Nation in Panic After Cat Terror Incident

WISCONSIN: Terror struck home in the small town of Millwood, Wisconsin as a cat ruthlessly attacked a bird yesterday. Sheriff Doug Bungy said, "It was carnage, that's what it was. A more monstrous crime has never been committed here in all the three hundred years our fine town has stood."
Media outlets were quick to jump on the terror bandwagon, with claims ranging from Dan Rather's story stating that the cat acted alone to Fox News's report that it was trained by Osama Bin Laden to attack small birds in Afghanistan.
Debbie Lynch was witness to the carnage. "I saw the cat, it looked like one of them normal cats, you know, and it stalked the bird. I thought it was looking at the bird like a person looks at a painting in a fancy museum, then there was the blood and the screaming and the gore. Only now do I truly know the horror of war", she said.
Investigators on the scene have taken forensic swabs and called in specialist counselors to deal with local trauma. George Mellors, who runs the local hardware store said, "We have had nothing like this here, ever. This used to be a quiet town. Now it is the very epicenter of hell. Its like something out of a Stephen King book, apparently. I dont read but my daughter do."
The cat was believed to have fled the area by jumping over a fence and hiding in some shrubs. Anyone with further information should contact the FBI.
The following information has been posted in all local post offices, police stations, and pet shops:
Description ; Cat. About a foot long. Walks on all fours. Sometimes uses the name Tiddles. Has tail. Black and white. Approach with extreme caution or bowl of milk.
This is not the first time feline related terror has stalked the local streets. In November of last year, a small kitten was seen ruthlessly attacking a small woolen ball. According to an eyewitness, "the ball was just sitting there, and this kitten or whatever it was pounced". The ensuing chaos caused many innocent members of the public to step over the wool. Gordon Blacksmith commented, "I heard on the radio that there was an incident, and I went to see. The kitten seemed to be planning the attack, hiding in some shrubs, and then it leapt on the wool. There but for the grace of God go I", he said.
Also last November, a cat was seen lurking in a tree, and worried residents thought it could be a sniper. In December the town turned into a triple terror hot spot with the disclosure that a goldfish had been under surveillance from a small group of fur ball extremists for over half an hour. "This town isn't safe anymore" said one resident, who wished not to reveal his identity, "You can't walk down the street without some cat looking at you. You don't know if they're going to come up to you, expecting a pat on the head, a stroke or something altogether more sinister, like abuse. Who knows what "meow" means? It could be a signal for a terror outrage or a request for more tuna. Or, God forbid, a mixture of the two." -- The Fake News

Cute, innit? News satire, also called fake news, is a type of parody presented in a format typical of mainstream journalism. According to an entry in Wikipedia, the goal of news satire is to make social commentary in a form that provides entertainment. Samuel Clemens, aka Mark Twain, was even made (in)famous because of his believable fake news.

For more examples of fake news, eg Atkins Diet Fanatics Assault Cookie Monster and School Bans Paper From Area Schools, go to The Fake News or The Spoof. The entries are generally humorous but can be offensive. Be warned that out-loud laughter may be a consequence.

Play It Again, Sam

There are songs that you like for a short time.
There are songs you never wish to hear again.
There are songs that make you cry and those that make you sigh,
Songs that make you smile, if only for a while.

There are songs that transport you to a time in your life that was bright and beautiful, where most things were weird and wonderful, and where you found yourself blissfully happy and carefree.

That time for me was in lower secondary school.
The song was Man Bai’s “Kau Ilhamku”.

It goes like this:
Beribu bintang di langit kini menghilang
meraba aku dalam kelam
rembulan mengambang kini makin suram
pudar ilhamku tanpa arah

Sedetik wajahmu muncul dalam diam
ada kerdipan ada sinar
itukah bintang ataupun rembulan
terima kasih ku ucapkan

Izinkan ku mencuri bayangan wajahmu
Izinkan ku mencuri khayalan dengan mu
Maafkanlah oh..
andai lagu ini mengganggu ruangan hidupmu
kau senyumlah oh.. sekadar memori kita di arena ini
Kau ilhamku

This song always made me happy though I wasn’t quite sure why. Then the other day while I was having supper, I heard another melody. Though it was not "Kau Ilhamku", there was an echo of it.
Suddenly, I stopped flipping through my magazine and just stared off into space. The other song was still playing, but what resonated in my soul and through my head were the bars of Kau Ilhamku and a feeling I had not experienced in over 15 years.

It was there in front of me as clear as the peanut butter sandwich I was eating.

A school field. Sitting in the grass. A blue sky above. Me and my best friend Az. And the memories and feelings came rushing back.

She was in a sense my inspiration, as we used to trade ideas. We were then quite prolific little writers, although our work would never stand up to literary review. There was always something to write about, some idea we were teasing into being. She had her imaginary friend Emma (I never knew her personally, of course), supposedly a green-eyed, raven-haired beauty who was the protagonist in her stories.
I had my main character Ana (Raja Putri Syarhana Farhani) with her blue eyes, strawberry blond locks and a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, (I guess we had our own ideals about beauty), slated to be the girl who won over the boy everyone wanted. (Well, maybe not everyone, in Form Two it was just me and Az drooling over our class monitor Fuad who was tall, fair and quite cute).
Ana was the heroine who was supposed to grace the pages of my first novel. Ana with the elder brother whose name I still use when signing my sketches. Ana with the loving Caucasian mother from whom she gets her beauty and colouring, and slightly authoritarian Malay father. Ana with the wonderful house and mixed upbringing and poor Bahasa Melayu, which is the reason she gets tuition from the boy, who later finds himself enthralled. And on it goes.

And there were other stories. Some which came from songs we listened to, some based on the people we knew (and had a crush on), some from homework and some just pulled out of our fertile imaginations.

