The Bog Post Diaries.  How To Be A Bullshitter And Succeed.

The Bog Post Diaries. How To Be A Bullshitter And Succeed.

I want to be an entrepreneur. I have seen all of these young fillies on Instagram selling their tie-dyed t-shirts and their sailor pants, and I have decided that I want a slice of that cool gang pie.

We are in Thailand, Chiang Mai to be exact. Anyone who is anyone knows that Chiang Mai is not just the home to very bendy people who love to show off by balancing each other on their big toes in the local park, but, it is also home to a mass of entrepreneurs; digital nomads, bloggers, web designers, online techy guru people who sit in coffee shops all day pretending to look very important.

 

the bog post diaries. Buying pants in Thailand

It’s quite amazing. If you live in Chiang Mai, not only will you be a super duper entrepreneur, you will also have super-powered feet

 

 

I have decided that I too will spend long hours in trendy cafes, ordering frappuccinos and pushing my fringe back off my forehead while I frown at my laptop.

That’s going to be me.

Trouble is, I have never done anything remotely like this in my life. Not ever. The closest I have ever been to making things happen online is when I discovered how to use the online food shopping service from Tesco’s.

Time to put my acting skills to work and start to bluff it. Don’t they say fake it till you make it?

Right then.

And so, in December 2018,  the journey began to make it happen.

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What to sell in my new super duper online shop

 

Anyone who knows me will know I have a passion for anything big, baggy and comfortable. Along with my belly and my charity shop Emu Ugg boots, my Berlai bra is the obvious example.

I don’t care that my boobs ooze out of the sides of it; it is soft and comfy and a dirty tan brown colour. It makes me feel as though I’m doing something positive for the planet by wearing it. That bra actually makes me feel like a better person.

While I was on my worldwide trip, I took a liking to those baggy yoga style harem pants. The ones that earth mothers wear with a hessian sac while they are breastfeeding their nine-year-olds.

I love those pants. Not only are they colourful and Asian, but they are also baggy, relaxed and very very comfortable. The perfect pants for me.

I never had the nerve to wear them in my twenties because I  stupidly believed that they made my size ten bum look big. Fast forward thirty years and I’ll pay whatever it takes to let my bum cheeks flap around in the wind like two big wobbly jellies.

These pants are the bomb, so I decided that they were what I would sell on my soon to be up and running and making a fortune online store.

 

How to find a supplier in Thailand for my multi-million dollar baggy pants empire.

 

trying to become location independent

We started to plan all of this in Thailand. Crunching the numbers with Tess

 

I don’t know if you’ve ever tried googling ‘pants-wholesale-for desperate woman-to sell on her blog-dot com’, but if you do, nothing much comes up.

Luckily, I know how to stalk people. It is a skill that I have mastered over the years. All it took was for me to spy on other peoples threads on Instagram who were talking about fabulous pants in Thailand and I managed to trace the source back to a factory in Chiang Mai.

Easy Peasy.

As soon as I had an address I was desperate to race over there and introduce myself. Strike a deal. I was convinced that this poor little factory in Chiang Mai would fall at my feet when they found out that I had New Zealand dollars to spend.

But on the advice of my husband, I refrained. He said that it wasn’t professional and that I should email.

So I did.

‘Hello’, the email said,  ‘I’d like to sell your pants because I think they’re really nice. Can you give me some good prices, please?  And don’t try ripping me off. I may be nearly fifty but I’m not totally doolally. Yours, Liz’.

Something along those lines.

Surprisingly, after waiting for three days, I still hadn’t received an answer, so one sunny Wednesday morning I decided to take matters into my own hands.

“Get dressed,” I called at the two snoring heaps that were my teenage children slobbing away in the corner of the bedroom . “we are going to a clothes factory. To buy clothes.”

Don’t let anyone say we don’t do fun stuff on our family travels.

The factory was a good forty-five minutes away. Brian suggested that we take an Uber and arrive in style but there was no way that was happening when we had recently hired two perfectly good mopeds.

I had dressed in my best off the shoulder pink floaty top – the one I got from the charity shop in Blackpool. If I was to be an overseas buyer I needed to look the part.

