Farewell, My Home

I have grown up in the shadows of Mt. Matutum, looming imposingly in the horizon while I played hide and seek with my younger siblings and visiting cousins in the vast playground of our childhood, through a maze of corn stalks with the sound of livestock in the background.



My parents were tenants of a farm owned by distant relations and for the first eight years of my life, my home was an iconic Filipino stilt house, with walls made of bamboo mats and a thatched nipa roof, which extended gradually until we had cemented flooring that felt cold to our little feet but felt better than the dry dusty soil that surrounded our humble abode.

Before they had me, my parents were well-read intellectuals who had excellent prospects for their future until personal circumstances got them trapped in a cycle of poverty. But my father loves to tell a tale of how when I was a preschooler I have asked him, "Is this all we're going to be?" which prompted him to go back to night school to become a teacher and eventually a school head.

When both my parents secured a public teaching job, we moved up a notch on the social ladder by securing a residence in one of the earliest housing developments that would turn agricultural lands close to the city centre into sprawling family homes: Sarangani Homes Phase 1, the neighbourhood that built me.

Our house was a duplex in a narrow unpaved street with open sewage and no regular garbage collection. In the many years we have lived there, it would take different forms, extended in all sides, little by little, when extra money becomes available, which wasn't often. We had two bedrooms in the back extension but one of them was used as a storage and the other I shared with my younger sister. Like most traditional families, my parents and younger brother would sleep in a folded mat in the open space that doubled as a living room and a dining area.

Throughout my youth, I have often wished for a different home, one with a roof that doesn't leak during the rainy season, with windows that don't get covered in thick dust and plastered walls where I could stick pretty posters, in a neighborhood without mice playing by themselves freely in the open sewage.

When I was growing up, I nursed a deep desire to escape the house that to me represented a tree that despite my parent's hard toil, couldn't bear fruit because the weeds surrounding them had eaten away the nutrients before the leaves can grow. I resented the weeds that kept our family from moving forward.

My mother has a treasure glass display of our academic achievements in the wall of our house.

My sister called me detached, perhaps she was right. For most of my teenage years, I have locked myself up in my room to do nothing but studying. For all intents and purposes, except for the first two years of my adolescent life when I gave my parents grief, I had been nothing but the perfect child who would do them proud in my academic studies and co-curricular activities, as evidenced by the trophies and medals that my mother carefully collected in a glass display along with my siblings'. I have decided that my hard work will not be like that of my parents so when I left home to embrace the bigger world, I never looked back.

But when we look at the past as if it's nothing then what becomes of our memories?

Of the many summers that my younger siblings and I would make ice lollies and set up a stall at the bottom of the road to sell to neighbourhood kids. Of the Christmas carols we sang with our friends around the subdivision for pocket money. Of the times I have spent hanging out at my best friend Aubrey's house only a few blocks away until both our parents would come home. Of the neighbors who have become like family, whose personal business, including financial difficulties have become ours but whose good fortunes we have also shared.

Because despite the shabbiness of our surroundings our home had always been filled with warmth and laughter and love that have turned us into well-rounded individuals with successful careers and many travel stories.

When both my parents retired last year, they have decided to move away from the city to a farm where they could grow vegetables in the garden and feed livestock that freely roam around. When Isaac first went into the kitchen, he looked at the part of the wall that has not completely been covered by coconut lumber and declared "This house is broken." My parents, unlike me, would perhaps always prefer a traditional Filipino house and many years later I realised that there was nothing wrong with that.

Isaac said: "This house is broken". But because of the open wall, Santa was able to get in last Christmas.

I said my final goodbye to Sarangani Homes on our visit last Christmas. The neighborhood has aged, the houses now looked smaller than I could remember, the streets have become narrower. Few of our old neighbors are still around but a lot more have moved on. For John it was a surreal visit, a peek to a part of myself we have not shared in what always felt like a lifetime we have been together.



"What did it feel like when you finally left?"

It was not a question he had asked of me but of my mother and for which she had been very grateful for because nobody has thought to ask her. For while it was to me an escape, for my mother it meant leaving behind the cherished memories she has lurking in every corner of that little house, of her three children who have now flown the nest, to far off places she can only pin on the map she keeps on the wall with our photos as any proud parent would.

