A Thief in the Night ...

I had a few hundred dollars (and a few pounds) of left over allowance and per diem from my trip to London. I was accounting for the money, you see, and would soon be returning the balance of the liquidatable funds to my company. I knew exactly how much foreign currency I had. And I kept it in my wallet, ready to be returned as soon as the filed liquidation report was approved ...

A few days after I returned from the trip, I lost US$200 (2 US$100 bills) and about Php2,500 (part of the money that I had withdrawn from the ATM to pay for my electric bill). I was fairly certain it was my 19-year old maid who took the money.

... I sometimes leave my bag, with my wallet inside, you see, on the dining table in my home overnight, and in the course of the 8 months that this maid had been employed in my home, every so often (when I was careless), I would lose maybe Php500, Php1,000, at a time. Nothing big, really. Nothing you couldn't easily dismiss as money spent or money you simply didn't have in the first place. I was, however, suspicious ...

But because I discovered the loss of the US$200 bills maybe days after they were stolen, it would be difficult, I thought, to prove I had lost them at home so I couldn't confront my maid with the theft. In the days after the loss, I was careful to keep my bag inside my bedroom - well, at least until Friday night, when I simply forgot to do so. So on Saturday morning, upon waking, I counted the money in my wallet and discovered another US$100 bill missing. And this time, I knew I lost the money during the night ...

I confronted my maid - I had to - she was the only person, really, who was up before everyone else and so had the opportunity to take the money. The thief initially denied taking it. So I conducted a surprise search of her belongings, keeping her at all times out of her room. My gamble paid off; I found the money ... and more.

I was lucky, I guess, that my maid wasn't smart enough to think I that I would notice the loss of US$100 bills - valuable currency I don't usually carry around. Maybe, she also got greedy ... and careless ...

The newly-stolen US$100 bill I found in a small coin purse she kept on a rickety shelf, almost in plain view. I had discovered the theft too early, apparently, so she didn't have time to hide it. She initially lied that it was money her mother had sent her. But as her mother's not an OFW, and I called her a liar, she eventually admitted filching it from my wallet (She would lie many times over during my search -- insisting each time I found a new stolen article that that was absolutely the "last" thing I would find). I could've called off the search; after all, I had recovered my most recent loss. But I wanted the US$200 back, too ...

I was shocked at what I found inside her closet: a pair of southsea pearl earrings I thought I had misplaced some months ago, a watch, a UK£10 bill (which, of course, she couldn't deny taking from me), yes, the US$200 I lost the week before and US$200 more (lost on a previous occasion), and a wad of Php200, Php500 and Php1,000 bills totalling over Php30,000!! - her stash over the 8 months that she had been stealing from me (I found out later she was "saving" money to go to Japan ...). The money was carefully wrapped and sealed inside white letter envelopes and hidden amongst other papers inside her closet, behind her clothes.

But what was chilling were the small things of absolutely no value that she stole: hair clips, a small bottle of cheap cologne, plastic bead bracelets, a pair of lip balms I had bought in London, and (horrors) pictures of my family. I almost wept. That I felt violated in my own home is a gross understatement. I had actually housed this dangerous kleptomaniac where my 2 year old daughter eats and sleeps!

I reported the incident to the police but decided, partly out of pity, not to have the thief locked up. I didn't want to waste any more of my time on her anyway. And the trauma of discovering her betrayal had drained me of all energy to prosecute. We did, however, make it crystal clear to her that she could be arrested anytime ...

My husband asked me how I could have trusted this stranger with my things ... How could I have been so careless, so casual, so incautious? I retorted angrily, shouldn't I be able to act and move around freely in my own home?!

The officer-in-charge at the police station correctly wrote in his police report the charge against my maid: "Qualified Theft" - that is, theft committed with abuse of confidence or trust. There is a name for this crime because it happens. I can't believe I, a lawyer, forgot this.

I may never sleep soundly ever again.

The Food Bloody Sucks ...

After the thrill of Wimbledon, we decided to take an early, leisurely dinner in one of London's most famous tourist hangouts -- Covent Garden. We had actually hoped to catch the weekend market, but were told that the market opens only on Mondays (and it was a Sunday). Bollocks ...