Those times are long since past, but the memory of them never really go away. It’s something that lies dormant until resurrected – by a melody, by a phrase, by a face in the crowd.

It is there, just below the surface. The memory of a friendship. A memory of a song.

Sometimes you just have to play that song again.

Mz Cool and Gang at the Big Lake

Location: Tasik Loagan Bunut, Sarawak

 

My car is in Europe

Well, Si Merah (for the colour red) seems to think it is, as it gave up spewing cold air through the air-cond vents and instead decided that the driver in equatorial Brunei needed a heater.

It was truly a horrendous experience, as the windows don't really open (old cars have windows which fall out sideways) and we were building up steam inside the car. At 1pm, local time, just after the sun was at its zenith, the inside of the car was hotter than the weather outside.

Not too hot to be funny though. Passing a sign for the Giant hypermarket, the first to open in Brunei (on March 22), my passenger Juli said Giant must be the hottest thing in Brunei right now, before adding: "But not as hot as Si Merah!"

I wilted.

Can I borrow your mother?

My mother has been gone now for 18 years, three more than the 15 during which she was in my life. And yet, why are the memories still there?

Why do I still dream of her, and during these dreams sometimes totally forget that she has passed away? Sometimes in these dreams I rationalise the years that she's been gone - in one dream she had to "disappear" (like in those movies where people go into protective custody) for several years, in another she lost her memory, and in the others she was just there. No real explanation. I had my mother - the one who died when I was 15 - and we did the normal mother and daughter stuff.

Is it me? Is it a subconscious calling out into the darkness of the mind for my mother?

My daylight soul would dismiss this in the first instant. I'm a grown adult. I don't need my mother. I barely knew her, and when she was around, I only knew her as a mom who worked odd hours for the Malaysian News Agency (Bernama). She was a bit tough with us kids (she had a bit of a temper - probably where I got mine?) and hardly seemed to be at home. We were brought up mostly by the maids.

But I do remember once she ran over our kitten and bought us toys to soften the blow when she broke the news. And she and my dad often took us on holidays, when I suppose it would be easier to travel without kids along.

And when I went to work at Bernama, I found out more about this woman my mother. Well-liked, friendly, a good sense of humour - all the things a daughter would never really know, even if she were still alive.

Do I regret not having a mother? Maybe up to a point. In a Malay (or Asian) society, mothers are not the "best-friend" confidantes they are made out to be in Western books or movies. Do we really talk freely about our boyfriends, our periods, our expectations of the first night of marriage, for instance? Can we discuss our bodies, our confidence in our looks or talents, our dream of meeting this great good-looking guy who can make the earth move? Can we ask how Mom and Dad met, how they fell in love and how will I ever get over this jerk who dumped me?

And yet ... I find myself daydreaming of finding a man with a mother who will love me like mothers should.

Today, March 28, is my mother's birth date. Just after midnight, I was going through some of my jewellery, and picked up the jade bracelet that once belonged to her. I don't know if she ever wore it or it had been bought for investment. I've never worn it (it's too big) and it's been sitting wrapped in red paper, in a blue velvet case, for the past 18 years. It's one of several things that I have of hers, picked up after Dad remarried.

So I have my mother in snatches of memory. In items left behind. In the eyes of friends who knew her better than a daughter ever could.

But really, I don't have a mother at all.

What, no cup holders?

It's so common to have cup holders in cars nowadays that it's probably not even mentioned in the bumf for a new vehicle just hitting the auto market.

I think it's quite a new phenomenon (relative to the more than 100 years that cars have been tootling around on Earth), as the car I'm driving, a Toyota Corolla hatchback from 1984 (pictured), doesn't have this little, but very useful, gadget.

I forgot all about this though, when I dropped by the Thye Foodcourt in Gadong after work for a takeaway cup of teh tarik. Having just recently been on a roadtrip in a Toyota Hilux (a pickup truck, of all things, has cup holders - I bet those come with adjustable supports in case the vehicle goes head over arse) and noticing that my pilot had his teh tarik at the ready by his side while driving, I cheerfully carried my plastic cup of tea into the car - and then realised I had no place to put it.

So it went between my legs for the drive home. Not such a great idea when you're driving a manual and have to change gears. Not much better that short me has to sit far forward to reach the pedals and the steering wheel keeps bumping into the cup.

I ended up with a teh tarik-flavoured crotch. Not remotely as kinky as it sounds. Thank goodness I had a layer of my new cotton-rayon dress and another of Levi's to keep me from getting scalded.

Sigh, the trials and tribulations of a girl in search of a great cup of teh tarik...

And the award for most comments goes to...

OK, so Blueberry keeps complaining that I don't publish her comments. Yeah, I have to agree with her. I hardly get comments, so I don't make the effort to publish them. And then her first comments were from weird "anonymous" so I didn't bother.

And I thought, who reads those comments anyway? I don't. Blueberry, if you want to get in touch with me, you'd be better off sending an email. Those I reply to.. well, some day. Or just SMS me. I promise, when I have credit for my phone, or when I don't think texting is a pain on my stupid arthritic fingers, I'll send you a reply.

Anyway, here for the pleasure of Blueberry and all those people who read my blog (that's you, Ghoul), here are Blueberry's latest comments:

On the tag called Josephine:
Oi perempuan! Aku ni dah lama tak tinggalkan komen kat blog ngkau nie sebab aku benci bila komen aku tak keluar (not published) dan tak dijawab oleh engkau. So adakah sekarang ni ngkau dah tech-savvy sikit atau still blur kacang macam dulu jugak?...Syoknye Mek Jo duduk Kelantan! Makey budu tiap harilah camtu!!! Healthy dia nanti, awet muda you! Budu kan ada banyak anti-oksidan.