Feeling like Coco Chanel, I pulled on the moped helmet, the one from the hire shop that smells of wet sweat, and heaved myself onto the back of Brian’s moped nearly toppling us both over.

I chose to ignore the fact that when I caught sight of myself in the moped wing mirror, I looked like a weeble wobble. My sweaty cheeks were pushed so close together that my lips looked as though they were saying choo choo.

No matter. In my mind, I looked like a high flying businesswoman and not like Matt Lucas with a mouth ulcer.

 

Arrival At The Factory.

 

The factory was very Thai. A large square building that looked a little bit like my old infant school without the lollypop lady.

“Oh, God. How embarrassing”. cringed my 14-year-old daughter.

My daughter – to whom everything is embarrassing. Unless of course, she is throwing a bottle of ice tea over herself and her best friend and then sharing it on Insta. That’s not embarrassing.

No.

‘Let’s just go. They won’t even speak English. Why are we even in the middle of the jungle?’

It was true, we were in the middle of the countryside, but this made it feel a lot easier for me. I don’t know if I would have been able to bluff my way into a swanky shop on Saville Row.

 

buying pants from a wholesale factory in Thailand

Yes, as my daughter very kindly pointed out, we were in the middle of the jungle. But I didn’t care. It made it easier for me.

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I ignored her and marched off with my shiny Matt Lucas cheeks held high, walking down the alleyway at the side of the building.

Through the glass doors, I could see hoards of workers bent over sewing machines handling reels of colourful material. Luckily, each person looked over the age of twenty-five, so that put an end to my son’s taunts that this was probably an illegal sweatshop that was run by a group of toddlers with guns.

No one took much notice of me which miffed me a bit. Didn’t these people not know that an international buyer was here to purchase their goods?

“We’re trespassing. This is so wrong. Can we just go?”

Dramatic teenage Son – 17. He’s a millennial. What can I say?

 

Meeting The Boss

 

From the door at the end of the building appeared a beautiful young Thai whippersnapper. Obviously the boss.

‘Can I help you?’ she said,  looking very beautiful and very Thai in her black silk kimono. Just gorgeous.

My pink off the shoulder top was sticking to my back as a result of motorbike fumes and sweat and I momentarily panicked and almost lost my nerve.

I wasn’t expecting such a confident young beauty. I was thinking more of a big heifer with a pin cushion clasped to her bust, dragging a mile of yarn and a sewing machine whilst singing the blues.

 

‘Hello’ I spluttered trying to sound semi-intelligent,  ‘I have a shop in New Zealand, And I am looking for some clothes to sell’.

What a lie.

You do not have a shop in New Zealand Liz. You have five shitty sheep, you live under a volcano and you write a blog that your mum and her next-door neighbour reads.

Luckily, the boss lady trusted me. It must have been because of the kids. Women who travel with their kids are mental and so would never think to lie about their life.

I love the way that Thai ladies bow and speak in a gentle tone. I wish I were like that.

This lovely woman who, just five minutes earlier had been going about her day doing gentle sewing and running her business empire, was now faced with a sweaty woman and a pair of embarrassed, sour-faced teenagers trailing behind her.

Never once did she think to screech, ‘what the bloody hell are you doing here? You haven’t got an appointment, you half-wit. And why on earth are your cheeks so squshed together?’

No.

She was perfectly lovely.

I decide there and then that I will try to speak in a calm voice from now on.

 

How Things At The Factory Worked.

 

The lovely boss lady invited me to her office and we talked about how everything worked. Her, explaining essential things such as shipping costs and import duty tax and me, nodding and bluffing. Hoping that my sweaty top lip wasn’t too much of a giveaway.

We discussed price. ‘The pants are cheaper if you take over fifty pairs’. She explained in her Thailinglish.

I didn’t like to say that I’d probably only need two pairs to be going on with.

One for my mum and the other for the woman who is feeding the sheep. I wanted to impress her after all.

‘I’ll take one hundred pairs!’ I beamed, expecting her to fall through the floor like Rumplestiltskin. She didn’t bat an eyelid and went on to explain that it would be approximately $100 to ship the pants to New Zealand and the delivery would take approximately ten days.

A hundred bucks? No way Jose. My mind quickly calculated the cost and I pulled my shoulders back and made a bold family decision. You can’t be seen to be flustered when you are an international buyer of pants after all.

