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My grandfather, my “ah gong”. I don’t really know how to start this post, except to say that every single year at Chinese New Year, I miss my ah gong more than you’d expect and surprisingly, more than even I expect. I never knew him very well ~ I was born in Australia, but we moved back to Malaysia when I was a wee bundle of fat rolls, because he was old and his health was ailing. He passed away in December 1986. I had just turned seven. 
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As we all knew (and quite probably ignored), Valentine’s Day came and went last Sunday. While I’m not a frothing-at-the-mouth anti-Vday lunatic, I do believe that the day was created to take advantage of those blindly in love, laying duty in men’s hearts and desire in women’s, so that gifts are given, plus flowers, plus chocolates, plus a prerequisite card. The blindness of love is a Godsend on this day, because without it, you would see that Hallmark had just yanked the biggest leg of all, pocketing billions upon billions, on this one day. Having said all that, Valentine’s day does bring happiness to a significant number of people in this world, and no one will question that. Couples are loved up, and singles party on, on what is probably the easiest day of the year to spot fellow singles. So I don’t hate, not at all.
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Last week, I gave y’all a lesson about crabs and their hepatopancreas. Ok fine, I didn’t give a lesson I gave a link, but whatever, you’re now more knowledgeable than you were before so I rest my case. All that talk about hepatopancreases (my new favourite word) pulled at my heart strings, which I know sounds weird, like why would crab “mustard” make me all sad, but it does. And it does because… I miss my daddy. And his chilli crabs. (in that order).
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Somehow, some how, we made it to Chamonix last week. After spending a gruelling 16 hours at Gatwick Airport due to flight delays (I think I topped up my frequent flyer points from the number of loo visits I made) and then being cancelled again at the end of the 16 hours, we somehow managed to make our way to Stansted Airport, and then to Chamonix, albeit 27 hours later than planned. We were all cranky and tired and quite possibly very smelly, but arriving in Chamonix was like one of those lightbulb moments. Not so much like we had a great idea, because believe me, our brains were not thinking, but more like ah-haaaaah… ahhhhhhhh (that’s the glorious sound of me realising something). The wondrousness of the place, the snow capped mountains and seemingly endless runs of white powder ~ it is seriously mesmerising and a natural upper like you can’t imagine. After the 27 hour commute, we arrived and literally picked up our skis and hit the slopes straight away.
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So, I don’t talk about my “work” very much, because we all know what happens when you talk about your work. Yes, that’s right, you get dooced, you then call yourself dooce, and you make millions of bucks out of blogging the conundrums of OH MY GOD only the coolest life in the world. I mean, a hubby who looks like an older, cuddlier version of Aidan from SATC, two awesome dogs, a gorgeous daughter and hands down the cutest baby on the planet. No, I don’t want to talk about my work at all. Or do I?
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