Answer: Heh heh, I'm still as tech unsavvy as ever. See, I have not even figured out how to link your blog to mine, and I've read the step-by-step instructions a zillion times. I don't even know how you managed to put some music on your blog! Anyone who has the slightest sympathy for this tech-forsaken being, please offer to upgrade my blog for me.

And I don't know how Jo is doing as I haven't heard news for a while. But I bet she likes budu (a fermented sauce made of anchovies).

On the marathon tag, Blueberry wrote:
Wah!!! Hebatnya!!! Eh bukan dulu masa kat KL ko pernah lari marathon gak ke? Ni marathon mana plak nie? Dahsyat ko ye, sungguh berstamina!

Answer: Nah, I never did a full marathon. That one I did in KL was the Terry Fox Run, which was only 4.5km but took me an hour of huffing and puffing to complete. I'm supposed to be training for a proper run, of which I'll write about, I swear, once I finish this pizza and get off the couch.

On I'm A Summer Girl:
Wey Fashionista! Amboi amboiiii semenjak kawan baik dengan orang-orang kaya kat BSB tu bukan main fashion-conscious lagi kau yea... When are you coming back? Are you not coming back? Aku rindu kat kau lah... Nak pegi makan-makan dan story-story dan bolehlah aku amik gambar potret kau di dalam frivolous outfit kau tu!

Answer: The "fashionista" unfortunately isn't sure about getting back to KL even though I am in SERIOUS need of retail therapy. Just been reading through Trinny and Susannah's "What you wear can change your life" and realised I'm a two-colour girl, and they are always boring colours. Cream and maroon, or cream and green, or red and black. There is a whole universe of colours out there and I don't know how to match them. Sigh.

And Blueberry, your pictures are amazing.

And since I still can't link Blueberry's blog to mine, anyone who wants to read about the "Cheerful person, harassed employee, stubborn daughter, eccentric sister, stingy aunt, devoted wife and broody mother" who has some really funny things to say, visit her at blueberrymusings.blogspot.com.

Was it a car or a cat I saw

Darling Jo (Josephine), who is now living with a new family in Kelantan. She's now called Mek Jo (read with a Kelantan slang, if you please) and has more room to roam and make friends.
This was taken during the actual eight-hour road trip from Kuala Lumpur to Kota Baru to send her off. Mostly she sat quietly in the back, but would start to miao if I made eye contact. She's not really a car cat.

Hook, Line and Sinker

I used a great line on a guy just yesterday. Well, I'd like to think it was a good line.

After an initial "feeling things out" phase, and on a third kinda-date (we're friends), I asked him: "What magic are you using? I couldn't stop thinking of you yesterday".

He was a bit speechless at first, and I thought there was an awkward moment (as I had said I only wanted to be friends). Then after the conversation had meandered through other topics, he suddenly asked "So what were you thinking about, when you were thinking about me?"

Hah! Caught him.

Schumi and the purple teddy

Haha. Dirty minded people! These are my cute teddy bears, a Russ one from Shashi and Little Schumi from Nik.

I Am A Summer Girl

Reading through the August edition of InStyle magazine was an eye-opener. In Summer girls V Winter women, it says being a summer or a winter isn’t just about the colour of one’s hair or skin. It’s more about personality (laid-back vs prim) and being comfortable with the kind of clothes you wear (T-shirts vs silk blouses).

And instead of being boxed in by what some may call a stereotype, I think it’s liberating to understand the kind of person you are and the clothes that suit your attitude.

Aside from being a late bloomer in fashion anyway, having bought my first pair of Levi’s at age 32, I had always been unsure of how I wanted to style myself and the look that I wanted to portray.
Yes I am a journalist, but unlike Kate Adie and her flak jackets while on the frontline, I’ve never been close to a warzone – not even a hint – that I can safely say combat boots and cargo pants are a required uniform. The only time I was about to be sent to the nearly-jungles of Perak, when the rebels stole M16s and ammo from the Army outpost and hid in the jungle, the crisis was over and the baddies caught (and shot), before I had even started to pack.
The only justification I had for being uber-casual, as some journos are portrayed, was when I started out at The Sun newspaper and I was covering crime and spot news – police stations, mortuaries, floods (not once), fires (but we were outside, far away and unheroic), murder scenes (nothing as dramatic as CSI) and a landslide. Even then, being uber-unchic, I wore boys’-cut shirts, unflattering trousers and unsexy hiking boots, as I didn’t have a car and walked everywhere. Though it felt like an unnecessary evil – other reporters in the line still managed coiffed hair and heels! – I found myself, twice when I wore baju kurung and proper court shoes, clambering over a mountain of confiscated game machines and trying to skirt puddles and huge patches of sopping red earth of a construction site to view a body encased in cement.
So then I graduated to normal reporting, but I still didn’t have style. I wanted the polished, million-dollar businesswoman look so that people would take me seriously, but with a petite “nearly five-foot” frame and a youthful face – I’m in my 30s but appear 20, if you squint a bit – I think I look like I’m playing dress up with Mom’s clothes.

And being flighty, sometimes I wanted the girlie look, or the gypsy, or the bohemian, or the French chic, or the British classy… well, you get my drift.
Being almost five-foot tall is not that great, either, when it comes to buying clothes off the rack. My proportion is off – shorter body, longer legs, flat front and back – so shirts would ride up at the waist, sleeves go down to my knees, waistbands look like Erkel’s and hems trail in the dust. I fit into European sizes for children, but most outfits in Asia’s a la European boutiques (like Somerset Bay) didn’t fit into the career-girl mould.

And don’t let me go back that far into college days – long flowy skirts and blouses with huge ruffles should have a sign that says “not for you, shrimp!”.

