In our house, it’s not ‘Trouble’, it’s ‘Chup-bowl’ – I see you struggling to pronounce it.  Ok, drop down to a squat, slip on some kung fu cloth shoes, aim a video camera at the TV, shoot whatever movie’s on (make sure your cousin’s forehead’s visible in the shot as he ducks down past).  Now bark at any 7 year old child nearby to start dubbing & transcribing those subtitles (their small hands can work quicker than yours).  Allow the method acting to transform your speech.  Eventually ‘Trouble’ will become ‘Chub-ble’.  And then slowly feel it chinky-ly transform into the desired ‘Chup-bowl’.  This means the final stage of ethnic speech correction is complete.   

So what’s Not Recommended for this edition?  Home ‘Improvements’ like this:

This is the set up you’ll see in the toilet of my parent’s house.  No it’s not a shelf for guests to rest their chopsticks while eating noodles in a cup on the can.  It’s part of an elaborate hooked up contraption invented by the King of the Temple and Father of the Empress himself in his quest to be the master of water conservation.  From what I can see, but have avoided finding out for sure (the less you know, the less of a reliable legal witness you’re considered), the electrical wire leads to a plug that operates some kind of motor that channels some murky liquid from a huge plastic garbage bin/bucket container in the back garden to a pipe.  The murky liquid is pumped out of the container and travels through the pipe to flush the toilet whenever the button is pressed.  The murky liquid is actually excess water collected from the washing machine every time a load of washing is done. Try this same set up at your own home & you’ll be asking for Chup-bowl.  Get my dad to install it for you (with a hand written ‘Certificate of Safety’ spelt ‘Certifike of Siftte’ provided) and that Chup-bowl is Dup-bowl.

Look closely at the photo: Note the ultra-fine craftsmanship of the barely there wooden plank mounted on the wall.  Appreciate the seamless entry of the electrical wire’s insertion through the plaster.  Every time I flush the toilet I nervously hear the loud constipated choke of the rumbling motor outside (no doubt one of our neighbours has a motorised something that’s now mysteriously missing a motor).  Every time mum does the washing I’m worried I’ll see her thermals again as scrunched up missiles shooting out the toilet hole into my face when I go to flush.  So people of Australia and possibly some living in the other hemisphere, know this:  If you see a saturated little girl with long black hair covered in foaming detergent clutching toilet paper while speedily rocketing through the sky with underwear at her ankles letting off sparks and smoke, it means my dad’s blown the shitter through the roof – it’s not an inventive firecracker experiment we’re trying for Chinese New Year.