Redsaid

Today, let us for once not look before we leap. Instead, let’s make like frogs and just hop to it! Let us leap at the chance to take a leap of faith. (Although, preferably not by literally flinging ourselves from church steeples, mosque minarets, or cathedral domes). Let’s stop leaping to conclusions! Let’s leap off our high horses and, while we’re at it, off the bandwagon too. Leap for joy! If we do, life might just improve in leaps and bounds.

Happy leap day, everyone! And happy 9th official birthday to my first grade teacher's daughter! 

The light slants through the windows above. Their arches are tell-tale clues that this was once a church. Now it is an art gallery, but sacred once again. I leave my sisters at the door and walk forward, suddenly frantic to find him among all the others.

I scan along the walls and spot him against the front wall. It is a close-up of his face, but it does not quite look like him, which, in a way, is almost a relief. I can’t place my finger on what exactly it is that the artist did not nail. Is his nose too crooked? The shape of his eyes a little off? Yet, with a few violent brush strokes, she had skilfully managed to capture enough of his essence to create a recognisable likeness of my late brother-in-law. It is an impressive achievement, considering that she never met him in person and only had a photograph to work from. There is no denying that she is extremely gifted.

Later, during the exhibition’s opening address, we learn that these fifty individual portraits of my brother-in-law and others form part of one work. Fifty; because that, according to officials, is the amount of people that are murdered in South Africa on a daily basis. However, some say that 150 murder victims a day is a far more accurate figure.

On February 18, 2011, my vibrant, jovial and strong brother-in-law became part of those statistics when he was shot to death at his farmhouse in the middle of the night while trying to stave off a gang of intruders. My sister and then 7-year old nephew witnessed the entire horror.

A year and a week later, I still cannot grasp – and don’t think I ever will – why this awful thing had to happen to my beautiful, kind sister; my sweet nephew and my darling little niece. I don’t know why a decent, honest, hard-working man, who meant so much to so many people, had to die at just 44 years old. Why he won’t get to see my nephew and niece grow up; grow old with my sister...

He will forever have the dubious honour of being the first farmer to be murdered in this area. Thankfully, his memory has not been eclipsed by his headline-grabbing death. The way in which he lived his too short life was so much bigger that the horrible way in which he died. It speaks volumes about his character that many of his friends – large, burly men – are still unable to refer to him without breaking down and unabashedly sobbing like babies. He was not famous, yet he has had a street named after him in a new development here in town. (To be more precise, it’s a ‘Way’, which is hilariously appropriate, because – as I joked to my sister – he always got his way. Adding “Street”, “Lane”, or “Boulevard” after his name simply would not have had the same ring to it.)

However, he would have loathed all of this attention. He was a man of deeds, not words. We always knew he was generous, but not even my sister was aware of how often he helped others, because he never boasted about it. It was only after his death that we began learning how often and how much he had done for scores of people.

Less than eight weeks before his death, and just a few days before Christmas ’10, he was held up at gunpoint at a friend’s restaurant while making a delivery. Luckily he and all the other victims emerged from the experience physically unarmed. Two days after that, he gave me a ride to his beach house where we were going to celebrate and spend Christmas weekend. In the car, he told me some of what happened. I told him how glad I was that he was okay, and he laughingly patted my arm and said: “So you’ll miss me if I’m no longer around?” I pulled a face at him and said: “Maybe. Just a teeny tiny bit.”

Now I can assure him that all of us miss him desperately, every single day.

As you may or may not be aware, I have a day job as a technology writer/blogger. Yes, me. A person who has been known to, on occasion, make gadgets explode. Gadgets that are not bombs and are therefore not supposed to detonate. Ever.

But luckily my employers have decided that, since my knowledge of technology is even less than scant, I am somehow the perfect candidate to explain it to people who are as dumb as I am also a little less than perfectly confident and knowledgeable about the subject. So I'm very grateful and I absolutely adore my job!

