Whenever I mentioned that our stopover was Singapore airport friends would moan contentedly like someone was scratching their back in exactly the right spot, and then sigh
“Ahh Singapore airport.”

I soon found out why. Whilst plane travel is risky, dirty, squishy and highly inter-personal, Singapore airport is controlled, clean, spacious and impersonal.

We arrived at the airport in the sub-human stupour of ickiness that flying economy class (baaaa/moooo) provides. Unslept, unshowered and groggy we were shoe-horned out of the plane onto kilometres of bright carpet. I think the carpet had been carefully commissioned for the job at hand; its vast acres immediately restored my lost sense of personal space whilst the pattern roused me from my grogginess. We staggered forward, noticing nice big green plants and smiley guards that looked like they had been raiding the wardrobe of a 70’s cop show. Before long signs started appearing as if anticipating our needs: “Toilets,” “Refreshments,” “Showers,” “Restored Humanity”*.

Everything was sparklingly clean. Most shops spared you the agony of having to think too hard whilst sleep-deprived by accepting different kinds of currency. The staff of the coffee shop we chose made international baby cooey noises at Reuben.

Timshel just looked over my shoulder, read this entry, and thinks I am exaggerating.
“You’re making it sound like heaven”.
To which I narrow my eyes, nod sagely and whisper
“Maybe it was, my friend, maybe it was”.

* Ok, I made that last one up.

Until we leave on the 8th of february we are staying at the home of a good friend. Sarah is a busy woman with a full life but has generously made room for us. And we in turn seem to have completely taken over her home. Sitting in the loungroom I am surrounded by toys, unpaid bills, overdue library books, lists of things to do, piles of unfolded clothes and nappies, computer bits and our half-packed packs. Somewhere around here is our 1 year old child, I can hear his little muffled voice.

Leaving the country is so easy in the movies. Throw suitcase out of cupboard and onto bed. Toss clothes into suitcase randomly whilst checking window to see if wild band of gun-happy mexicans have yet to arrive. Slap suitcase shut and tuck passport into back pocket whilst checking window to see if herd of brain-eating camels have yet to arrive. Run to car, drive to airport, checking revision mirror for swarm of bird-flu infested chickens. Have brief yet earnest pleadings with airline staff before LEAVING THE COUNTRY. Easy-peasy.
It has taken Timshel and I MONTHS to leave our beloved country.

I think we are getting there though; slowly sorting through all those little tasks that need to be done. Like our tax. We have finally filed the numerous (close to 10!) outstanding tax returns that were overdue. Our accountant assured us that a few years ago that kind of administrative neglect would of seen us detained at the airport. Eeek. What about all those bohemian types that shunned the tedium of real life but still fluttered about the world like excited moths? I don’t think THEY did their tax.

Home is Footscray, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

One week before I leave.

It is hot, humid and raining heavily. Footscray reeks of coriander, fish sauce and pork in this kind of weather. Footscray is in Melbourne’s west, the cement side of town. It has a reputation for drugs and Vietnamese noodle houses. The food is brilliant and cheap, the drug deals aren’t always obvious but the effects of drugs are.

I am shopping, pushing Reuben in his stroller down the main street when someone approaches me from behind and grabs my bag. The bag is attached to the back of Reuben’s stroller. The guy yanks at the bag, I yank it back and all we succeed in doing is throwing the stroller about. After a few moments of surreal wrestling I think to myself
“This bloke is trying to take my bag. I think this is called a ‘bag snatch’.”

I decide the best thing to do is yell.*
“Help! Help!” “Someone call the Police” “Go away!” “Help!” “What are you doing?”
I feel supremely stupid yelling like this. More stupid as the seconds tick by. Eventually numerous folk emerge from their own shocked watching and grab the bloke. He is a Vietnamese bloke aged between 50-60. He doesn’t look like a bag-snatcher. He doesn’t act like a bag snatcher; various people come to my aid, the police are called and still the snatcher hangs about. He looks upset but doesn’t speak English. There are enough Vietnamese speakers about to translate. He keeps repeating that I have stolen from him.
As I had just left a chemist, I asked him if he was manager of the Chemist. I offer to go back to the chemist and show them the contents of my bag.

He said he owns the bottleshop next to the chemist. I have stolen a bottle of spirits from his bottleshop. He says the bottle is in my bag, and he grabbed my bag to retrieve his bottle of spirits.

Not having been to any bottleshop that morning, I think the guy is an absolute nutter. Comforting Reuben who is crying, I say so. Numerous people offer suggestions as to what should be done. Some say we should sort this issue out before the police come; I should open my bag. I refuse to open my bag until the Police arrive as I don’t want to give this bloke the opportunity to point at anything in it and declare it his. I am unsure if his story of owning the bottleshop is true. So Reuben and I wait for the police. I am glad of the company of two witnesses, an African man and a Vietnamese bloke who hang about. The snatcher lingers near the bottleshop. We all wait, trying to shelter from the rain. I am glad that Reuben seems happy enough and unscathed. The African man leaves. We wait some more. The vietmanese witness wanders down the street a little and I cast nervous glances in the direction of the bottleshop. The bottleshop looks pretty run-down. I think
“Grabbing people at random would hurt your business” but also wonder if the snatcher really DOES think I stole something. Mental illness is regarded as very shameful in Vietnamese culture and often goes untreated. He may be paranoid.

The Vietnamese bloke I am with counsels me
“I’m not saying that you stole anything, but if you did, it’ll look much better if you bring it out now before the cops come.”
The police come. They search my bag, and I get a little teary as I explain my side of the story. The police ask the snatcher to apologise after hearing a translation of his side of the story. He approaches me and his son translates for him.
Avoiding my eyes, he says he is very sorry. He thought I had stolen from his shop.
“Does anyone in the bottleshop speak English?” I ask.
“My mum speaks a little, but not really” says the son.
“Tell your parents that they have to start talking to people. They can’t just grab people like this.” The son translates. The father replies that people often steal from his shop. He had hurt himself only last week, fallen down. I sigh and don’t really know what to do. I hold out my hand. We shake hands.

As I harness Reuben back into his stroller, I notice that I am shaking. I think the bottleshop owner would be shaking too. The policeman smiles down at us,
“All part of living in Footscray, I’m afraid”.
He grins encouragingly.

I would of loved to have made some pithy comment about the irony of it all, or the struggles of living in a multicultural community. Perhaps I could of declared my love for the vibrancy of a place like Footscray. All I did manage to do was shake my head and swear.

* Reflecting on my immediate reaction to the bag snatch (yelling like a banshee), helped me realise how we fall back into societal roles even in emergencies. What do I mean? Well, I felt pathetically passive just yelling for help but in another respect it was the easy option because it was expected. I was a woman, with a baby in tow, attacked by a man. What do women do in such a situation? They yell for help.
What do 6 foot tall blokes do when attacked or mugged? Are they allowed to ask for help? I reckon if I was a heavy-set 19 year old bloke from Footscray I would feel like I had little choice but to resort to physical violence in such a situation. Simply to save face. If I had done that a week ago I may have ended up with a charge of assault.