We ordered Angus beef kebabs and chicken stew at Covent Garden Kitchen. Remember the name so you never have to suffer the unpleasant gastronomic experience we did. The beef kebabs were ... (I kid you not) ... green ... and the chicken was, well, a flavorless, grubby mush. Worse, we had to pay £17 for the meal! £17 !!!

English cuisine is simply ... weird. The famous British scones are crumbly and tasteless, English sausages (called "bangers") transform into bricks in your belly (the black sausages are particularly nasty), nothing is ever cooked right. I was glad I stayed away from shepherd's pie -- looking at its generous topping of gooey, icky brown sauce is enough to make you gag. And the English find it moral to charge you in pounds, and how, for this junk?!

But I can't, and won't, be unjust ... Peking Duck at The Dorchester's China Tang and Chicken Tikka Curry, Grilled Lamb, Black Lentils and Roti bread at Tamarind on Queen St. were most agreeable. And I didn't mind paying £80 for the Indian meal ... (you can't go to London anyway without sampling the Indian food, which has become the preeminent English fare, made less spicy and strong to appeal to the otherwise bland English taste)

They say the English are snotty, haughty and arrogant ... Maybe they appear to be so because they have to tense their buns all day to keep in all that ... er ... gas ...

Wow Wimbledon!

I dragged Hubby out of the comfort of The Dorchester to line up ... er... queue for tickets at Wimbledon. Not that I had any hopes that we could actually lay our hands on court tickets but I thought, well, we're in London ... what the heck ... it was worth a shot to get into the grounds, at least. So there we were on a train to Southfields on our first day in Majestic London ...

We bought some tasteless hamburgers and powdered chocolate mixed in boiling water and found our place on the queue ... #300 and 301, the queue cards read ... Goody. It was still a bit chilly out (thank goodness that as the day progressed, the weather improved dramatically) but I was soon warmed, 40 minutes after we got onto the queue, when the "stewards" happily announced that our "chaunces" were good for Court 1 tickets to the Women's Doubles Finals. So we thought, our "chaunces" must be even better for a perch on Henman Hill, and as we were early, a good view of the giant tv screen that was to broadcast the Men's Finals -- Live!

And what a final it promised to be -- my man Roger Federer vs. two-time French Open champion, Rafael Nadal (the only player on the tour who can claim a head-to-head lead over Roger -- 6 to 1).

Security was strict (you had to pass through double metal detectors and subject yourself to frisking) but pretty soon, I had in my hands Ground Tickets for only £5 each!

Henman Hill (or soon-to-be Andy Murray Hill, I expect) became a throbbing, champagne-drinking, smoking, laughing, jeering mass of manic fans. The Hill applauded each time the sun peeped out from behind the clouds. As is the custom, we ate strawberries-and-cream, but contented ourselves with simply watching champagne corks flying across the Hill. (It is also apparently the custom to cheer when someone gets hit ... )

This was our view from our perch at around 11 am (Looks farther than it actually was) before most of the crowd swooped in ...

2 teenage girls (one brunette, the other a redhead, see picture above) sat in front of us on the sloping grass. They whispered and wiggled and giggled and braided each other's hair and ate ice cream and drank cokes and, generally, annoyed the hell out of me. I thought, Hmph ... obviously Nadal groupies ... not tennis fans at all. They cheered each time Nadal won a point, giggled when Rafa adjusted his wedgie, and squealed in delight at each close-up shot of the No. 2 seed on the gigantic tv.

An Australian girl beside me was better company. She was a genuine Federer fan (she knew all his year-to-date stats and win-loss records), queued from 5 a.m. to get “good seats” on The Hill, and missed work the Friday before to watch Nadal’s semi-final match (throughout which she claimed she wished for him to lose to Marcos Baghdatis). In addition, she was also glad Amelie Mauresmo finally won what we both believed to be her first Grand Slam title (Her “walk over” to win the Australian crown was anti-climactic and unfair …) My kinda fan …

The match was EXCELLENT!!! The 2 annoying teenage girls were relatively quiet the entire first set, which Nadal lost embarrassingly at 6-0, for most of the tiebreak on the second, and then also after Nadal lost the match at 6-3 on the fourth. And my man, Roger, won convincingly against an opponent many thought was THE ONLY MAN who could dethrone him.

