Strange things in a Strange Land

When you move to a new country noticing cultural differences is common. Adjusting to these differences can be the biggest obstacle you need to overcome before you start to feel like you are part of a community. Sometimes it never happens. Sometimes the things you see are so bizarre and unfathomable that you find yourself waking in the middle of the night screaming: 'NOOO, not my favourite tekkies!'*

I've been noticing these:

What does it mean? Is it part of a group initiation ritual here and if I'm called upon to take part do I get to choose the tekkies I chuck? What if I can't get them to loop over? Do I get some practice throws? Does everybody know about this ritual except me?

I really don't know how I'm managing to sleep at all with this mystery haunting my every waking thought.

*trainers

Aren't they lovely?

Meet my new obsession: shoes!

Da Do Run Run Da Do Run Run

I've told you all about my new running mission. It has been going quite well - I've steadily built myself up to 7 minute running slots - so I run for 7 minutes walk for 2, run for 7 walk for 2, you get the idea? This for a *pka these-legs-were-made-for-walking-girl is quite an achievement.

I just did a little victory dance all by myself. It is an impressive routine - you'd laugh your ass off!

Yesterday, however, (even longer pause for effect) I couldn't, I just couldn't, get out of my bed at 5:15am. I'm not a morning person. Never have been and I'm working on training myself to be one. One change at a time. The Sun, unfortunately, love, love, loves the morning and in my neck of the woods is rising earlier and earlier making a later running time not just exercise but a torture session in Hell.

So instead I headed to the gym and selected a treadmill closest to the fan. Warmed up with a 2 minute fast paced walk and then off I ran, and ran, and ran, and ran. 14 minutes later I returned to walking pace. That's a doubling of my normal time. I was too shy to do my victory dance at the gym but I imagined myself doing it in my head. I am legen-wait-for-it-dary (I do love Barney Stinson)

How does that happen? Is it easier to run on a treadmill? My legs are stiff as sticks today so I must have used different muscles. Any experts out there know why I can run for so much longer?
I'm almost afraid to hit the rugby field again - my mere 7 minutes is going to feel like failure.

Got to run (love a bad pun) - catch you later!

*previously known as

All the better to hear you with my dears!

I got my assignment done and in good time you will all be pleased to know. I do love William Shakespeare. So much so that I've contemplated naming my unborn children after his characters. If only the boys names weren't so, well, so naffy. Now I know naffy isn't a real word but sometimes no real words fit and then you have to make up new ones to get your point across. It is allowed. I've decreed it.

Seriously though - can you imagine how much a young lad would be teased on the playground with a name like Horatio, Romeo or Mercutio?

That brings me to another topic entirely: Plastic Surgery. I've got ears. Two of them, in fact. They perform their function more than adequately and I really can't complain about their size. Small, dainty- even been called pixie like. Have a look at a Pixie's ears, will you please? Cute, little, often pointy (mine lack that characteristic) and they protrude. Beautiful!

Therein lies my complex.

Up till the age of 9 I was totally unaware of the protrudingness (another one of my own words) of my ears. That all changed when I started at a new school and made a new best friend. My best friend and I were as inseparable as best friends could be. Teachers even used to confuse us because apparently we looked alike enough to be sisters. BF obviously did not like this confusion. On the first day back at school in the third term I went to sit next to her as usual at the desk we shared.

BF: 'I don't want you to sit here'

Me: 'But why?'

BF: 'I don't want to be your friend any more'

Me: 'But why?'

BF: 'Because I don't like your ears!'

True story. And so began my love/hate relationship with my ears. I begged my Mom to let me have the operation to put my ears back. She put the case to my father who declared, 'There is nothing wrong with your ears.' Wallet closed. I did inherit my ears from my Dad so I think he was a little sad that I wanted to undo this genetic connection.

As I've grown older I've outgrown the complex but still whenever I'm asked would you ever have Plastic surgery and, if so, what would you like to change? My first choice is always 'My ears!'

What would you change?