So I meandered along, gaining a bit of fashion insight along the way, enough to buy low waisted Levi’s – which still don’t fit that perfectly in the bum, by the way – and narrower shirts, cutting a long dress to make a shift, a number of high heeled shoes, almost figure hugging kebaya dresses and watching The Devil Wears Prada several times to get more clues. But I still had a thing for blazers and suits, the evils of “power dressing” getting ahold of me.

Then the lightbulb moment from the pages of InStyle.

I am a Summer! Though not blond, I love the sun, preferring to burn (I tan after only 5 minutes) rather than be cooped up in perpetual winter (as I was when studying in the UK). I carry itty-bitty handbags which only fit my cellphone, pack of cigs and cash – I don’t have a wallet – I don’t have a pouch for makeup and I’m not too bothered if my hair curls at the ends and doesn’t look like it did after an expensive salon wash and dry. Of course, I’d never look as good in slouchy trousers and sloppy T-shirts as Jennifer Aniston, and I’d never wear short skirts, but I am kinda like what is written in the magazine about Summer girls, that they “own 70 dresses and a handful of flimsy jackets, none of which match their shoes, and they never wear tights”.

Ok, so it’s not spot-on, but I do understand why my crisply ironed shirts tend to turn out rumpled as soon as I take them off the ironing board, unlike Gwen Stefani’s look, why I can’t quite pull off a cream silk blouse and tight skirt which are oh-so Katie Holmes and that I’d never end up on the red carpet as glamorously as Gwyneth Paltrow.
It’s just not me!

So what do I do now? Embrace the Summer girl-ness of me, of course, especially with this part of Southeast Asia being a perpetual summer (apart from Brunei’s current unpredictable foul, stormy weather).
Maybe a good cut of jeans, as really, not everyone is a Levi’s girl, empire line top, some loose gypsy-esque (but not too frilly) blouses, baby doll dresses (worn a bit conservatively over jeans, of course, never mind that it’s supposedly out of fashion), and a sunny attitude (now, that last one is a bit of a stretch).
But I’m thinking I can’t give up the power-dressing altogether, so maybe a blazer over a frivolous outfit – staid over fun, but with panache.

What do you think? Can this newborn Summer girl find some fun in the sun to beat the chill winds of a fashion winter? I definitely think so.
Watch out, world – the Summer girl cometh!

A Girl and Someone Else's Camera

Just a short entry because people have been complaining that I haven't updated my blog in yonks.

Well, anyway, this is me when I was covering the Miri International Jazz Festival in May.

The pix was taken by Sarawak Tourism's Gustino, who is obviously a wonderful photographer as he made me out to look quite good. Ha! Can I get him to do all my pictures, I wonder?

Ode To The Guitar Player

‘Twas such a sight that greeted me
You with a guitar on your knee
A single pluck, a simple strum
My heart was beating like a drum
And then when you began to sing
The music went afloat on wings
It touched my heart and gripped me tight
I felt like I was lost in flight

Those days, those nights came rushing past
The friendship that had held us fast
Your presence filled my lonely soul
And kept at bay the crippling cold
The laughter sweet and joy aflame
Which never left me quite the same
All the mem’ries had close I kept
And in these thoughts I basked, except:

The song, the verse, the rhythm played
The melody that had me slayed
Was not for me, not part, not all
Though it had held me in a thrall
Without a word goodbye of leave
You did my heart asunder cleave
And as the song died with a trill
I realise … I miss you still

When the phone rings in the night

It’s in all the TV shows, it’s in all the novels: when the phone rings in the middle of the night, we know it’s not good news. A death in the family, a car crash, a fire which burnt someone’s house down to the ground.

Maybe in today’s 24/7 lifestyle, the fear of the past-midnight call has been diluted. Much so that it’s not as taboo to be calling your friends late in the night to talk about a date that went bad or to invite him out for a drinking session at the kedai mamak. In fact at 2am you might not even be asleep yet, and a ringing phone does not instil in you the heart-thumping fear and does not make your mind conjure up 20 different scenarios of tragedy in that three minutes it takes you to pick up the receiver and say a breathless and worried “hello”.

But it is the post-midnight call of bad news that compels families, and friends, to immediately come together in a way that nothing else will. Drop everything else, sleep be set aside, forget an early morning meeting that you have to be up for – when the call comes, you are there.

My mother died in the afternoon all those years ago, so the round of phone calls was performed in the light of day – not as urgent, with people coming staggered throughout the rest of the day at their convenience.

But I remember staying at my aunt’s house when once the phone rang past the witching hour. I picked it up and another uncle, sombre in voice, asked to speak to my aunt. There was muted conversation, an exclamation of surprise, a slow click as the receiver was put back in place. My younger cousin had died.

And the family came together at once, bundling all the sleepy children, protesting or not, into cars for the drive to my uncle’s house. Some still in pyjamas, some hastily dressed in ill-matching clothes – it was no time to preen and look pretty, as people tend to do during day visits.

This was the very soul of ziarah, visiting the ill or paying respects to the dead. It is not for the dead that we come, but for the living. It is not for what we can bring them – the nicely packaged basket of fruits or box of chocolates locked away in closed stores – it is us, and we are there. The family grouped from all over, some a mere hour’s drive away, some taking more than four hours to get there. But they came, wasting no more than an hour from receiving the call to setting out.

Funny how death should be the reunion-maker. Have you ever tried getting your family to a get-together for a celebration? Hours of phone calls to pick a good day, adjust schedules, set a time convenient for all. And try it with friends, that’s even harder. Choosing a good place to meet, juggling dates and times, getting the usual last-minute cancellations because of other pressing matters.

But death just comes without warning. No appointments, no asking if everyone’s free on that date, no RSVPs and no reminder calls not to be late. And not even considerate enough to do it before midnight.