It was only then that I realised what leaving that house meant for all of us. That there will no longer be a place we could call 'our family home', one that would flood us with happy recollections in the rare times that we would visit.

But perhaps home is more than a house of memories. It is a place where we are loved and it will always be with us.

A Place Once Called Paradise

I remember that day clearly. A weekend in September. The summer has ended but the days were still long. Spain was an unexplored territory and the possibilities for adventures were endless, much like the love that has found me.

We were driving back after a day trip in Casares but before we could reach the bend in the coastal road where the rock of Gibraltar comes into view, we made a quick detour.

Playa Paradiso. Paradise Beach. And that was what it was.

Behind a neat row of white-washed houses with brightly coloured front yards was a vast expanse of clear blue sea against the pebbled shore. There was no one else around, the seasonal visitors have gone. For a brief moment, that heaven on earth was ours.



We sat in the beach for a long time, listening to the songs of the sea and watching the waves crash against the rocks. Until the blue sky turned into a palette of colours as the sun slowly went to bed and the full moon rose in its place, casting a pale band of silver in the Mediterranean.




In the years that we lived in England, we thought of that place often. Our idealised version of Spain – an earthly paradise that begs to be called our home. We wondered for a long time what it would be like to wake up with the sea in your doorstep and to watch those sunsets every day.

It took a while but we did follow that dream. And yet it was not until a year after we have moved to Costa del Sol that we found ourselves in that very same spot again. The reality has sunk in by then, the future was bleak and we have realised that our sunny spot wasn’t ours for keeps.

Perhaps that’s why the place we returned to was no longer the paradise we have remembered. The shore has been littered by debris, remnants of the storm that has passed only a few days back. The houses facing the sea looked a bit rundown, a few structures remained unfinished. The fishing boats looked discarded. And yet it was this version of Spain that we prefer to cherish in our memories. More than a piece of paradise, it was a place with real people and real problems, one we fondly called home, even if for just a short time.

The Lion King: A Magical Spectacle

Sat in the Grand Circle of the Lyceum Theater in London while waiting for the seats to be filled up, mostly by students on a day trip or tourists on a short visit to the British capital, I started to feel slightly apprehensive on whether the theatrical version of the Lion King we were about to see would live up to its critical acclaim. 

As a child, my siblings and I were obsessed with the 1994 Disney movie we kept replaying the VHS tape until the rented video nearly got broken. The coming of age movie theme and the memorable songs has made it until now my favourite cartoon film of all time. When I found out about the West End version, I've put it forward on our annual list of Things To Do and John booked the ticket for a day out in February. 

My husband and I are avid theatre-goers, preferring this medium to film, which made me feel more queasy about dragging him all the way to London with a late night train to catch that same day and a baby (who was left with his grandmother) to tuck in bed before midnight. But when the show opened with a bright orange sun rising over the African jungle followed by a procession of animals through the audience including a sizeable elephant, the child in me was reawakened and all cynicism replaced with awe. 

The show brought the African Savannah in all its colourful glory with a cacophonous cavalcade that took our breath away. The impressive animal puppets absorbed the human body into a whole Serengeti of stylised animal shapes, capturing the essence of the animals in the wild while nodding subtly to the human faces of Africa. It was a thunderous spectacle of live theatre with so much thought and detail that went into the choreography it was of little wonder that more than 10 years after its debut in London, even a mid-week matinee show can still command a full house. 

But it wasn't just the visual pageantry accompanied by African drumbeats that made the musical so popular, it also caters to different audiences who would leave the theatre with something to take. My special memories are the shared scenes between father and son, when Mufasa took Simba to the top of Pride Rock to marvel at the extent of the kingdom he would someday inherit and the lessons he attempted to impress on the curious cub. One particular line struck me, when the young lion repulsively pointed at the ugly vultures feeding on dead animals and his father told him that they are only doing what they are meant to do, that everything exists in a delicate balance called the Circle of Life which we would all do well to respect. That awareness is something our own child will also be taught. 

