About ten minutes ago, Raeven came crashing into my dreams (interrupting an otherwise very nice fantasy about a beach and a mysterious stranger), telling me she smelled shit.

I’d fallen asleep at 7.30pm after putting the kids to bed, just worn out from a day of dealing with diarrhea all day.

True enough, Skyler had slept through what smelled like a few hours of decomposing crap, which had made its way all over her sheets, on her jammies and her - wait for it - hair.

So at 12.30 midnight, groggy and disorientated and feeling like crap myself, I bathed my (vehemently protesting) three-year old, changed the sheets and took to the whole bed with my nose sniffing out every last whiff because the room still stank like some Bukit Bintang back alley.

I have new respect for all those foreign maids we have back home. Treat them well, my friends. They are brave, precious people.

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