Living mantra

Keep calm
Control temper
Be nice
Appreciate others
Maintain friendships
Remember God
Cherish self (pictured right)
Eat right
Stand tall
Enjoy life

Sustainable pledges?
We'll see

Forgot two:
Go shopping
Buy shoes
Can do?
Most definitely!

New bf for old

Dear BD,

I just wanted to tell you that I’ve got a new bf now. I know I really shouldn’t slag you off, seeing as you were faithful as my bf at one point, but really, my new bf is so much more satisfying than you ever were.

In the past of course I revered you, as I thought that you were the one and all that and hoped you’d be my bf forever. I mean yes, you picked up after me, you cleaned up my messes, you put up with all that cat hair uncomplainingly and were there when I needed you.

However, I have to say that with time, you were giving me more stress than pleasure.

I mean really, though I could take you almost everywhere with me, especially in those narrow, tight places, you could only perform for about 10 minutes before being spent, and then it took you more than eight hours to recharge your batteries. Your suction capability was good but I could never get you to apply yourself in those hard-to-reach crevices which needed so much attention.

And towards the end, you even refused to recharge your powers without me having to fiddle with your bits, which I really didn’t have the time or patience to do.

Now you’re with my sister, and though I’ve warned her about your failings, she insisted that she would be happy with you, so I hope you’re serving her well.

It took a while, of course, for me to decide on getting a new bf, and though I thought of getting one just like you, I figured I needed a better model. My new bf is bigger than you and although is at times ungainly, makes me happier. When plugged in, my new bf can go on and on all day, giving me utmost satisfaction.

You might think I’m settling for less because my new bf doesn’t have as illustrous a name as yours, and I agree up to a point, but I guess that’s just how it goes.

An Aifa vacuum cleaner can never compare to a cordless Black & Decker Dustbuster, but that’s life.
I’ll never forget you, of course, but I think I’m going to be happy with my new best friend.




Sincerely, the little devil.

Eyes on Stalks

I have a stalker. An honest-to-God stalker. No, really. I’m not being paranoid, well maybe not much.
I was a bit paranoid when I got home late the other night and opened all doors and looked into all corners of my apartment in case he was lying in wait for me. This is a bit irrational as he couldn’t really get into my third-floor unit unless he jimmied the lock on the grilled door (this would have made too much noise), stolen my keys, turned into Spiderman and scaled the wall or abseiled from the roof (not probable in his case but what I would definitely do).

However, I have not been imagining that he has been standing for minutes at a time in the compound of the Shell station in front of my apartment building looking up at my unit. I’ve caught him at it a few times, and he was there again the other night, pretending to play with a cat. I saw him as I was out on the balcony chatting with my next-door-neighbour Dave, whose balcony overlooks mine. And he was watching unabashedly all the way as I went down the three flights of stairs to my colleague’s waiting car for a late night meal, which resulted in the apartment sweep when I got back.

I know I wrote lovingly about Rangga standing outside Cinta’s house in the movie Ada Apa Dengan Cinta in my entry That Melting Feeling, but this does NOT in the least strike a sentimental chord in me. Not even close to the romanticism of Romeo and Juliet’s balcony scene, either. And I know I was lamenting the lack of single men here in Brunei, but this is not my idea of an eligible male.

The thing is, he is a security guard attached to my office and the area in which my apartment is located, and some people might say he’s just “doing his rounds”. But I seriously think standing in the same place time and time again and gazing straight up at my apartment is not in his job description. It’s bordering on psychotic and an invasion of my privacy.

It started out pretty normal. I say hello to the guards once in a while as I enter or exit the office building. Then one night, going home late, it started to rain, so he offered to walk me home with an umbrella. At the stairs to my place, I tell him it’s ok, I can make it up by myself, but he insists on accompanying me “to check if everything’s all right”.
Outside my door I again had to politely but firmly thank him, saying that I was quite confident of being safe and went in. I heard him loiter for a bit outside my door, then he left.

However, he came back up and rang my doorbell! This was nearly 1am – he claimed to be bored and since my lights were still on, he thought it would be just peachy to come and hang out. I said no.

Pretty creepy, I thought, and only later, when I caught him staring from that favourite spot at the Shell station, that his earlier remark as he was sending me home made sense. He had asked me what I was doing up so late some night before that, as he saw that my lights were on. And that fit, as the only way he could ascertain if my lights were on was if he were loitering at that very spot at the petrol station.

Vain me would just shrug it off and revel in the thought that I have a stalker, but private me is very upset. I don’t like the idea of this man keeping tabs on whether I’m home, awake or asleep. And what is he standing around for anyway – waiting to get a glimpse of me if I went out on the balcony or as I walk about in my apartment if the curtains are not closed? Creepsville Central!

I’m really unsure what I should do. Some colleagues think I should take it up with his supervisor or my boss, as security guards are supposed to make me feel more secure, not less. But some think it could just make matters worse (as I said, some may just say it’s his job and dismiss my fears) and if I ignore him, he might just tire of the game and stop.

Right now, I’m keeping an eye out for him as I want to get a picture of him in his stalker dude mode. Further ideas are welcome, but what I really want to do is keep a video log of the frequency, timing and duration of his little “on duty” night watch sojourns.

Now if I can only get my hands on a good video camera...

Me a cow?

Colleague Ash was trying to introduce me to his friend the other day via instant messaging, and in the process told him about this blog.
Know what? His first comment was "Holy Cow!"
So I had Ash ask him if he was calling me a cow.

Now, I've been likened to many animals before. Bitch, pussycat (definitely a misguided person who thought this), chameleon, ox (as in stubborn as an) and ass, while I consider myself a tiger - but no one's ever called me a cow. Well, not to my face, anyway.


However, I might not mind being a cow in Europe or Japan, as, according to Jessica Williams in her book 50 Facts That Should Change The World, them heifers have it good.