The Lion King is a definite must see, the West End version was nostalgic, breath-taking and soul-stirring, well worth the £45 (cheapest) per ticket  we had to pay. 

The Circle of Life: Image from weblink.

The Sun Rising: Image from weblink.

Sleep Comes Later

In our case, it normally doesn't come at all. 

The clock by my bedside table says it was barely eight o'clock in the morning when I was woken up from my shallow sleep. It wasn't John's kiss before setting off to work that did it but the wriggling noises that was coming from the cot beside our bed. In a few moments, the cryptic babbles started to get louder they couldn't be ignored. I stretched out of bed in disbelief, it was less than two hours ago since I've last been up after waking almost every hour during the night to feed and soothe a teething baby. I certainly didn't feel ready to start another day. 

I got up to look down on the four-month-old child with a cheeky smile who was very pleased to see me. It wasn't the first time, nor would be the last, that I would gaze at this beautiful creature who once lived inside me, this little piece of heaven on earth, with utter exasperation. And it mostly happens on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when my husband is on a long shift and wouldn't be home until after 7pm, a very long time before I would finally be able to have a bit of a break. 

I know I shouldn't be complaining, for most part of the year after giving birth I am being paid to look after my own child, probably the envy of most mothers. But sometimes going back to work suddenly seem appealing. 

My little boy is lovely, he coos and babbles, laughs at silly faces and loves to bounce on my knees. He loves it too much he doesn't like to be cuddled or sat down and there is only enough strength one can have to constantly carry a growing baby, especially one who refuses to sleep during the day.

So occasionally I let him cry, not for too long but enough to let him know he is not the boss of the house. That gives me some time to go outside and take a deep breath so that when I come back to the room I can give him a smile as I pick him up and try all forms of entertainment. It usually works although to be honest my preferred mode of dealing with a screaming child is to put him in the pram and wheel him out of the house to go to the park, smell some fresh air and listen to the quacking ducks by the pond. That calms him down like magic that by the time we come back he would be fast asleep and I can sit in front of the telly while sipping a warm cup of tea. This moment of quiet doesn't usually last long that often I find myself looking at the ticking clock counting the hours until his father, who has been up on his feet the whole day at work, can take over. 

No one said parenthood was going to be easy, but although we sometimes moan about its challenges, we would still choose it anyway. 

The Sound of Breathing

It was on one of those rare moments of peace and quiet in the house, when the baffling cries have been briefly muffled by the lure of deep sleep, that I came to rest beside the tiny life form that only a few weeks ago I had the joy of breathing out of this world. 

I listened to the sound of his steady breathing, in a way that one listens to the singing of the birds on the tree top or the gushing forth of the flowing river when they hit the rocks; sounds of which one cannot come up with meaning but which evokes a warmth of feeling that goes all the way to the heart. 

I could lie there forever, watching him sleep, listening to him breathe. 

A Natural Birth

"Deep within each woman, lies the Knowledge of how to give birth without outside interventions."

One cold January evening whilst having dinner in front of the telly, we watched animals give birth to their young in the wilderness of Africa. It was a process so beautiful and natural with no indication of excruciating pain that their human counterparts report to suffer in childbirth. I wondered then how these creatures manage to have the smooth and easy birthing while I, at 12 weeks pregnant, was destined to go through a painful ordeal.

Or was I?

Popular culture has often depicted pregnancy and the subsequent childbirth as an experience that would be enough to make any mother a saint (not that they are not, although I'm sure its not just because they've brought us out of this world). It was a belief I wasn't prepared to accept for after all, childbirth is a normal, natural healthy function for a woman. As an author pointed out, could "a God who had created the body with such perfection have designed a system of procreation that was flawed?"

This determination was fueled further by a chat with a friend who has gone through painless childbirths with all of her three children, the last one through Hypnobirthing, a practice that is becoming well-known in the UK. Although I was rather lazy in learning all the techniques, I have pored through the book and became adamant that I will deliver my baby without any pain relief medication and surgical intervention. I was going to breathe my baby out of my womb.

And that's exactly what I did. Two weeks ago, a day after my due date, the world heard our little man's first cry. It happened exactly the way I have hoped for: a natural, spontaneous birthing experience.