Since I write about tech, you might be under the impression that I tote around all the latest and greatest blinged out gadgetry. Not so, I'm afraid. I own nothing with an on/off button that is less than two years old. The laptop I'm writing this on right now clangs and bangs so much when I type, a typewriter would have been less noisy! (On good days, it makes me feel like a female Bob Woodward. On bad days, it simply gives me a headache!)

And my phone... Yes, it is smarter than me (doesn't take much), but it too is ancient decidedly vintage. It is a BlackBerry Curve 8900, complete with a trackball (remember those?) and I absolutely love it. Despite being a circa 2008 model (which is akin to centuries in technological years), it is new-to-me. I inherited it from my sister last year when she upgraded to a Torch.

In using this BlackBerry, I have learned quite a few things. Including what a Java-enabled handset does NOT mean! Here, I'll let this "news report" explain...

Stellenbosch – The life of a gorgeous local communicator is hanging by a thread after a tragic – yet, in retrospect, rather inevitable – encounter with a cup of coffee.

Miss BiBi (full name BlackBerry) Curve had been in critical condition on a sun-drenched windowsill of a farmhouse situated on the outskirts of town since having a horrific encounter with a steaming mug of java. The unfortunate accident happened way before the crack of noon on Wednesday morning. By Thursday, BiBi’s condition had deteriorated to such an extent that the device was urgently transported to a cellular repair shop in town.

Her guardian, local blogger Redsaid, was allegedly responsible. (Although several witnesses have already – and slightly too eagerly, if you ask us – issued sworn statements, gleefully saying that they saw her do it with their own eyes.)

Redsaid, who has recently taken guardianship of BiBi from her sister, is rumoured to be a hardcore caffeine addict.  “But don’t think you’ll catch her in local coffee bars or cafés. She’s far more insidious about it,” said an anonymous source claiming to be a close family confidante. “She’s the type that drinks at home. ALONE.”

Leaning in, the confidante... erm... confided: “She is the one who should be drying out right now, if you know what I mean.”

An investigation into Redsaid’s sordid past has revealed a disturbing trend. “This woman has a shocking track record when assuming guardianship of electronics. Various devices, from cameras, to smartphones, to not-so-smartphones... have reached awful endings while in her care. And a few of them were still so young, they were hardly out of their boxes!”  revealed yet another anonymous source.

At the windowsill, a visibly upset Redsaid was constantly seen by BiBi’s side, regularly checking the handset’s vitals and incessantly knocking back mugs containing an unidentified beverage that had a distinct, suspiciously coffee-like aroma.

She was too distraught to comment, but the thumb on her right hand - the one that she uses to controll BiBi’s trackball - was twitching forlornly.

Hello my scores of darling imaginary readers! (Yes, I know, there used to be only three of you, but I have decided that,  since you are imaginary, I might as well go all out and pretend that there are billions of you!)

I feel that a formal salutation is in order. I was going to just start and pretend that this chasm of blogging inactivity spanning three months (to the day!) didn't really happen. However, since that is a long stretch of blog silence, even for the likes of me (The World's Official Laziest Blogger, seven years running), I realised that trying to casually brush over it might not quite cut it.

I suppose now you want to hear where I've been, right (demanding beasts that you are)? Well, apart from Taiwan six months ago (which you know about and will continue to hear about soon, I promise), a brief sojourn to the beach for a long weekend during December, and apart from currently being Out of My Home Town... the answer is, rather sadly: nowhere.

So what have I been doing, I hear you ask? (My, but you guys are curious! Quit interrogating me!)

We have moved from my sister's farm (an undertaking which, I'm convinced, was more epic than the Afrikaner's Groot Trek itself). My sister and the kids are now living a block from my tiny, crumbling little hovel in a beautifully restored house which I'm hoping will eventually feel like home for them as well.