The atmosphere ... The experience was like ... like ... your first car ... your first ever paycheck ... your first bite into Godiva chocolate ... English cream (with anything but the overrated scones ... pronounced sconz, we were told) ... a hard massage after a long day’s work ... getting promoted ... witnessing your boss mess up before his bosses (again! and again!) ...

Willing the feelings to last me till Manila, I bought an official Wimbledon tee for £23!!! Over the budget but, man, oh soooo worth it.

Feeling like I can do anything (Hey, everyone said it would be impossible ... but I was really really there!), I secured an application for the 2007 Championships ... I'm keeping my fingers crossed ...

The Dorchester

We arrive at The Dorchester (yes, that magnificent hotel) and the doorman declares, almost apologetically, seeing that my nose was frozen red (and was perhaps slowly turning blue), "Bin awl sun the pawst days, reeli ... Thiz heye's ou fae-st drizzle thiz week!" As if I really needed to be told that WE brought the rains with us. I thought, never mind.

Must put on sunniest face. Am in London!!! And in fabulous Dorchester! -- the doorman in a cheery red and gold suit, fresh flowers fabulously arranged atop huge marble column urns, hotel staff constantly referring to me as "Madame" ("Why, of course, Madame ... "; "Right away, Madame ... " "As you wish, Madame ..."), real silver (as in, sterling) and real porcelain dishes on the tables, embroidered silk table napkins, broccade-upholstered chairs and settees.

Everything was fabulous -- I mean, I actually realized I never knew the meaning of fabulous until I saw the Dorchester. At first glance, I thought it "unimpressive" -- the lobby is small compared to those of Manila's hotels -- but, man, every detail of the hotel spoke to me, "You cud say the Dawchesta is a smawl 3.0c but intah-nally flawless diamond; awl othas, I'm afrayd, may be as huge as Ms. Hilton's 24.0 c, but ahr veri sadly incluuuded reeli ..."

Hubby and I are led to our room by the reception clerk, who gives us a tour of -- get this -- our own room! She drawled as we reached the bathroom ... "The bawth is the deepest bawth in the whooole of Lundun ... and it fils in only unda twooo minits!" (I would have a chance to confirm her claim only a week later!).

Amidst the glory of the Dorchester, you can imagine, I very soon forgot that it was raining out ...

Bugger, It's Cold ...

We officially arrive in the "happening" city of London in the morning of July 9th at 5 am. It was wet and gloomy and the air was heavy with the smell of rain. And it was bloody cold. Horrors. This is SUMMER?! As I walked out of the airport, luggage in tow, fingers numb, my nose running, I ran through the entire wardrobe I packed in my head, trying to recall if I packed anything remotely appropriate: a few shirts (mostly short-sleeved -- yikes), jeans , a few summer slacks (casual khakis, another white, another green), denim skirt, 4 pairs of shoes (including my favorite open-toed wedge sandals), 3 bags ... er ... purses (they needed to match my outfits!), denim shorts, light jackets (2 of them courtesy of my fabulous friend, Audine), a single pair of socks! I mean, I wanted to look the "smart" traveler (as in, stylish for what I thought would be warm weather but also clever -- you know, not much packed but always looking fabulous?) but realized as soon as the pilot said "10 degrees" that I was screwed.

To some of you who may read this, 10 degrees isn't exactly "snowing out." But this is a girl used to the sun and the humidity of Manila, who thinks 32-37 degree temperatures are "normal", and whose idea of "cold" is the airconditioner set to #4 (10 being the lowest temp).

I wondered how -- and when -- all this cold happened exactly. I mean, I had closely watched Wimbledon over the last 2 weeks and, unless the tv can actually lie, I thought, London is having a hot, sunny summer -- the tennis fans in the stands actually wore tanks and tees. Goody!

I got on the famous London black cab feeling stupid, that is, to have thought that London weather was predictable, and muttering to myself, How ever could I look and be fab here when I'm literally shivering in my shoes?

Happy, Mad, Silly, Sad

To all parents who have ever given their kid the wrong medication (or the wrong dosage!), procrastinated about taking him to his first visit to the dentist, given him a sponge bath while he's sleeping, or other similar parental "mistakes" (I've done all these myself -- sorry, baby), this post is for you.