The contractions came at four in the morning, with rhythmic uterine surges and a constantly strong need to empty the bowels, signs that my mother has warned me about. They were uncomfortable but not painful and I started practicing my breathing exercises, imagining the gentle unfolding of the petals of a rose, whilst pacing up and down the room or sitting on a bouncing ball all the while recording the intervals and length on an iPhone app. I called the midwife at 7:30 am and was told to call the hospital when the contractions start to become more regular. I told John to go to work knowing that the first stages of labour could take up to 12 hours and the maternity ward is just across his workplace. The intervals became shorter and the contractions longer at around 2:00 pm and when I called the midwife again, I was told to contact the hospital when the pain became unbearable or when my waters break. I went out for a walk, chatted with friends in Facebook and made myself comfortable in the house. At 4:30 pm, I was still doing my breathing exercises and debating with our mothers on when we should be heading to the hospital when I felt my waters break. Even then I wasn't sure whether we should be setting off and decided to go to the shower where I noticed that lumps of blood were coming out and the urge to empty my bowels became stronger. My mother started to panic in fear I would be giving birth in the toilet. We decided it was time to go, by then I felt I was so ready to give birth anywhere.

The traffic lights were not against us that day, we got the emergency department of the maternity ward in record time. A midwife pronounced that I was fully dilated and was wheeled in to a delivery room where another midwife was waiting to help me give birth. John was called up in the middle of a clinic consultation to rush to the maternity unit and he arrived just in time to hold my hand and tell me how to breathe in and out. After 10 long exhales, I heard Isaac's cry and he was quickly laid down on my chest, a seven pound baby who has just spent nine months inside me. There was relief and there was pride, but most of all there was a feeling of being blessed a hundred times over.

John cut the cord while both our mothers looked on and hugged each other. He held our tiny bundle of joy, who was wide awake, alert and calm, while the midwife finished with my stitches. After our baths, we were told that we could go home that evening but we decided to stay overnight and finish with the baby's first checks the next day. After lunchtime the next day, we were on our way home, a young family who have been through a natural birth together, each one having taken up an important role in the process, and ready to take on the next challenge. 

More than a Passport

When we came to Britain three years ago, my husband gave up his lifelong dream of a life under the sun along with our well-paid jobs and good friends in Gibraltar. All for the sake of a British citizenship, the importance of which was only made more evident when on a holiday in Central Europe, we lost our passports in what became an immigration nightmare that involved dealing with three different embassies and was only sorted with the help of a Sheffield MP. 

At tough times we have often contemplated whether we have made the right decision to come here and for awhile we were very adamant that three years and that would be it. We have had enough of this country that doesn't seem to make up its mind about the weather. 

But after three years of living in Sheffield, I have slowly come to appreciate this country and its people - its proud heritage, its respect for different cultures and faiths and its ability to accept its faults and failures. I have made friends with people from different ethnic backgrounds who have made their homes here and who were all equally welcomed, including their traditions and beliefs. I have found a job that allowed me so much flexibility and opportunities for growth. I have made a home that is warm and cozy, with family members living just around the corner in a neighbourhood where everyone looks out for each other. I have enjoyed the fruits of my tax contributions with free medical services, accessible libraries, social benefits and safe and clean streets amongst others. 

No, this island nation in Europe is definitely not perfect and could learn a few lessons from its more advanced Scandinavian neighbours. Its a country full of moaners, ruthless benefit frauds, complicated immigration rules and exaggerated health and safety rules brought about by a culture of compensation. But it certainly means that democracy and social justice is being appropriately practiced here, regardless of the colour of your skin or the contents of your bank account. 

When I pledged allegiance to the Queen today, along with tens of others from 16 different countries, it didn't feel like I was only gaining a passport that would allow me ease of travel around the world. I have been accepted to an inclusive club that is, as the Home Secretary has described in her letter, "united by shared values, our respect for education and learning, and our willingness to listen to different points of view but also together seek the common good." But just like the country of my birth is just an aspect of my identity, my British citizenship will never be the only thing that would define me. 

