues and romance of an eighteenth century Malay syaer when I was called upon to participate in a ceremony in a building next door. At 0815 on 6^th of August 1945, just as the people of Hiroshima were starting their morning, the then newly created weapon of mass destruction, the atomic bomb, was dropped on the city by a US plane, ensuring that for at least 140,000 people, they never got to see another tomorrow. Thousands more suffered the after effects either physically or mentally. Many still carry the scars and one of them was Dr Sato of Three Wheels, who conducted the solemn ceremony at the Japanese Garden of the Brunei Gallery yesterday.

No more Hiroshima

60 years on

With 9/11,7/7, 21/7, Hiroshima seems a million years ago and so, so far away from what’s happening on my doorsteps, so I am very grateful to fellow blogger Lacrema for inviting me to this simple yet beautiful ceremony – lest we forget.

solemn ceremony

With the wailing of sirens in the background, Dr Sato, who was only 5 when it happened, urged that there should never be a repeat of Hiroshima and lets not forget, Nagasaki. He remembers a lost uncle, a grandmother and many more. Many Japanese who were present yesterday must know of someone who perished or suffered or continue to suffer.

lacrema

Lacrema, a member of the Shino Arisawa group, played traditional Japanese music to mark the occassion.
Indeed, here in the UK, ceremonies to remember the victims were held everywhere.
Whatever the politics, let’s take a minute to remember the innocent ones.

the group

Sing again, Uncle....

Yesterday T, my batman, was in such a rush. He had an assignment. To push uncle, in his wheelchair fom his flat to the hospital – a good 20 minute walk. He’d drop anything for uncle. I can almost imagine him and uncle in the wheelchair crossing the A-40. Ten years ago, the picture was different. It was uncle who was pushing little T in his pushchair, while singing to him songs from his favourite Bollywood movies. Little T would laugh and giggle and little N would say, “Sing again, Uncle”, and he would oblige.

It moved me to tears just thinking about this role reversal.

Uncle, who I called Abang and his wife, Kakak, are such a huge part in our life that without them, living away for so long, doing what I do, would not have been possible. They became our extended family in this country we have adopted as home.

Abang and Kakak came to London perhaps forty years ago. Being a staff of the British airforce in Singapore afforded Abang the luxury to seek employment here. But that wasn’t the reason that brought him here. Abang was riding pillion in a busy street in Singapore forty years ago, when his motorcycle was knocked down by a car – the driver a British officer. It was tragic because Abang lost a leg. And not only that, the officer returned to England, without paying the compensation for the injury.

It was the search for this officer that brought him and his young bride here. But luck was not on his side and he found jobs here and there and later worked with the London Transport. When we found this lovely couple, they already had four children, living in a council flat in west London.

When we had our first, we could still afford a nanny who would come to work with me and look after the baby at the office. You see, we would never leave our first born with anyone. Then, there were times when both my husband and I had the same assignment and that would mean having to leave H with the nanny. But to cut the story short, someone recommended Kakak and on our first meeting with the family, we knew we could leave our baby with them. H was one when he went to Kakak and Abang and that was 23 years ago. Since then, both Kakak and Abang were there from day one of my other children. The children were well fed and happy and clean! We’d take them there in the mornings and come back in the evenings, sometimes late, to find them under the duvet with Abang, watching TV. And the youngest one would always be under Kakak’s huge jubbah or cradled in her warm embrace. So comfortable, so loved.

A daily phone call from the office, would be something like this:
Me: Hello, kakak. Budak2 buat apa tu?
Kakak: T tidur. Dia tidur jam satu...er..satu empat puluh....(turning to Abang) satu empat puluh berapa, Bang?
(Abang, in the background): Satu empat puluh tiga, kut)
Kakak: Aa ahah..satu empat puluh tiga dia tidur sampai pukul tiga dua puluh, kalau tak salah. Lepas tu...