The move was horribly traumatic. While we were all still staying on the farm, it was easy to get stuck in denial; to ignore the terrible truth and pretend that last year's tragedy didn't happen; to stubbornly keep believing (hoping?) that my brother-in-law would come strutting back into the house at any second. The day we finally shut that front door behind us and drove away, I sobbed so much that I had to pull over for a while.

It feels strange not living with them anymore, but when I'm in town (which is most of the time), I'm still over at theirs almost every night, having supper and reading to my nephew. But I'll tell you more about how they are doing in another post - honest. (Probably in about two years' time!)

In the mean time, I'm back and you'll hear from me a tiny bit more often from now on. And yes, I do realise that this is a scary prospect indeed...

Even though it is already early evening, a gust of steamy air engulfs me as I step off the China Airlines plane at Taipei's Taoyuan Airport. Even after experiencing this same suffocating level of humidity at Hong Kong's Airport just hours before, it is still a shock to my system following the mild winter weather I've left behind in South Africa.

The airport terminal, although air conditioned, still offers little respite and I suddenly feel like a hot, sticky mess. However, I suspect that this may have as much to do with my uncontrollable nerves as it does with the heat. I can't believe that this is finally it; that we are here at last and that my adventure as a mature-in-age-yet-childlike-in-attitude-and-personality as a HomeStay participant is about to begin. I never in a million years thought that I would ever have the opportunity to experience what it is like to be a foreign exchange student of sorts, especially not as an old foagie in my mid-thirties!

Not having learned her lesson before, my editor kindly waits for me so that we can go through immigration together. For some reason, I never received the customs form to fill out on the flight over from Hong Kong (perhaps I didn't stick out like a sore thumb quite enough among all the Asian passengers?), so I have to complete it at the desk. Once again, Ms. Editor patiently waits for me while I deal with yet another immigration official. Luckily everything goes without a hitch this time and we walk into the arrival hall together.

A group of sign-wielding, beaming SayTaiwan volunteers are there to welcome us and to make us feel like total celebrities. Smiling and introducing themselves in broken English, they usher us towards a meet and greet area off to the side of the terminal. It is here that we at last meet Taiwanese Southern African and our overworked SayTaiwan coordinator, Alice. After having communicated by Facebook for the past two and a half months, it is wonderful to meet her in person at last. Accomplished and amazingly multilingual, she is so much younger than I had expected her to be, but every bit as beautiful and kind as I had imagined her.

Guided by more volunteers, we are given a goodie bag containing a Motorola cellphone loaded with 300 New Taiwan Dollar (NTD) in credit; a smart card to be loaded with money for use on Taiwan's public transit systems; and an ID badge. The latter is large and laminated and contains our full names in the front along with the fact that we're "International Guests" and the name, address and telephone number of our host families at the back in Chinese characters. I find this oddly comforting. We are instructed to wear it around our necks, and we obediently slip it over our heads. Ms. Editor runs over to get my number and promises to remain in touch, before she is off to meet her host family who has come to meet her at the airport.

After signing a release form to indicate that I've indeed received the Motorola, I quickly unzip my big suitcase to give Alice her present: the biggest box of Weetbix cereal sold in South African grocery stores. Shortly after befriending her on Facebook and learning that she is originally from my neighbouring country Namibia, I asked her if she had requests for any goodies from home that I could bring for her. "Weetbix!" was her first and almost immediate reply. She accepts it gratefully and tells me that she's not held a box of it in about three years.

"My" kind Taiwanese volunteer then leads me to the bus stop outside and kindly waits with me for the bus to arrive that would transport my luggage and I to the high speed rail station from where I will board train that would take me to Taichung City to begin my HomeStay adventure with the Hung family.

Blog Post Powered by a Sony Vaio Y courtesy of Sony South Africa.