I See Pinks and Whites

It was springtime of 2010 when I first saw the Cherry Blossoms in bloom, and every year since then, I have eagerly anticipated its brief annual sojourn, an event that would be enough to forget the  painstakingly long winter that has just passed. 

The way they come out is certainly magical by itself - a symphony in allegretto - dazzling, swift and fleeting. It's intense and vibrant blossoms commanding the attention of any spectator who would always be tempted to stop and admire its transient glory. Because once the delicate flowers are blown away by the wind, they would quickly scatter around the ground, a fading resplendence that is here today and gone tomorrow. But the memories in the hearts that it has touched would linger long afterwards. 

There is always a sense of melancholy that is evoked by Cherry Blossoms, its sweet brevity marked by such intense beauty followed by a quick death is a gentle reminder of mortality, that life can be given and taken at any minute. But its subsequent blossoming in spring also allows us to hope and dream, that although life may not be ours for long it is still ours to leave a mark that would be remembered.

A Day Like Any Other

Today I won't be getting a 'surprise' bunch of flowers and a box of sweets. We haven't booked a fancy restaurant for an evening meal. Dinner will be a homemade meal of whatever cravings I have at the moment. And like every other night, we would be sat in front of a warm fireplace watching an hour-long BBC documentary on I-player before turning in for the night. 

I hold no grudge against Valentines Day although never once in my 28 years has it been different from any other day. And no, marriage has certainly not made me less of a hopeless romantic, it has in fact made me more aware of simple joys and little acts of love everyday. 

This morning, I noticed how the orchids in our front room have started to grow more buds. When we bought it in early autumn from a bargain shop for  £1.99, we estimate it would last at least before winter. But six months on it is still in full bloom, flowers seem to blossom well in a loving home. 

This is true with all the flowers in our garden where despite the unpredictable weather, the winter pansies are thriving, the spring bulbs are coming out and the leaves of the roses are starting to come back to life. They are the flowers that I get everyday, regardless of the season, not ordered from a florist but lovingly tended by my husband's own hands. 

And because today, we are allowed to be cheesy, this is what he has to say about this subject: 

"Love is not a sudden outpouring of rain but the gentle drizzle that keeps the garden in bloom all throughout the year."

Flowers, poetry and love ~ no, they don't need a special day to be celebrated. 

Tales of Prague: Art Underground

The bit about travel that I am not very much fond of is the 'getting there' and regardless of what they say about the journey being as important as the destination, I am still dreaming of the day I will be able to travel Harry-Potter-style using apparition or the floo powder. But as a muggle-born with no talent for magic I have to make do with public transport consoled by the fact that because we live in Europe, it is usually cheap, reliable and efficient.

Our Great Central European Adventure began in the Czech Republic capital of Prague where after breezing out of immigration we confronted the often anxiety-provoking business of getting to the city centre. There is no direct train link from the airport  and asking for directions was a bit tricky. In the end we decided to follow a group of tourists in the hope that they would lead us to the ticket office and to the right bus, which they did. 

When we boarded Bus 119, we made a fascinating discovery that the transport system in this capital (and indeed in some of the cities we have visited afterwards) is based on an honour system. There was no need for the driver to check the tickets which passengers validate themselves using scanners inside the public transport vehicles. Efficiency and honesty personified, what a refreshingly civilised society!

The bus ride took at least 25 minutes and looped through suburban Prague, driving around panel buildings that serve as homes of the local residents. It eventually came to a stop in Ebskovska, the longest street in the city and the last stop of Metro Line A. When we got off, I commented on how I have felt overwhelmed by the shadows of communism that still lurks on a country that is more celebrated for its many cultural attractions and very exciting history. It has the marks of the Beauty and the Beast. And perhaps nothing can embody that better than the Prague Metro, the capital’s underground public transportation network.

Travelling through a subway is usually a forgettable experience. There’s nothing exciting about walking through a maze of cold and dark underground passageways, its walls often pasted with advertisements languages that you usually don’t understand and occasionally sprayed with graffiti. But this was not the case with Prague.

