Going to a Go-Go

Have you ever hankered after tinkling the ivories but were stymied by a complete lack of length in your fat little digits? Ever been the disappointed one turned away in the queue for hand cream models because your stubby fingers were too Shrek-like to pass the grade? Were you forced down the career path of butchery because, lets face it, those pork sausages you had sprouting from your palms were not really suited to the fine motor skills required of a brain surgeon?

Despair no more, for help is at hand (groan!)…

Just around the corner from our humble abode in Phnom Penh city is a beauty shop. Ah, but clearly not only a beauty shop, also a place where dreams come true in a magical scented haze of all-round wonderfulness, for not only will they ‘iron the hair to make it straight’ and ‘make the face to white’ (is Michael Jackson their best customer, I wonder?) but they also promise, for the princely sum of only $10.00, to, wait for it…

‘perfume the fingers to be slim…’

Yippee! A new career awaits me…
‘Oh, I just loved his Bach variations, so fluid, so emotive the way his beautiful, long fingers glided so effortlessly over the keys…’
‘Yes! Yes! And his hands smell so nice…’

I bet Rick Wakeman goes there too.

I’m pretty sure he doesn’t go to the one I spotted some months back close to BKK market, where a somewhat graphic piece of naïve art accompanies the assertion that not only can this establishment provide all the usual skin-whitening processes, but can also ‘cover all kind of bruises’ that a woman may be forced to endure in her daily routine. A sad reminder that this is still a male-dominated society, and that too often that domination is reinforced by the application of a fist…

I’m still as bemused and confused and amused by everyday life in the Cambodian capital as I was when I began writing this blog. Every day continues to bring new things to wonder at. Why is a gigantic office block being built near us opposite the site of a smaller office block that was forced to close earlier this month because… well, because no-one can afford to rent offices… ? Why do so many vehicles have no number plates, tinted glass and mini televisions showing Tom and Jerry cartoons smack in the middle of the dashboard? How many Hummers is it possible to fit on the sidewalk outside Malis’s restaurant? (Arlo Guthrie, there’s a song in there for you somewhere…) Why have Lucky Market suddenly stopped selling mayonnaise (until last week there were three shelves full of variations on the stuff, now they lie empty and forlorn – it’s either a melamine-type scare that we don’t know about yet, panic buying by foreigners (?), or it just simply has ceased to exist, like sun-dried tomatoes. We used to buy some lovely sun-dried tomatoes from the small deli counter in Lucky’s until the day they were no longer there, and the staff conspiratorially informed me that sorry sir, sun-dried tomatoes no longer existed, had vanished off the face of the earth forever, had ‘done a dodo’, etc etc. I simply haven’t had the heart to tell them about deli Le Duo’s range of sun-dried t…………….

Of course, if I get bored at being stuck in morning rush hour traffic with only the sight of two senior policemen driving at high speed in their very large SUV down what most people actually do now realise is the wrong side of Norodom Boulevard whilst simultaneously guzzling from cans of ABC beer (8.00am… isn’t that a little early, gentlemen?), then I can always drift off into a gentle reverie about little O. One morning this week, he finally completed his metamorphosis into a petulant teenager. I came into his room to give him his morning greeting at around 6.00am, and there he was, lying on his back across his bed, hands clasped behind his neck, knees up, gazing at the ceiling fan with a look of utter boredom on his face.

‘Hello! How are you today, O?’ Daddy enquires.

‘Go away!’ says O.

All well and good, but he’s TWO, forgoodnessake! TWO!


He can climb the stairs approximately 2.8 times faster than I can (and in all probability descend faster, but thank the good lord I have not yet witnessed that particular heart-stopping exercise – our stairs are like the Odessa steps with a bend in the middle).
He can completely (and silently) disappear, and then reappear in a completely different place less than 5 milliseconds later.
He can store an entire packet of Chocolate Buttons in one cheek, some cheese and ham in the other and still manage to chew and swallow eggy toast soldiers at the same time.
He can lower his trousers/pants/nappy and pee at will, and in any situation, providing it causes the maximum annoyance/embarrassment to his parents.
He can open locked doors in the blink of an eye, and can lock doors that have no key finally and irrevocably.
He can programme an I-Pod and change DVDs with incredible speed and dexterity, and he employs his own form of censorship upon the adults in the house by switching off any television programme that does not meet with his approval…
He covertly works for a secret organisation whose mission is to rid the world of all remote control devices, but particularly those for TVs and DVDs.
Or perhaps he covertly works for the woman in the market who sells remote controls – we are undoubtedly her best customers, and come to think of it she does seem to have some unspoken dialogue between O and her when we make our almost weekly pilgrimage to replace them…


Awww…he’s truly, truly wonderful. Our lives are just so much better for him being around, and each day brings new surprises and moments to melt the hardest of hearts (mine particularly). I’ve never wanted to be one of those ‘my kid is wonderful, blah blah blah’, parents, but it’s my blog and I’ll blag if I want to… so there!

Let’s talk about music again. You have to admit that going for about seven paragraphs hardly mentioning any music is pretty good, isn’t it? I quite often ponder in an ‘out-of-the-body-experience’ manner at the stylistic leaps I take in my listening habits. Last few weeks it’s been mainly the bleak English folktronica of July Skies emanating from my trusty and battered I-Pod and speaker pillow (remind me to elucidate at a later date on that particular wonder…), this week it’s Motown. I’m actually ‘listening’ to those songs that soundtracked a great deal of my adolescence, as opposed to living with them , and I am marvelling in a frankly gobsmacked manner at just how amazing the production was on the classic Motown tracks, and how vital and alive everything sounded (and still sounds today.) Every note in the right place, every component of the mix exactly where it should be in the sonic palette. Wow. Far out. Although the early 1970s was largely the domain of progressive rock in the circles I moved in, nearly every party came to the point where the only thing to do was to haul ‘L.A. Woman’ off the turntable and replace it with the silver Motown Chartbusters Volume 3 album, which would inevitably, as Pink might say, really ‘get the party started’. There were other volumes (one, volume 6 I believe, even had a Roger Dean sleeve! How that confused the progressive fraternity!), but 3 was the tried and trusted partystarter in our remote neck of the woods. The moment ‘Í heard it through the grapevine’ kicked in, all manner of solitary dizzy hippy hopping gave way to Soul Train-esque funky choreography, or so we thought in our naïve northern Scottish way… I’m sure Rufus Thomas must have taken inspiration from the ineptness of some of us ‘funky chickens’ gyrating drunkenly in the tiny wee kitchen of a tiny wee hoose in a tiny wee toon, with elbows akimbo, emerging like a hairier and scarier Pan’s People through a fog of strangely sweet-smelling smoke, Newcastle Brown and vodka-and-orange-wi’-a-wee-drappie-o’-water fumes…

The latter drink was the closest at that point that I had come to a cocktail. I still recall the burning chemical aftertaste of the potent mix of Smirnoff and diluting orange (Oh boy, was it ORANGE. Colourings and preservatives were essential parts of the deadly mix!), with the edge just slightly dulled by the brackish warm water…such sophistication! I truly did not become a fully paid up member of the suave and urbane world of the real cocktail drinker until one memorable afternoon in Edinburgh in the early 1980s, in Refreshers Cocktail Bar, when Donald McIntosh and I decided we would drink our way through the card…. but that’s another story for another time….

Oh well, that’s enough reminiscing for now. I wonder (if I can stop A from laughing too much) if I can teach little O the moves for ‘Going to a go-go’ ….

(cue funky guitar and rolling piano lick)

‘Watch me now!!!’