The ceiling fan lazily twirls, playfully tugging at the tied-back net curtains framing the sliding glass doors. I'm sitting cross-legged on the legless chair, the netbook on the low coffee table/desk in front of me. This floor level chair is surprisingly comfortable - even for someone who is as stiff-limbed as I am. I'm actually amazed at how entirely at home I already feel, considering that there is at least six thousand miles between this beautiful, spacious guestroom I'm in and my own minuscule place in South Africa.

I marvel at how lucky I am to be here and think of the journey that has brought me to this amazing place. During the long trip here, the reality of where I was going only sank in after I found my seat on the South African Airways Airbus bound for Hong Kong. I was suddenly surrounded by passengers of Asian descent, many of whom spoke very little or no English at all. I quickly realised this when I located my seat only to find a young Chinese woman in it. She was cradling a tiny baby and I apologetically asked her to move. When she looked at me blankly, I flashed her what I hoped was a rueful smile and pointed at the seat number on my ticket. When realisation hit, she immediately and graciously moved over.

Not having to make small talk for once was actually welcome, because I was exhausted. I almost did not get to be on that plane, though! Due to a 30 minute flight delay in Cape Town, which had been the starting point of my trip a few hours before, there had been just a few minutes to spare to make it to the connecting flight in Johannesburg.

On that flight to Johannesburg, I actually had a bit of a surreal moment. The man a seat over from me was reading one of the Afrikaans daily newspapers, and suddenly, when he turned the page, I glanced over only to gasp with shock. Right there, on the page he had turned to, was a full-colour and way too big photograph of MY awful mug! (Luckily I'd had the foresight to camouflage my body behind my laptop when I had my mom take the picture earlier that week.) The article was about this very trip I was embarking on. Just before we landed, I summoned up the courage to ask him if I could please have that section of the paper. Without a flicker of recognition, he handed it over. So much for my newfound "fame"...

Fellow SayTaiwan delegates Dan, my editor and I had to make a mad dash through OR Tambo Airport to get from domestic arrivals to customs and security to reach our departing plane on time. My editor had kindly waited so that she could meet Dan and I at domestic arrivals, so we all sprinted (okay, so perhaps it was more like slowly limped, in my sad case) all the way to international departures.

I was so excited at seeing my editor again, and that - coupled with my usual scatter-brain and our haste - caused me to run straight through the security checkpoint at customs. I only realised that I didn't have my carry-on case with me when we were already half-way through the terminal. I was remarking on how cleverly light Dan and my editor were both travelling when it suddenly hit me that I was also carrying a much lighter load than I had been just moments before.

"My carry-on case!" With those breathless words, I turned on my heel and this time REALLY RAN back to customs, my heart in my throat and panic levels rising.

When I arrived back at the security checkpoint where I'd idiotically left my case, the officers immediately knew that I was THAT GIRL WHO RAN AWAY WITHOUT HER SUITCASE. This must've raised their suspicions, because they all regarded me with stark faces.

The offending case was - I was relieved to note - still in one piece on the pre-screening side of the checkpoint. "Why did you go without your suitcase?" the one female officer asked, accusingly pointing a white-gloved finger at me.

"Erm... I'm sorry!" I said, harried and anxious to grab it and go. "I'm very excited to be going overseas!"

"It's good that you're excited," she said. "You only live once." I almost laughed out loud at the situation, which was becoming increasingly bizarre. However, any intentions of smiling, let alone guffawing, vanished when the official refused to hand over my suitcase so that I could make a beeline for the flight.

"No," she said firmly when I tried to reach for it and gripped it even tighter. "You have a bottle in here."

"I do?" As soon as I'd said it, I realised that this was a mistake.

"You don't know that you have a bottle in here?"she asked incredulously.

"No... I mean, yes, of course I know," I stammered, my panic levels soaring once more as I see my editor anxiously waiting on the other side of the gate. "I meant to phrase it as a reply, not a question."

"Open your case, please," she sternly commanded.

I helplessly tapped my watch, and, realising that any further protestations would be futile, just surrendered at unzipped the case. She lifted everything out until she found the package that had so beautifully been wrapped by my sister.