‘We’ll take them all now and we will carry them home in our rucksacks’. Hurray for me!

There.

How about that clever clogs? Me. With my big wet cheeks growing like two bed sores.

The kids suddenly sprung to life.

Sonny, who doesn’t like to make a fuss in public obviously thought this was the time to break the habit of a lifetime. “I don’t have room. I have to pack my trainers and I want to but a samurai sword” — shut up weirdo, I wanted to snap, but instead, I smiled my nicest I’m-going-to-kill-you-later smile and tried to remember to talk in my soft Kimono voice.

‘This isn’t a game’ I hissed dramatically, ‘This is for the shop. If I could have reached his arm I would have pinched his skin as hard as I could,  but lucky for him he was too far away.

I ignored his look of total disgust and was thankful that he didn’t fire back at me: ‘What effing shop you nutter?’.

 

 

Related Post That You May Enjoy. Or Not. Depending On How Drunk You Are.

 

The travel bog diaries. Getting sloshed at a rock festival

The travel bog diaries. Pissing my pants in Sri Lanka.

The travel bog diaries. Saving a beggar boy in India

The travel bog diaries. When mummy’s post went viral

 

Deciding Which Pants to Buy.

 

This was the tricky bit. There I was, with two kids who are ready to drop because they got up at nine am and are suffering from shock — boiling hot — the sun glaring through the glass windows of the stock room.

There was no other way to decide on style size and colour, other than for me to try them on — one hundred pairs of pants.

Me sweating like a mule, the kids begging to go home and Brian with his head stuck under a sewing machine trying to figure out how it worked.

There was no mirror in the stock room and the assistant that was helping me with the purchase of the pants couldn’t speak a word of English. She just kept smiling at me for no reason.

I couldn’t possibly see how I could try on a hundred pair of pants and not know what the hell they looked like.

“You’ll have to tell me if they look nice,” I said to Brian.

Brian.

Brian who hates baggy harem pants with a passion.

Brian who wishes his wife would wear those little denim shorts that she used to wear thirty years ago.

Brian who will get his brains bashed in if he doesn’t tell me that every single pair of these baggy Alibaba pants looks stunning.

 

 

Buying thai harem pants wholesale from Thailand

No mirror, boiling hot and a lip that was almost drowning in sweat. Time to try 100 pairs of pants on.

 

Getting The Pants Home To NZ

 

buying pants wholesale in Thailand

Just like Fagin, examining my goods. Time to stuff them in the kid’s backpacks and get them back to NZ

 

I left the building from the same door that I had entered through three hours earlier when I was but a young naive pants buying novice, but now, here I was, carrying one hundred pairs of pants and three kimonos in four Thai bin bags. What a bloody legend.

I was the proud owner of my first stock load of Thai clothes. Silvano Vangi eat your heart out. I was buzzing.

‘Look at me now!’ I wanted to call out to the workers, who were still all ignoring me, ‘tell your friends! Spread it! I’ve got stock for my shop!’

Onto the back of the moped. Onto a plane. Into a car and finally reaching the bed in our spare room in New Zealand. Where the pants will sit until I have my shop up and running.

These things take time you understand.

 

Buying pants wholesale from thailand

See those bags? That’s my fortune that is…

 

Leave me a comment if you enjoyed this post and would like to hear more of how I am bullshitting my way into business. Liz x

The Day Mummy’s Post Went Viral. The Travel Bog Diaries.

The Day Mummy’s Post Went Viral. The Travel Bog Diaries.

Viral. A Quora viral post. Get me.

I’m not sure about the term viral. I think it’s a new-fangled internet thingy. The only viral I’ve witnessed these past few months is when Brian’s ears blocked up and he annoyingly insisted on cupping his hand over the side of his face when I asked him a question.

I thought he might need a hearing aid, but he said it was just viral

And then on Sunday, I discovered the real meaning of viral.

As some of you may know, I have been travelling the world with my husband and teenagers for the past seven months and writing a travel blog as I go. While I try my hardest to be a proper, grown-up travel blogger who appears professional and doesn’t get too personal, sometimes, just occasionally, I stray off the path.