Dejvicka station where we started our journey was previously called Leninova Station and once housed a giant bust of Lenin before the Velvet Revolution. There was nothing special about its entrances, the underground stations in Prague are seldom mentioned as amongst the most beautiful in the world. But as soon as we descended into the underground tunnel waiting for the old Russian train cars, I thought I was in another world, in Alice's Wonderland perhaps? 

It was a fascinating experience and certainly thought-provoking. It felt like we were in between two giant keyboards.The straight lines and the deeply-contrasting colours invoked strong feelings, like that which one feels when walking around a museum. Because the subway itself was a form of art expression displaying the truths of its time and place, a project completed during the Soviet-influenced era and its stamps are all over these tunnels. 

The next stations took on different and yet almost identical style: a repetition of convex and concave shapes, consistent in texture but differing in colour schemes making each station look distinct, rather stunning and with a feel of a science fiction movie set. This repetition of structures representing communist ideals of order and conformity was definitely not bland which is more than can be said for some modern structures being built today.

Our experience in the underground stations in Prague was the perfect prelude to the memorable three weeks that we are to spend in that part of Europe.

 

One Fine Autumn Day

“I wonder what the trees must feel when the leaves start to fall.”

I was thinking out loud while my husband and I were walking through a tunnel of red, gold and orange foliage raining down and swirling around us until finally they land on the brightly carpeted ground.  It was a crisp mid-October morning with barely any clouds in the sky, a perfect day for a photo walk in the park at the bottom of our road.

“I suppose they would be glad, it must be very heavy carrying all that weight on their shoulders for at least six months,” I declared. It was ridiculous of course and John laughed, telling me that it is the branches that are heavy and not the leaves. But I argued that with the number of leaves a tree must carry, it could be very wearing and so they would probably be glad to have a seasonal break. There was no response to that, he is used to these wild contentions.

We carried on our walk, not oblivious to the crunching sound of dried leaves under our feet and the occasional squirrel running across our path as they gathered their winter stash. It was a typical weekend morning at Hillsborough Park: younger children in trolleys while older ones are playing football; dogs on their leads while their walkers are chatting with one another; and cyclists on their bikes while lovers walk hand in hand. Near the bottom of the park was a little man-made lake with squealing toddlers feeding the visiting ducks and geese.

“Britain is not all that bad you know,” I said, taking in the sights. At that moment, it felt very idyllic, the British lifestyle up North, away from the hustle and bustle of megacities (although of course Sheffield itself is a big city that has managed to keep itself suburban rather than metropolitan). Fifteen minutes on the tram and we are in the city centre, ten minutes in the car and we are in the countryside. Our community in Hillsborough is almost like a town: with a shopping district, a Methodist Church, a primary school, a college, a library, a leisure centre and more importantly, home to Sheffield Wednesday’s football ground.

“I didn’t say it was bad,” John replied. “In small doses it is beautiful. But there are better places to live in.” By that he meant warmer and he is right of course. The forecast on the Breakfast News that morning predicted days of mists hovering over the city’s skyline starting the next day, the less exciting bits of autumn was about to unfold. But at that moment, I’ve let the splashes of colours under the bright blue sky make me forget the gloomy days ahead. Yes, there are beautiful days in England but not a jolly lot of them that when you get one, it makes you block out memories of the less memorable days of the year.

Unexpected Treasures

When John came home on Thursday evening, I had a guilty look on my face. Before I could even explain, his gaze fell into the object sitting on the dining room table and he laughed. 

"If I was the one who found it, I would have bought it for you too," he said. He knows me too well to understand that there are temptations I couldn't resist. 

I was on my way to an early morning appointment with the dentist when I happened to pass a charity shop in Middlewood Road which specialises on vintage items. I went in and voila! The most beautiful object of my fancy happened to be on display: an old treasure chest in amazing condition there was no way I could have left without it! 

It's always fascinating what one can find in charity shops, how one person's scrap is another's treasure. This is the beauty of upcycling and it is rather popular in the Western world. 

The danger of course is that one could get carried away. A recent example was my shopping spree on Saturday morning where I discovered some lovely fabrics, threads and buttons which prompted my soon-to-be next hobby: sewing (which means that baking has now become an old subject). For a tenth of their original price, I was very tempted to buy them all. I stopped short just in time, thanks to financial constraints and space issues. It was rather difficult but there is of course that comforting thought that there will be another day for shopping. 