"This one has the bottle inside," she said. I swallowed back the overwhelming urge to congratulate her on her psychic ability and just decided to resort to grovelling instead.

"Please?" I begged. "I'm going to stay with a foreign family and this is a gift for them to say thank you and to share our wonderful culture with them."

She clicked her tongue with what I mistook for sympathy and for a split second I was almost hopeful. But she was unmoved by my explanation. "You can check it in, otherwise we have to take it."

"But I'm going to miss my flight! I don't have TIME to go and check it in..." Arguing was just wasting even more time, so I simply ripped open the package and opened the box. "There, take this," I said, handing over the special edition bottle of Amarula. "But I'm keeping the glasses."

With that I was free to go. Needless to say, as soon as we reached the duty free shop, I promptly replaced the confiscated Amarula with an even larger bottle. Joining up with Dan later, I found out that he had been forced to sacrifice a bottle of wine to them. I'm still wondering whether customs and security officials at OR Tambo don't perhaps get a kickback on all the goods passengers buy at the airport's duty free shops to replace the items that had been confiscated by them.

We finally boarded the plane with just a few minutes to spare until take-off.

Blog Post Powered by a Sony Vaio Y courtesy of Sony South Africa. 

Just as I had feared, I ended up breaking every etiquette rule in the book.

I blame it on the crocodile complex. As soon as you’re told that you should under no circumstances utter the word crocodile or even think about a crocodile, that is the ONLY reptile that slithers to mind, isn’t it? (Do crocodiles even slither? I know they have legs, but those are such squat little things, and... okay then, never mind...)

In case you have NO IDEA what I’m on about (as usual), I’m talking about my now-not-so-recent-anymore trip to Taiwan. At last. What can I say? I have always been known for my breathtakingly snappy, tell-it-even-before-it-has-happened style of reporting and blogging.

Oh, and yes! Hello! It’s good to see you again too after all these months of unexplained, deafening silence, my three imaginary readers!

I have begun diarising the trip in minute details elsewhere (including how I committed several cardinal sins with chopsticks), but before I either disclose the link to that site (doubtful, since it contains an unfortunate shot of my mug), or shamelessly copy and paste some of what I’ve written there onto here (more likely, since I’m notoriously lazy), I just have to tell you a few things I’ve learned about travelling to Taiwan.

I know I've titled this blog post “101 things about Taiwan” - since it has such a downright poetic ring to it and also since it has the added bonus of subtly paying homage to the towering Taipei 101 skyscraper in Taipei - but that by no means implies that I’m now actually going to dream up one hundred and one things. Because that is a LOT of things. Even someone who sucks at Mathematics as badly as I do knows THAT much.

So here then, just this one thing, for now, but it is a rather profound truth:

When you travel to Taiwan, get used to frequently hearing the following question before your departure: “So, you’re going to Thailand?” And after your return, get used to those same friends and even strangers coming up to you and asking: “So, how was your trip to Thailand?” 

For some reason, many folks tend to get those two vastly different (despite the fact that both are Asian) T(h)ais mixed up.

But instead of getting all knotted up about it (geddit? GEDDIT?) I patiently respond: “Not the land where they make  Ladyboys. The land where they make La-Z-Boys!”

TOLD you it was profound.

P.S. As for whether La-Z-Boy recliners are really manufactured in Taiwan? Google kindly confirmed it as fact. Never mind that I had to ever-so-gently manipulate the search a few times before it gave me the desired result...

I’ve been so busy trying to master a bewildering array of skills – not the least of which includes the art of eating with chopsticks – in preparation of this upcoming journey, that I’ve not had the time or the fingers left to reach out to this keyboard and let you, my three loyal imaginary readers, know what is going on.

And I leave TOMORROW. EEEK!