The fact of the matter is that: "Every cow in the European Union is subsidised by US$2.50 a day. That's more than what 75 per cent of Africans have to live on."

She goes on to say that European cows come under the Common Agricultural Policy (CAP) and "the Catholic aid agency CAFOD calculated that for the money the EU spends protecting its farmers, each of the EU's 21 million cows could go on a round-the-world trip once a year. The cows could touch down in London, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Singapore, Hanoi, Siem Reap, Brisbane, Rarotonga, Los Angeles and San Francisco - with $400 spending money to help them along. What makes this even more remarkable is that the EU's cows aren't the most heavily subsidised in the world. According to the World Bank, that prize goes to Japanese cows, which receive $7.50 every day. Presumably, when the Japanese cows join their European friends on their round-the-world trip, they fly business class."

Isn't that amazing? Now you can call me a cow all you want. I'm going on holiday - business class.

Escapism, and not by Houdini

Do you ever wonder about the one that got away?
Whether it was a 60-pound fish, a little black dress on sale, a pair of knee-length tan suede boots in a shop in Doha.. or the man that you let slip through your fingers.

I’ve been thinking about it recently. And been a tad wistful about the Ryans and the Daniels and the Sorshas that I knew.

Of course after time, most of the memories I have of them are good.

One bus trip, a scintillating conversation, innocent walks, a bicycle ride and chatting at the playground.

Making a new friend in an unfamiliar town, walking through the galleries of a museum differentiating between Astrology and Astronomy, chatting via the internet.

A friend’s wedding, a movie date and witty repartee, having nasi lemak in Pantai Dalam, exchanging notes via SMS.

These are the things I remember, and things I smile about. The connection, the ability to converse, understanding the same kind of jokes, the laughter.

It’s a form of escapism, of course. Somewhere you run to if you’re feeling a little bored or upset or lonely. It’s a lovely place where you can hide for a bit from the real world. A little place where you can ignore the whys and wherefores that the relationship didn’t work out.

I’ve forgotten all the arguments, the fights, the sulks. All best left behind for the sweet memories of the good times that we had.
Because don’t stories about “the one that got away” often get embellished with each retelling? – “the fish was huge, surely more than a metre long”; “that shirt would have fit me perfectly”; “he was the nicest, handsomest, most perfect guy I had ever met”.

But I don’t dwell on it too much, because I know, things that are meant to be would have been, and things that didn’t wasn’t meant to.

If it were meant to be, the Ryans of the world would not have gone to France to study and there meet the woman of his dreams. If it were meant to be, the Daniels of the world wouldn’t have migrated to Australia to set up a business and there meet the woman he recently married. And if it were meant to be, the Sorshas of the world would not have met a girl just after we called it quits, and within a year was married with a child on the way.

It was not meant to be. But that doesn’t mean we can’t think a little about the ones that got away, and smile.

Di Dalam Kegelapan Ku Mencari

Telah lama aku berada di dalam kegelapan.
Kelam dan kedinginan telah menjadi lumrah hidupku.

Lalu di kala aku berselubung mencari jawapan, muncul seseorang yang menerangi kegelapan dan membawa kehangatan.

“Pasanglah lampu,” katanya. “Dah tu, kalau sejuk, tutup air-cond tu, membazir duit je.”

Aku akur. Dan hilanglah kegelapan dan kedinginan itu.

Ten Years On

Ten years ago, I left Malaysia for a two-year stint in the UK to further my studies.
Ten years on, I am again starting a two-year stint in a foreign country, this time for work.
But funnily enough, 10 years on, my baby brother is about to undertake his own adventure in the UK, having earned his stripes to complete the second and third year of his undergraduate degree at Nottingham University.

Earlier this year, when I applied for this overseas job, I wondered if things weren’t happening in a 10-year cycle for a reason. I felt confident that I would get the job and that it was time again for me to leave the country as I did in 1996.

Was it a coincidence that although I had switched jobs four times since I got back and started working, the opportunity to work abroad never came up, only to fall into my lap at this particular time? I was barely a year into my new job then - a good one where I was making enough for a comfortable lifestyle; I had a car, a rental condo in Pantai Hillpark, enough money to go diving or holiday every few months. It was a good job, but it was just time to move on and up. I felt it in my bones.

And now, as the 10-year cycle goes, baby bro is all grown up, and moving into a world where he will stand on his own two feet, rise or fall on his own account, learn more about the world and his place in the whole scheme of things. No Dad to call to pick him up during college holidays, no (step) Mum to cook him dinner and call him down from his hours in front of the computer downloading “stuff” (it’s alright, I know he loves his Manga and all that Japanese cartoon stuff, as does my elder sis).

We were never close. Mum died when he was just four (I was 15), which marked the beginning of a life apart for me. That year, the last family vacation was around my birthday, when we met up with Mum who had a working trip in Terengganu. They were staying at the Primula Hotel on Batu Buruk beach. I rode a horse on my own on the beach. Baby bro doesn’t remember this. And he doesn’t remember our mother.
There is a picture of the family taken in March of that year, probably the last we took before she died. It was her birthday, and she was opening her present with us sitting posed around her (as normal family pictures are composed). I’ll post the picture some day, I don’t have it now with me. There are also some pictures of me holding baby bro, but not many, as I was never really maternal and never really got on with him. If he notices a scar on his forehead at the edge of his hairline, it was probably when I was rough with him and he hit his head at the edge of the stairs (*grin* sorry, baby bro).

The last family celebration was probably my elder sister’s birthday in September. Then Mum died in October. The family took a vacation in December of that year. Dad, sis, bro and I went to Penang, then a bit later took a cousin and a young uncle to Cameron Highlands to use up Mum’s holiday time-share scheme. I don’t remember much, except for memory flashes when I look at the photos. The wind in my hair on the Penang ferry, walking on the grounds of Strawberry Park in Cameron Highlands, splashing about at the waterfall.