How can I not be assured when I got such detailed reports like this. But I always made sure never to phone her minutes before going to the studio cos, there was a time when she said, "Ahhh tadi kakak tengok dia main kat ampai di luar..ermmm sekarang mana entah...”
Eeeekk, I’d be panicking right thru the transmission!

Most of the time, when its winter and Abang had to work late, we’d take him to his workplace because walking on icy paths with one wooden leg can be very dangerous. And T would cry his heart out as he couldn't bear to see uncle going to work. Come morning, when we took them to their house again, Abang would be back from work and the children, would then rush to disturb him in deep sleep.

Their children – much older – became my children’s adopted siblings. We’d ferry them off on Saturdays to the mosque for their religious classes. Now they are all married with families of their own.

Our children soon acquired a funny kind of language:

“Mama, aunty bilang hari dua dia kasi barang tu,” said H.

Hah? when did my children learn this strange kind of Malay?

And, from Abang, they acquired: “Ya maaan! “ That, from his West Indian workmates.

Once we were on working holiday in Vienna, the children were getting restless in the hotel room and then started singing Hindi songs, much to our amazement. Apparently, Abang, an avid fan of Bollywood movies, had been entertaining them with Bollywood all time greats! And P Ramlee classics too.

Kakak, bless her, was more than a childminder to us. On arrival at their small council flat to fetch the children, there’d tea or dinner ready for us. Or, if she knew I’d have guests, she’d pack food ready for us to take home. How spoilt I was compared to my friends back Malaysia who had to suffer heartaches when dealing with maids.

Anyway, as the children grew up, Kakak took on other children. But Abang, by then had bought a gleaming Mercedes with his pension money and was ferrying T to and from school. This, inspite of our protests that the school is just behind our house.

It was only until recently that we didn't need a childminder but the children still went to see their uncle and Aunty down the road.They still send cards for Mother's Day or Father's Day and never forgot their birthdays. We had actually bought a house to be near them. And the last few years, Abang’s health had deteriorated. His amputated leg which was always giving him phantom itch, was becoming more of a problem. He couldn't walk now and his hands tremble so much, he couldn't feed himself. When Kakak went back to Singapore for a while , our H spent two weeks looking after his Uncle. I asked him what he did.

“I had to button his shirts and cut up his food,” he said trying to hide the sadness in his voice. Sometimes, he helped his Uncle to shave.

“That was what he used to do to you when you were small, H” Abang and Kakak looked after our children in a way that disqualified me as a parent.

Abang doesn’t go out much now, only trips to the hospital. Kakak, who has severe chest pains, goes to her weekly mengaji at the mosque and T would sit with his uncle, cutting up his food and help him to the bathroom.

I admit I have not done much recently, too absorbed and too selfish in my pursuit in I dont know what. But I am thankful that my children see that it is now time they look after their Uncle and Aunty.

"Sing, Uncle..." and I imagine the sound of Junglee drifting along with the busy traffic of A40.

Obsessions...

He came into the kitchen ever so quietly that he startled me as I stood poised, ladle in hand, dueting with David, or was it Loga, while we were well into the second CD. He had that look in his eyes, making me terribly conscious of my uncombed mess, the faded baju kelawar and the smell of lamb curry clinging on to my body. Also, I was very conscious of the fact that the children were still at home. So, ladle in hand, I was ready to fight him off. Instead, in a very quiet and calm voice he said, “Look into my eyes,” and like a fool, and already mesmerised, I did.

“Look into my eyes,” he repeated. Its been quite a while and I was getting quite uneasy and a tad suspicious of his intentions, too early in the morning and all that.

“Look into my eyes,” he was persistent and raised his hands in front of my face, in the manner of Kenny Craig, the hypnotist in Little Britain.

“Look into my eyes. You are going to forget this song. You are going to hate the AlleyCats and never play their ............”

The ladle fell from my hand and I managed to look away just in time before I fell under his spell! How could he! It had always been the Alleycats that accompanied my daily humdrum in the kichen, entertaining me from my newly acquired CD player, specially bought for moi kitchen. They had been the inspiration for the spread that I produce daily on the table and he wants them to stop singing for me? My daughter phoned from Cairo and the first sentence was, “Mama, you’re still listening to them?” T, the usually so calm and sensible T hurt me so much when he said, “Aren’t you bored with the same songs, Mama?” Are they trying to tell me something?

