Oh, and another thing...

That's it - I almost forgot the reason for the original foray into writing today's blog. I meant to tell all and sundry about the glorious skills the Taiwanese have in complementing one-another.

Y'know, back home compliments are bandied about like mere greetings - as meaningless as "Hi" or "Wassup?"...Even "Oh, you look lovely today" is the complimentary version of asking "How are you?" but not actually waiting for the answer.

On the other hand, in Taiwan it's a whole different ball-game, involving being as brutally honest as possible. You look tired? You got a spot? You put on some weight over Christmas? Well just you brace yourself, because someone, somewhere, will cheerfully point it out. Just you wait.

I had one friend who had a brief episode of acne - and was cheerfully and kindly reminded of the presence of said affliction on a daily basis - as if she had failed to notice the concentration of spots, somehow, as she faced the mirror each day. ("Bugger-me! I never noticed! Thanks for the pointer, guys!"). Not only that, but I'm regularly told I look tired (code for "You look like crapula. Have you been partying too hard? Dirty midden"). Even when I'm NOT tired. Which means I must look rough a lot. Must stop blogging at 1AM, I suppose.

The plus point, of course, is that when someone DOES compliment you, you KNOW they mean it. It's a soothing ego-boost for someone who's constantly being weighed down with life's uncomplimentary baggage.

On the other hand, some compliments are more frequent than others - the main one being the paleness of my skin. It's an unforseen advantage of having that pale-blue Scots skin tone so beloved of my compatriots. (Those Picts were naturally blue, y'know. It wasnae a skin-dye). Anyhoo, I've got that peely-wally skin tone that takes two weeks on the Costa-Del-Sol to finally turn alternate white and red (with pink blotches). Still nae tanning though, cos that involves at least another month on the sunbeds at home.

Oh, and there is a constant obsession with the size of my boobage. I'll readily admit I'm not exactly compact and bijoux in the chest department - but even I'm taken aback with the directness of the questioning. Why, just the other day I was in a shop buying kitchen stuff (plastic shelves, that kind of thing). The lady behind the counter kept saying "How much?".

Well, I thought, it's a bit daft of her to be asking ME that, cos I don't exactly work here - and she should be the one who knows how much these shelves cost. Cheeky bint. But no, it wasn't "How much?" - it was "How big?" she was meaning. I eventually worked it out when she leant across and grabbed my cleavage, all the while grinning like some perverted cheshire cat, and then repeated "How much?". I'm not for the selling of random organs, and I'm pretty sure she wasn't asking after the rental price either, so I told her my bra size. Cue a rapid sucking of air between her teeth, and a look of pleased surprise.

Dammit, I thought, why couldn't that have been an attractive man?