Some time in the first quarter of the next year, I went to boarding school. Dad remarried that August. Suffice to say, I never got on well with Step-mum, and never really went home. I didn’t get parental support, emotionally or financially, and I learnt to be independent.

And when I left for the UK 10 years ago, I didn’t feel like the parents were particularly proud that this stubborn obstinate spitfire rebel of a girl had managed to do particularly well for herself but were just basking in the bragging rights that “my daughter is going overseas to study”, something my elder sis had denied them. And when I returned without a degree (something to do with the rebel without a cause), their bragging rights were taken away for eight years until now. Of course, I doubt he sees it that way.

We hold different ideals.

Baby bro grew up with the only mother he remembers, and left behind the one he forgot. He grew up with the two sisters Dad and Step-mum later adopted, and hardly spoke to the two sisters who had left him behind. What was there to say, right? Our memories were different from his, our thoughts ran on separate tracks; ours where our father had failed us, his where Dad was a constant presence. Ours where our Mum had gone, his where mother was still around. Where was the middle ground? The rift was always there between us.

But as baby bro is about to spread his wings much farther afield than ever before, in a world where such differing memories matter none, I offer him my sisterly advice:

- Bring a good coat, the first chill of Autumn as you arrive at the airport can catch you unawares. It might be exciting to feel the cold wind, but being sick in the first week of your new life is no fun at all.

- Take the credit card they’re offering but don’t spend foolishly.

- A small rice cooker is a useful tool for cooking almost anything from plain rice to soup, broth, nasi ayam and nasi kandar (once you get the recipe).

- A whole chicken cuts up into about 14 medium-sized pieces and can feed you for a week (you don’t need a chopper either, a good pair of “kitchen” scissors can work wonders to cut up chicken bones).

- Buy in bulk if you are sure you can finish off the produce before it expires, especially fresh milk and bread. Vegetables and stuff are very cheap. Be smart when buying but don’t skimp on food just to save a few bob. Eat well.

- Study hard during term time, take a proper break when the holidays come. It was the other way round for me – I hated going to class and tried to crash-study before exams…it never works.

- Hang around other Malaysian students to alleviate missing home, but open your eyes and mind to other faces, other races. It’s so exciting to be in the middle of the melting pot that is university. I’ve maintained longer friendships with foreigners I was hanging with than with Malaysian uni mates.

- Enjoy your first snowfall - go out and make a snowman, even if the snow is the wrong kind. Lay on the ground and make snow angels. Find a bin liner, a small slope and go sledding, no matter what other people say. Throw snowballs.

- Travel - the farthest you can go, the most you can see. Join a club where you can go somewhere every weekend (for me it was rock climbing – absolutely marvellous!), save money for longer holidays. Visit friends at universities in other towns and cities. Go to London to see the Queen. Go to Europe. Backpack. Take a bus. Go slow, don’t rush. Take pictures, take it all in, take time to see the world. Student passes are the most wonderful thing since sliced bread. Buy me souvenirs *grin*. Would you believe that I bought you presents during my travels? I bought you an eraser in Paris (you were then aged 12, I think, and had a liking for erasers), but I never had the chance to give it to you. I kept it in the little paper bag it was wrapped in, in a box of keepsakes, until this year, when I finally gave it to charity.

- Get a job for the holidays if you can (but make it legal). Better still if you can mix work with pleasure. I worked at a hotel on Gurnsey Island, where we did the breakfast shift and housekeeping till noon, then had the afternoon off, to come back at 6pm for the dinner shift. Days were spent lounging about, going to town or at the beach. One of the guests at the hotel was an army officer once stationed in “Malaya”. He still remembered Malay words, and a snippet of an old song that I had hardly ever heard.

- And finally: study smart, get your degree but don’t stress. I came back without one and felt disadvantaged for a bit (lower pay in a certificate-oriented Malaysia), but it won’t necessarily get you that far. Your experiences, your skill and your strengths will get you further if you know how to use them. Make your own luck. Enjoy yourself.

So my baby bro is about to go and slay the world…I say let the world beware.

And I hope, 10 years from now, baby bro will look back at this time of his life and say:
“I didn’t miss a thing.”

Technologica gone amok

Such is the advanced technological world we live in today, that I haven’t written a letter in probably a decade.
A “letter” here of course being in longhand, preferably using a fountain pen for class, with the meticulously dotted i’s and crossed t’s on proper “stationery”, which means paper, not just stuff we get from the office supply cupboard and take home.
A letter here does not mean email, nor memos, certainly not text messages or instant messages surrepstitiously answered while we do our “work”.

I have a letter to my best-friend-in-secondary-school that I started in late June still sitting on my desk to be finished, put in an envelop and stamped.

And why did I start this letter?

Was it to rekindle a bygone era where we bought cheap stationery printed with flowers or cute little kittens on which we sent little notes to each other even though we met each other every day in class?
Was it for practice so that I wouldn’t lose my ability to use my hand in case one day all the computers break down and I’m forced to *gasp* write something in longhand?
Or was it because I am attempting to swim against the current of modernity and bring back the ettiquette of the thoughtfully-considered written word?

Well, if you really must know, it’s because I lost her email address and telephone number and there’s no other way to contact her.

Such indeed, is the advanced technological world we live in today that this next scenario, in which I took part most recently, could ever take place.

I had been happily incommunicado since I lost my handphone about four months ago. But lately, being in a foreign land with lesser means of communication has taken a toll – I missed my friends, specifically the ability to just turn around at work and whisper gossipy things about the resident psycho; I missed late night conversations about how the day went and hearing soothing words that would wash away all the angst for a fresh new day tomorrow; I missed the instantaneous acknowledgement that you are hearing what I’m saying instead of wondering if the email went through and if I had not written something which did not quite “sound” as I had meant it.