Instead of telling people how to get from Verona to Rome by bus, I inform them that my Berlei bra has ripped or that the kids are driving me insane because they won’t get off their stupid, addictive phones.

Today you will get one of those posts, because today, I have something exciting to tell you.

 

The Day Mummy’s Quora Post Went Viral.

 

Picture if you will, a pigeon. A  big, fat, happy grey pigeon with a puffed up heaving chest, walking around in a pair of silver high heeled shoes that are four sizes too big.

That was me yesterday.

I wrote an answer on Quora. Quora is a question and answer site. It’s similar to social media in the sense that people can up-vote your answer and comment, but totally opposite to social media in that people can’t just put a picture of their granny doing the splits in a pair of wooden clogs and get trillions of likes from it.

I answered a question: ‘What do first-time visitors to India not expect to find?’

That was easy for me. While everyone else on Quora was writing about the filth and squalor, I wrote about India as I saw it. Beautifully.

You see, India for me was like stepping into a different life. It’s impossible to be normal in India because everything is so unlike everything you are accustomed to. And I loved that. So, writing about how enchanting and exciting it was came easily to me.

Anyway, this is not a post about the answer that I wrote on Quora, it is about how that answer went viral.

Viral.

Sonny, my 17-year-old son, has always dreamed of going viral; it’s all he ever talks about.

Jenny Penny has given birth to a baby girl and called her tube; it’s gone viral.

Black Prince has announced he’s not racist and had sprayed his big toe white; it’s gone viral.

Robbo Fortino scratched his balls with a hairbrush; it’s gone viral.

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Writing The Post That Went Viral.

 

Saturday night. I wrote the post and pressed publish. Just before I went off to bed I checked the stats and saw that after an hour, the post had received 45 views and a handful of up-votes.

Meh.

But I woke up the next morning, and my world was different.

“You’d better come and see this! That post that you wrote on Quora is going up by 10,000 views every hour!”.

Sonny. My 17-year-old son.

Happier than I’ve ever seen him in his entire life. You see because I am a kind and considerate mother who only ever thinks of others, I had linked to Sonny’s YouTube Channel in that post.

The video that he made about India was now receiving thousands of views.

Note to other mothers: How to make your teenage son love, worship, respect and adore you for a few hours. Plus, make you a cup of tea without asking. Link to his YouTube channel with a post that is set to go viral.

 

158.4k views in 12 hours.

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Picture me at 10 o’clock that morning after being told that my post was hitting the big time. From resembling a seagull that had just taken an oil bath, I transformed into a peacock – strutting its stuff around Kensington Palace.

No, not a peacock. Let’s stay with the pigeon in high heels analogy.

Famous at Last. I could see it all now.

Me, on the red carpet, attending ‘The Best Selling Author of the Year Awards’. Wearing a sparkly dress and my Japanese headband, the one I bought from the 100 yen shop, sporting one of those posh silky girdles that hold your belly in really tight.

Over I would swan to J.K, smiling my nicest smile, and I’d ask her ‘was it true that she had written about the flying wizard while sitting in a coffee shop?’

She would look aghast as if to say ‘who the hell is this cretin and why is she wearing that hideous headband?’ but I wouldn’t care. I’d go on to tell her about my adventures. And she’d have to listen to me because I was nearly as famous as she was.

And a bit younger.

I’d yarn on and on about the fact that, like her, I’d suffered poverty. About how I’d travelled the world wearing the same filthy black dress and had eaten horse meat in Japan. How I’d inflicted torture onto my kids by making them couch-surf but that I didn’t feel one bit guilty, because I was the world’s best mother.

Not like her who had left her daughter to sleep in the pram while she wrote stories about goblins.

Phff.

Viral.

Imagine how it felt for me to see a bunch of numbers going up and up and up. The only thing that’s ever gone up that fast for me in the past seven months is my mortgage repayments.

It’s costing a bloody fortune this trip. Budget or no budget.

 

163.7k Views in 14 hours.

 

Going viral on that warm and sunny Sunday was making mummy girlish and scatty,

‘Let’s go out for a coffee!’ I announced, giddy and gleefully.

The kids looked slightly horror-struck.