Kitchen Diaries

Mama was an exceptional student in her Home Economics class, she won a baking set for a cooking competition in her high school. Families and friends who have been to our house parties have complimented on her skills. Unfortunately, none of us her children have shown any such talent in our younger years. 

The kitchen of my childhood is not a place I would visit with fond remembrance. It is not associated with sweet aromas or chopping sounds drowned out by the chitchats about life. No, the kitchen was a mere place to cook the family meals (when we are banished from it) and to wash the dishes (when we are invited back, forcefully to do our tasks and for which we would find excuses to get away from). 

My skills in the cooking (or lack thereof) extended beyond the kitchen. They said that necessity allows creativity, it was certainly the case with domestic chores and me. When I was 16, I would often be left in charge of my younger siblings when our parents had to go away on work-related trips. How did my bookish and self-obsessed teenage self manage that? Easy, I fed my siblings with canned food and take-aways and bribed my 11-year-old brother to do the house chores. I got away with it too!

When I left home, I had very little domestic skills indeed, cooking the least of them. For a long time I survived on take-aways, McDonalds and sometimes, the kindness of friends who have better skills in the kitchen. But then marriage was a different story. 

After months of being left in a cold empty house by myself, I eventually learned to tackle domestics after the initial delights of owning my time. I realised that any good kitchen can make a decent cook (provided she has a cookbook). It also helps I have someone to cook for who will not fail to compliment every single meal I've made (of course sometimes I have to ask 'How was it?' to squeeze the compliment out). There was still hope for me after all. 

Our kitchen has become one of my favourite rooms in the house. I love the smells and colours of the spices and sauces lined together. I love the aroma of fresh coffee brewing from the canister. I love the artistic mess that my cooking sessions creates. Most of all, I love the stories shared and decisions made while we share our domestic chores. 

Hometown Heroes

Local support over homegrown talent was something I didn’t understand until I watched the 2012 Olympics.

My hometown, a seaside metropolis in the southern part of the Philippines, has recently raised its local profile owing to the growing number of native talents who made it in the country’s entertainment industry. Just last year, the city heralded a woman, who on her skimpy swimming attire, declared to the world that Filipinos have little or no acceptance for any other religion. Then there was an elementary schoolmate who appeared in the country’s version of Big Brother and who managed to get himself to the finals thanks to local support. Then very recently, a celebrity wannabe became a You Tube hit over a karaoke rendition in a shopping mall (we went to the same university so that ought to have made me feel proud). Of course the city’s major boast is our boxing champion Manny Pacquiao whose sporting fame allowed him to star in films and sell music and then even won him an electoral seat to become a lawmaker (an MP equivalent in the UK).

I’m sure it gives the city a morale boost when someone who has walked on the same streets manages to seize their dreams. But it is still perplexes me that success has all-inclusively meant becoming an entertainment celebrity, where the younger generation’s inspiration are people who have found ‘overnight fame’ by uploading a video online. It makes me shudder to think that children will be looking up to anyone who, in this day and age, would happily represent women as sexual objects in the guise of a 'beauty and brains' competition. 

Watching the Olympic Dreams in BBC World has made me appreciate just what it means to become a hometown hero. There was the feature on the two-time Taek-won-do bronze medallist of Kabul, training up the hill overlooking his war-torn city, inspiring young men to take up the sport in a place where war is a normality. There was the story on the South African double amputee Oscar Pistorius who lost both his legs after childbirth but who went on to become the first man to have competed on both the Paralympics and the Olympics. Then there was a documentary on the fastest man on the planet, Usain Bolt, a double triple medallist whose daily life was dedicated to his sport.

In Sheffield, we have our own golden girl: the face of the 2012 Olympics who brought the city's gold. Few people have done it, to deliver despite the burden of high expectations and to deliver in style. When Jessica Ennis crossed the 800m line on Super Saturday, the rest of Britain shared her big sigh of relief and her hometown, gathered at the stadium where she trained, burst into cries of jubilation.