Where did these past two and a half months go?! And why did I ever stupidly, naively think that it would be MORE than enough time to lose 15 kilos and finally realise my dreams of uncovering my cheekbones (long lost – since birth, actually); become fluent in Mandarin (HAHAHAHA! I can’t even say hello without putting the rising intonation on the wrong syllable and therefore changing what ought to be a safe pleasantry into a linguistic landmine of potential insult…); AND find the perfect wardrobe that would deceive everyone into believing that I DO have cheekbones. And hip bones. And collar bones.

On the upside: Thanks to inyourFacebook, I have already forged firm friendships with some of the other international delegates and cannot WAIT to finally meet them in person. AND I have gotten in touch with my host family! A process which makes me feel like an alien making contact with humans for the first time.

At first, I was informed that I had another host family in a different area. But then, just two weeks ago, before I had even said as much as a virtual hello to them, I was told that they withdrew. No reasons were given, but I suspect that they took one look at my awful photograph and the essays I had written, and were forever traumatised.

My new family is located in Taichung City, the third largest in Taiwan and, according to the Google oracle, about two hundred kilometres southwest of the capital Taipei. They consist of 21-year old Tanya and her younger sister Page, their mom and their dad. I’ve been in e-mail contact with the sisters, exchanging photos (yes, I figured to just get the harsh truth out of the way quickly) and they look and sound utterly adorable and so-so-sooo kind. They are ALREADY going out of their way to make me feel extremely welcome and I’ve already fallen for the lot of them. Their mom can’t speak English, so coupled with my lack of Mandarin, I’m bound to be a farcical picture of wild gesturing – which, really, is not too unlike my usual mode of communication. However, according to the research I’ve done, even such innocent charades could lead to plenty of unwitting insults and rudeness. Winking is considered vulgar and so is the way in which we use our finger to beckon someone towards us.

And speaking of hands and fingers, that reminds me: the training on the chopsticks… it is not going so well, I’m afraid. Then again, my crippling lack of dexterity even makes eating with the aid of pronged and bladed western utensils a right – forgive me – fork up most of the time, so it really isn't that surprising that my chopsticks-wielding chops aren't up to snuff. After all, I can't even play Chopsticks on the piano!

I could either starve, which is not too likely, since I have way too many fat reserves in my backside, front side and side sides to fall back on. If you think that this might just be the thing to make me lose all this excess weight I’ve been lugging around since birth (WhadoyouMEAN I can’t still call it baby fat at 36?!), my reserves will mean that even if I don’t manage to successfully transport a single grain of rice into my mouth for the next two weeks? I probably won’t even lose a gram…

(Blog post powered by this shiny new accessory I’ve been sporting…)

It all began about two months ago when I received an email from my gorgeous editor. "How would you like to go to Frightfully-Exotic-Destination-Far-Out-Of-The-Country?" (She actually called the place by its proper name, of course. This is just me, up to my usual amateurish writing tricks.)

My reply was probably half-incoherent as usual, but I DO recall that I said something along the lines of: "AREYOUKIDDINGME? Of COURSE I do! I want to go ANYWHERE!" (Yes, I always yell at her on email.)

Unfortunately my hysterical over-enthusiasm and willingness did not make it a done deal. Not by far. We had to actually enter a global competition first. This required us to complete a flurry of virtual application forms, answer almost 200 questions, write some essays, take pictures (UGH! WHY do people need to see what a writer looks like?!?), submitting all of it on time and crossing our fingers until they turned red then blue then black.

Being my usual 'optimistic' self, I decided not to get my hopes up at all. So I tried my best to forget about the contest (HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Right, because I don't fixate. At all) and just carry on with my no-life life. Two weeks ago, Ms Gorgeous Editor and I both received emails informing us that we had made it through to the semi-finals. (I wasn't surprised about her success. I've been telling her all along to just pack her bags already.) One step closer to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but I still didn't dare to think about it.