‘But you said that coffee in France is a bloody rip-off and that we were never going out ever again. You said that that French woman at the café overcharged you because she knew we were English and that you hated France and that you wish we’d stayed in Croatia.’

‘Never mind that now children!’ I spat as I skipped out to the car. ‘Who wants a plain croissant? They’re on meee!’

Looking back, it must have been terrifying.

The kids, stood there, gawping, open-mouthed. Feet glued to the floor. Unable to believe that this thing in front of them was the same old bag that just yesterday had accused Sonny of being a greedy little shit because he had made a club sandwich out of four pieces of toast instead of three.

 

188.3k Views in 16 hours.

 

Tessa, groaning under her breath as she climbed into the car. ‘Oh, God’ she mumbled to Sonny, ‘she’s not going to be famous or anything is she?’

I had it all sorted in my head. No more life of poverty for me. No Siree.

No more sneaking into the duty-free cosmetic malls in the airport and pumping a load of hand cream into the palm of my hand and then running around the corner to rub it into my blackened crusty heels.

No.

Things were about to change.

Quora and India have made sure of that. From now on, I would be getting pedicures. Well, I’d certainly go and buy myself one of those posh foot shaver things. That gadget that looks like a cheese grater. And I’d ask Tessa to attend to my heels while I wrote more posts on the computer.

She’d love that.

 

 

223.4k Views in 23 hours.

 

I jumped into bed that night like a young gazelle.

Nothing like the half-dead shire horse that had collapsed onto the sheets the previous evening. No. Tonight was different. This was special.

It’s not every day that your wife goes viral. That in mind, I decided to give Brian a little treat. To stay up late into the night and chat, like we used to when we were young. Younger.  This was something worth staying up for, worth feeling knackered in the morning for.

I even put a couple of drops of lavender oil on my temples to try and calm the giddiness and to make me smell attractive.

Brian came out of the bathroom, banging the side of his head to get the water out of his waxy ear.

‘Let’s talk’ I crooned. Brian, looking agitated and vaguely petrified.

‘It’s getting late Liz and you’ve had a big day…’

Never mind that! I wanted to scream, this is what it would be like if you were in bed with someone famous! I’m a viral superstar!

I wanted to jump up onto the bed, get on all fours and start bouncing up and down in exhilaration, but we are staying in a converted barn and the floorboards are old, so I refrained.

Instead, I giggled and tried to blink a lot without turning my contact lenses inside out. I smiled my special little pigeon smile, but Brian ignored me and asked if I knew where the Tiger Balm was because his sinuses were playing up.

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237k views in one day. 

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The next day, the kids had clearly decided between themselves that enough was enough. This viral mania that had possessed their Mother had to stop. It was time to bring her back to down earth.

‘Have you washed my white skirt yet?’ ‘My bum hurts when I go to the toilet’. ‘Can I download a pirate copy of the game of thrones onto your computer?’ ‘Why does my ankle keep cracking?’

Viral. Bloody viral. Me with my ripped bra and donkey hoof feet and a post that goes viral.

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Other related posts that you will enjoy.

 

The Bog Post Diaries. Pissing my pants in Sri Lanka

The Bog Post Diaries. Saving a beggar boy in India

The Bog Post Diaries. Kicked out of the yoga class in India

The Bog Post Diaries. Publically humiliated in Vietnam.

The Bog Post Diaries. Getting sloshed at the festival

The Bog Post Diaries. Pumping my thighs in Vietnam.

 

Things are looking up for Mummy.

Ps: You can read about the post that went viral here. And please don’t forget to share it!

Liz x

A post that goes viral on Quora

 

 

 

 

The Travel Bog Diaries. Pumping my Thighs In Thailand.

The Travel Bog Diaries. Pumping my Thighs In Thailand.

Every single pair of pants that I’ve ever bought in Asia, the stitching has gone in between the legs. Gone at the crutch as my Grandma would have said. Every. Single. Pair. Either somebody is playing a cruel joke on me here, or my bum cheeks are gradually inflating by the day.

The only positive to this Thai haberdashery error is that there’s always a gentle cool breeze wafting through my knickers. To calm me down. An onsite fan to cool the hot flushes that accompany a woman of my age who is prone to bouts of frantic rage.

Welcome to the Travel Bog Diaries.

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