So I got myself a handphone, and the rest of the story went like this:

This girlfriend had been bugging me to get a phone. So the next time she emailed me, I sent her a short reply by email, saying that I had a phone, but that I didn’t have enough credit to call out or to receive calls (as I’m on roaming, I’d have to pay for incoming calls).

Then she sends me an SMS on my new phone.

This is followed by an email that she had sent me the SMS.

I SMS her back.

Then I send her an email to say that I indeed received her SMS and had sent her a text reply.

She sends me an SMS to say that we should chat.

I email her and suggest we should meet up on messenger.

She sends me her messenger username by SMS.

I add her as a friend on my messenger.

Then I send her an email to tell her that I’ve added her on messenger. At the same time, I suggest she try to call me to see if the call-in deduction would kick in.

She calls me but we can’t chat long. The deduction kicks in and I run out credit.

She sends me an SMS to get back on messenger.

I send her an SMS reply with my messenger ID. She puts me on her list.

We start instant messaging.

She gets cut off several times.

She sends me an SMS that she was cut off.

She also sends me an email telling me that the messenger is not working too well. I send an email reply to try using another system.

In a little while, we try instant messaging again. It doesn’t work.

I send her an SMS to say that I never received any word through the messenger.

She sends me an email to say that she’s getting off work.

I email my goodbyes.

Convoluted process it was, with four types of communication technology – the call, the SMS, the email and instant messaging.

But you know what? Even with all that, or because of all that, we didn’t really have a chance to chat!

Do you think I should start writing her a letter?

That Melting Feeling

Help! I'm so in love with an ideal. With a dream. With a celluloid creation of the cutest guy with a sensitive artistic soul and a heart just waiting for love. A good-looking bod doesn't hurt, either.

Help me. I can't keep watching the same CD, playing my favourite bits over and over again. But I can't sleep thinking how hard a heart must pound out of a love thought lost then was re-found.


Young love though it be, love is still the feeling that keeps us going, that makes us stand outside our beloved's house with a look of intense love, which makes us rush to the airport to apologise before he goes, to admit that we were wrong and to confess "I don't want to lose you".

And to experience the most wonderful feeling when we blurt out "Saya sayang bangat sama kamu" to see him take a deep breath and without hesitation reply "Saya juga sayang sama kamu. Sayang sekali."

And then the movie ends and I'm in tears.

Love.

Farewell To An Old Life

I’ve left behind my life
I’ve left Malaysia of my birth
I’ve left my friends, my cat, my car, my house
And I’ve left behind my love

I actually know I’m being pathetic to grieve over a heart that’s been broken for a long time, but mourn I must for the “final” the-end to the two-year tragedy which I called my love life.
It’s the final the-end because I tried to bring the curtains to a close several times, but like Sly’s Rocky, there was always a sequel, and adhering to the rule of sequels, mine were always bad.

I was not for him. He was not for me. Yet, the emptiness of my soul cried out for any kind of salve. Soothing in the short term but detrimental in the long haul, I grabbed whatever crumbs of affection came my way and talked myself into love. When the blinders were taken away, I resisted the unencumbered view. When he went further away for work, it was the perfect opportunity to call it quits, but nevertheless, I struggled to hold on.

In my case, it was true that absence made the heart grow fonder. I missed him with every fibre of my being. My heart did not understand my head’s clamour for closure and to open my eyes to the truth. He was not that into me. Not in the least. And I blinded myself to the things I had started to dislike about him.

As much as I abhorred his penchant for lying and how he treated me, I retained a love for him beyond rhyme or reason. I loved his hands -- big, strong and rough-looking but gentle enough to deal with computers and their parts, around which he worked. I loved his hair, especially the floppy part which fell over his forehead just as it was drying. I loved his face, his lopsided smile, the light that fell and highlighted his hazel eyes. I loved the milk-chocolate smoothness of the skin on his back, I loved the way his jeans hugged his butt, I loved his athleticism and skill in games, his singing voice.
I wanted to be his saviour, helping him realise his dreams. I wanted to be part of his family, to have a closeness with his mother and siblings the way I couldn’t have with mine. I wanted to be everything to him that I had dreamed someone would be to me. Even knowing that he never wanted this in return.

And as I got ready to leave my home for work in a foreign country, I identified most with Keith Urban’s song But You’ll Think of Me, specifically the chorus, which goes:

Take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories I don't need 'em
Take your space and take your reasons
But you'll think of me
Take your cat and leave my sweater
'Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact I'll feel a whole lot better
But you'll think of me, you'll think of me

The thing is, I can’t even console myself that it’s me singing those words. They are eminently in his domain. Aside from the first expression of surprise that I was going away, my leaving hardly affects his life.

Thus I took my records (CDs) and my freedom.
And I take the memories with me – memories for which he never had any use. Where I had committed to my grey cells and my heart almost each touch and word, he’d constantly turn in surprise if I’d quote what he had said a year previously.
All those memories are mine alone: the peck on my cheek as I was getting on an elevator that made me want to both cry and grin like an idiot; sitting with him on a deserted island jetty enjoying the breeze.

He never had an affinity for my cat, but I did love his shirts. A favourite was a jersey he wore while playing futsal, which I then took to wearing in bed. That I returned to him.

Now I've left all that behind, with a last longing glance as he walked away into the night on the last day we were together. He turned to look back, gave me a lopsided smile, then it was over.

It's liberating and definitely sad, because I know he'll feel a whole lot better, but some days, I know for sure I would still think of him.

Gypsy Tales http://gai3.blogspot.com