I hope that these are the sort of role models that we can give our children to look up to: men and women who have conquered themselves and their dreams through extra-ordinary focus, unyielding dedication and continuous hard work. Real people whose motivation is not the glitz and glamour of a celebrity lifestyle (and who will not be making movies or selling albums to cash in their fame) but of personal bests. Because these are the qualities that everyone need to arm themselves in order to succeed in the world of reality.  

Last Sunday, when I stood beside Jess Ennis' golden mailbox in the city centre doing Mo-bot, I felt a bit relieved that in this part of the world at least, the younger generation have real heroes to look up to. 

Dinner by the Docks

Sitting by the dock. Eating fish and chips. Watching the sunset. Bliss!

In its heyday, the Kyle of Lochalsh had been abuzz with tourists staying overnight for the next day trip to the spectacular Isle of Skye. After the controversial bridge linking the island to the rest of Scotland, the visitors skipped the town and what is left felt like a bleak little town gloating on its former glory. 

This impression might seem rather harsh and is largely owing to the two uneventful nights we have spent in the Kyle Hotel, a run-down building that has definitely seen better days. From the dull white exterior which looks like it hasn't had the service of a decent architect, the inside wasn't much to look at either. The long, dark and tight hallways would remind you of Asian horror flicks. The thin strips of walls would wake you up in the middle of the night to the voices of drunken Americans stumbling their way to their rooms next door. The rooms themselves were small and dingy, the sort of place where you couldn't wait to get out of. But for all your woes, they charged more than the lovely bed and breakfasts in Edinburgh. 

We have never met any locals, not on the street and not even on the hotel where we were served by nervous looking young women from other parts of Europe wearing all black and would jump at the orders being barked from the other side of the kitchen doors. But these people smiled and offered a good service at least, making it easier to gobble the greasiest English breakfast we've ever tasted. 

No, I wouldn't say the Kyle of Lochalsh is a romantic place. But one evening in May, after a long day of travelling half-way through Scotland, we had dinner by the docks. Eating our humble fish and chips from a take away (owned by an Aussie), we watched the sun as it was about to set at half-past ten in the evening while the pigeons hovered around us, waiting for their leftovers. 

I live for special moments like this. 

The Andalusian Dream

The first time John invited me over for dinner, he took out a road map of Andalusia, that most beautiful piece of land area that is the South of Spain. He pointed out the places he wanted to go to -  Jaen...Granada...Cordoba...Seville...they were just names to me then. But it showed me a hunger for travel and adventure, a hunger I also feel. I told him that he should take me with him. 

When people ask me how I met my husband, I would reply that we have met where our dreams crossed paths. His was to escape the country of his birth to a place where there are no chilly winters but days filled with glorious sunshine. Mine was to explore a world bigger than the pages of my books where one can live in the mountains and can still embrace a civilised way of life. Our choice of professions (as a nurse and an accountant) brought us to Gibraltar and allowed us to have a taste of our dreams. 

On our first weekend get-away we went on a crazy drive up to the mountain top city of Ronda. We've been to more romantic places since then but that one had been definitely special. We strolled under the orange trees planted along the stone paths. We marvelled at the magnificent beauty of nature that awaited us from the viewpoint. We rested under the delightful warmth of the afternoon sun while the gentle breeze kissed our cheeks. 

In Spain, you forget the time but you always remember the littlest of details of those special moments. 

Leaving Gibraltar meant John would have to defer his Andalusian dreams for three years at least. It wasn't an easy decision to make and in times of difficulties it would often haunt us. We have left behind well-paying jobs, a supportive church family and above all else, the warm weather.

But one dream had to be put off for another: of a border-less world which no longer requires visa applications and immigration queues. My dreams over his, his sweetest sacrifice.

I would like to think that it hasn't been futile. During the last two years, we have definitely grown much wiser and more confident. We now have a much better idea of what we want out of life, where we want to be and how we will get there.

Our Andalusian dream is as alive today as it has always been. Before we will know it, our barefoot toes will once again be playing with the soft sands on the shores of Costa del Sol where we once watched the golden sun set over the horizon.