Thing is, as always when I forbid myself to do something, my lack of any self-discipline results in me hardly thinking about anything ELSE! I even went as far as joining the contest's Facebook page, Googling the amazing destination, reading travel articles about it and losing myself in the photographs. But then I'd crossly remind myself to yank my hopes back to earth in order to protect myself from sure, heart-shattering disappointment.

But yesterday morning really early, LONG before my usual wake-up time of round about the crack o' noonish, I got up and obsessively calmly checked the website to see who had been selected. The press release stated the usual "everyone was amazing, but sadly we couldn't pick you all" consolation. (Don't they KNOW that stroking your ego before brutally crushing it just makes the horrible news even WORSE?) Then they said that the chosen ones include the likes of Olympic medalists, beauty queens, Harvard grads... and that one guy even received a personal endorsement from his country's head of state, and I knew right then and there with such a crystal clear certainty that I was out. So I climbed back into bed, curled into a ball and told myself that not being picked isn't the end of the world.

I was just drifting back to sleep when a text message notification on my phone woke me up. It was Ms Gorgeous Editor and she told me that she has made it!!!!!

And... she told me... so have I.

SO HAVE I!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

On August 12, her and I and two other Saffas will be jetted off to Taiwan for two glorious weeks to attend the Republic of China (Taiwan) International Youth (! According to the Taiwanese, I'm still youthful!)  Centennial Homestay celebrations with 246 other people from around the globe. We will be staying with host families and all we have to do in return for being handed this amazing adventure is to tell the world (or, in my case, my three imaginary readers) about our experiences on our blogs, on Twitter, on Facebook, or whatever other social media platforms we have available to us.

I honestly still can't believe it! I keep on staring at the list of names, expecting my (horrible) name to disappear from it when they realise their terrible mistake at including the likes of me. (I'm just kidding, judges! Please don't get any ideas?!?)

One thing is certain: I would NOT have this to look forward to had it not been for the help and encouragement of many people, from former and current employers, fellow bloggers and co-workers writing me the most lovely references, to family, to the few other people I had confided in about entering. My Gorgeous Editor has my eternal gratitude for telling me about it and inviting me to enter in the first place. I know she has told me to stop thanking her already, but wow... how can I ever thank her ENOUGH?

There is Elaine, the fabulous lady from the Taipei Liaison Office in South Africa who bent over backwards for me and graciously answered all my queries during the application process.

Then there is my darling friend Lemony, who patiently sat up with me until the wee hours (while she was ill, no less!) to listen to me stress and vent and moan and cry, making me cup after cup of coffee and just generally calming me down and jotting down my answers to the questionnaires faster than I could even dictate it! I guess you'll be getting that souvenir from Taiwan after all, Lemony!

And of course, none of this would be possible without Alice and the rest of the SayTaiwan Homestay organisers and judges.

Although I am definitely walking on clouds, my joy has been a tad subdued and bittersweet. As some of you know, this year has been particularly awful for my family. Three months later, we're still reeling from my brother-in-law's murder. I'd be lying if I said that I don't feel guilty for having this thrilling opportunity land in my lap at a time when my sister is hurting so deeply.

But bless her, for despite her grief, she is so genuinely, unselfishly happy for me...

Apparently my blog is a late bloomer. At the positively ancient age of seven years, it has began displaying shockingly rude behaviour more befitting of a l'enfant terrible of two.


One of my NON-imaginary readers (GASP!) has informed me that she had tried leaving me a comment, only to be met with the following curt response: "Text entered was wrong. Try again."

When I tried, I received the same message!

Either the blog has turned supremely bratty, or it has (belatedly) decided to punish me for all these previous years of extreme neglect by becoming a ruthless editor. Blog, baby, that will be fine, I obviously need the help. But please, learn to channel your anger into the right direction? Do not alienate my lone non-imaginary reader by wrongfully lashing out at her! That's just childish.

Update: Mysteriously, it seems to suddenly be working again now.  But please, dear imaginary (and any other kind) readers, feel free to shower me with praise comments just so that we can be 100% sure!