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Hastily drawn on a piece of card, and sent to Copenhagen to accompany a parcel.
Wednesday, 20 January 2010
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Mama Cat
This drawing made my daughter cry because she "can't draw kitties". I had not anticipated this. So now it appears that on top of having to overcome my own insecurities about drawing, I have to sidestep hers! She has been variously trying to destroy this picture and frame it. Model: Mama Kitty from the new Sylvanian Families doll's house set I bought her for Christmas.
Tuesday, 2 January 2007
He could eat a lot of Big Macs
My mother's brother asked to be taken to McDonald's quite a lot. He could eat at least two Big Macs in a sitting, and consume at least one large fries and a large Coke besides.
My uncle, who is from Hong Kong, is the youngest of nine children, and must be in his 50s now. He has salt and pepper hair and a boyish face. When he was four, he had scarlet fever and suffers from brain damage and seizures. He has long, gangly arms, a lolling head, and has a hard time speaking clearly, which frustrates him. He often skulks at the edges of groups, observing with a scowl, then sometimes showing he knows what's up with a burst of mocking laughter. His siblings, who are prone to tease, are gentler with him.
Since I first met him in the mid-1970s, when he emigrated to Los Angeles with my grandmother, I would watch fascinated as he'd slowly push burgers into his mouth, snakelike, chewing deliberately, his gaze fixed in the middle distance. I know food – this meal in particular – is one of his life's great pleasures.
Recently, on a hot Los Angeles day, I offered to take him to McDonald's as a treat, since he can't drive himself and for health reasons he's cut down on the junk food. The ride out of the walled housing tract to the drive-through at the edge of the parking lot felt awkward. As usual, our conversation was limited by the language barrier and his difficulty speaking. He wanted to talk anyway. I let him mock my attempts at Chinese. It was the best we could do.
At the drive-through there was a tussle: I insisted on paying. But he was smiling to himself as we got out of the car.
My uncle, who is from Hong Kong, is the youngest of nine children, and must be in his 50s now. He has salt and pepper hair and a boyish face. When he was four, he had scarlet fever and suffers from brain damage and seizures. He has long, gangly arms, a lolling head, and has a hard time speaking clearly, which frustrates him. He often skulks at the edges of groups, observing with a scowl, then sometimes showing he knows what's up with a burst of mocking laughter. His siblings, who are prone to tease, are gentler with him.
Since I first met him in the mid-1970s, when he emigrated to Los Angeles with my grandmother, I would watch fascinated as he'd slowly push burgers into his mouth, snakelike, chewing deliberately, his gaze fixed in the middle distance. I know food – this meal in particular – is one of his life's great pleasures.
Recently, on a hot Los Angeles day, I offered to take him to McDonald's as a treat, since he can't drive himself and for health reasons he's cut down on the junk food. The ride out of the walled housing tract to the drive-through at the edge of the parking lot felt awkward. As usual, our conversation was limited by the language barrier and his difficulty speaking. He wanted to talk anyway. I let him mock my attempts at Chinese. It was the best we could do.
At the drive-through there was a tussle: I insisted on paying. But he was smiling to himself as we got out of the car.
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