My 2 1/2 year old daughter, Maia, absolutely loves the "Happy, Mad, Silly, Sad" episode of Barney (yep, that annoying purple Dinosaur with an even more annoying sidekick, Baby Bop). I've watched this episode so many, many times, I've memorized all the songs! One such song goes, in part:

"Sometimes I feel happy / and that's just fine with me / I think feeling happy is my favorite way to be / You can tell I'm happy by the smile on my face / Yes, sometimes I feel happy / you can see it on my face ...

Sometimes I feel angry / 'cause some things make me mad / I get so upset whenever someone treats me bad / You can tell I'm angry by the frown on my face / Yes, sometimes I feel angry / You can see it on my face ...

Sometimes I feel sad / 'cause some things make me blue / I pucker up my little lip and cry a tear or two / You can tell I'm sad by the look on my face / Yes, sometimes I feel sad / you can see it on my face ...

Yes, I can tell what you're feeling ... I can see it on your face ..."

So, this afternoon Maia was "performing" the song for her lola (her grandmother), complete with funny facial expressions for each "feeling" described in the song (she will be an actress when she grows up, I just know it), and I made the "mistake" of asking her little cousin, Tina, who happened to be around, to show me her happy and mad faces.

Tina's Dad jumps at me, "Heidi, no, no, don't," he says, "We'd rather not teach her those things ..."

I didn't get what he was saying at first so I asked, "What?"

Tina's mom pipes in, "He (Tina's Dad) doesn't like talking to her of any feeling other than happy." (Or some sorry explanation like that.)

I wanted to retort, "So you don't talk to her about feelings?," but bit my lip. I had no business telling another kid's parents how to raise their child.

But I thought, Wow. I always assumed that all parents want their kids to know it's alright for them to feel sad or mad. I mean, it's one thing to protect your child from things and people that make her sad or mad; it's quite another to protect her from the feeling itself. I mean, you're essentially telling her she can't ever feel bad. (I've found an interesting read on the subject, incidentally, on BabyCenter.com -- a great resource for parents, like me, who oftentimes get lost in all the new -- as opposed to your parents' -- "rules" about raising a child. It says validating negative emotions and verbalizing feelings allows kids to develop the skills needed to better manage them.)

So I was totally flabbergasted to learn that poor Tina (who is only turning 2 next week) has essentially been told she can't or shouldn't feel anything but happy. And equally flabbergasted to be told that I was somehow teaching the child something wrong when I asked her to show me her "mad" face. Well, whatever ... Tina's not my kid, thank God. So it's none of my business really what her parents teach her. I have to deal with my own parental mistakes. They can go ahead and commit their own.

The other day, Maia tells me, her lips in an exaggerated pout, "Mama, I sad." So I ask her why in my most sympathetic, worried tone and she replies, "Because Baby Anne (the doll she was then carrying) is cuying (crying; Maia's not quite mastered her "r's" yet). She's sick." (I later learned the doll had fallen off the bed.) She quickly rubs the doll's forehead saying, "Oh, my poor baby." Then she gently kisses the doll's cheek and asks, "Bettey?"

I have a feeling we're doing okay ...

Elliott

I can't believe I've not written about Elliott yet. As in, Elliott Yamin. I'm a huge, huge fan and I thought it one of the saddest days in music history when Elliott got eliminated from American Idol 5 instead of Katharine McPhee. I remember I was so distraught I SMS'd my friend: Elliott has diabetes and wears an insulin pump 24/7, has an original, clearly identifiable sound, is consistently good, is kind, humble, and soft-spoken, and is devoted to his mother. Katharine McPhee has big boobs. That's the American audience for you.

I know, in my heart, however, that Elliott will become a big recording star (outshining even winner Taylor Hicks) and sell a gazillion albums. Already, he has been touted as the favorite of the top 10 Idols on tour this year (See the Lycos story that says so on Yaminions -- well, of course they'd say so!). A movie will be made on his life and he will be played by some charming unknown who will also become a huge star. The movie will chronicle how he grew from perennial underdog to the modern American hero -- a Cinderella man -- overcoming everything from diabetes, to bad teeth, to Simon Cowell.

I am keeping track of him and his career. Although I hear he has yet to sign a record contract, I am certain an original Elliott Yamin will hit the airwaves soon. If you want to keep track of Elliott's career with me, visit Yamin Machine and Yaminions (my favorites of the Elliott Yamin fan sites), and this blog, every so often for news and media of Elliott.