I knew it would come to this and without shame I admit: My name is Kak Teh and I am an Alleycats addict!

It has only been what...three months and its not as if I ‘ve been playing every song – only three or four favourite ones, again and again and again. Is that so wrong? Yes, so David and Loga are the flavour of the moment. It has always been like that, once I get something into my systems, its kind of difficult to flush them out. The rest around me will have to endure...earplugs and all. My husband did whisper to David when we were having dinner, “Its not so much your singing, er nothing personal, but its when she starts singing too, especially when she’s got the headphone on!” Oh, dear!

Anyway, its not just the Alleycats! There’s my obsession with anything chocolatey! I’ll give just one or two examples. When Fererero Roche first came into the market, I had nothing else but...and couldnt get enough of them. He bought two big boxes as we were going to visit friends. Then he said, don’t cook anything as we were going to eat out. But he came back late , you see. Not my fault at all. I sat there, watching the TV, seven months pregnant, and looked at the two boxes just beckoning and inviting me. Within one hour, I finished one box and in the following hour, the second one became history. By the time my husband came back, I was so sick that until now, I do not want to see another Ferrero Roche, not even the advertisement. And that was 22 years ago! It was the same with Cocoa Dusted Almond Chocolate that melts in your mouth and explodes in all manners that is sinful to your system. It used to be availble at such horrendous price only during Christmas in wicked little packages that sort of wink at you when you walk past. Now, its everywhere – even at Tesco’s. Then its the chocolate truffle cake that you could only get at those smart cafes of Grosvenor House Hotel at exorbitant price per slice. We used to make several visits there as no where else could offer anything so wickedly delicious, until of course my husband did a survey and found Maison Boquillon which offered a whole chocolate truffle cake with chocolate dust topping, for a mere £15.00. So, that would be it... for every occassion – birthday, dinner, tea, something to take to friends’....it’ll be chocolate truffle cake! And then came Galaxy, cheap but a gift from heaven. While in labour with my fourth, my husband bought a few bars and we ate in between contractions. He just knew how to dilate , er I mean, delight me.

Oh, the list seems to be endless where chocolates are concerned. But, I was also and still into cheese too. Cheese roll, cheese cakes, spring onion flavoured crackers with soft creamy cheese and better still Boursin. I could break down and cry if I dont get my weekly dose of soft creamy cheese., especially the one from Marks & Sparks.

And not forgettting salt beef sandwiches, of course. I’d never forget that cold wintry night, when my hubby trudged back to the shop in central London, just because the lady loves Salt Beef! And all because he came back and bragged that he just ate them at the office!

When Subway sandwiches was all the rave, I ‘d queue up patiently just for its mozzarella cheese topped freshly baked bread that smells yummy, with tuna mayo filling with generous dollops of more mayo..sigh! A friend shook her head in amazement when I took the bus around Holborn searching for another Subway because the one next to the uni ran out of mozzarella topped bread.

Aaaahh, did I tell you about Thai Sing?? Thai Sing Laksa Paste? I counted my lucky stars the day I stumbled upon this dollop of heaven in a jar at Tawana Thai Supermarket in Chepstow Road. These little darlings were tucked somewhere between satay sauce and habhal kicap that you could almost missed them. I then introduced it to my chums at Rantauan.com and had members from all over the world drooling their way to oriental supermakets in LA, San Francisco, Melbourne, Germany and Holland, in search of Thai Sing. The sales report for last year must have been quite a nice surprise for the manufacturers as it registered a surge in sales around the world.

So, you can imagine, once I get on to something, a good song, a nice recipe...that will be all the family and cats will hear and eat.

But, how my family indulges me! My husband especially, but he has a cunning way of exorcising these obsessions out of me...but, of courselah, he remains my all time obsession.