Why do so many not believe in ghost stories? Christian friends and relatives especially, after all, they believe in the Holy Ghost. I gather from that, they must believe there is only one ghost, and that there are no unholy ones. I am comforted by that, which may explain why I am not afraid of them.

Contrary to popular belief, ghosts do not only reside in old haunted buildings, I know of one who regularly shows herself in the newly built bungalow next door. The owners of the Federation style house with the gorgeous Queen Anne windows, travel a lot; they are hardly in Adelaide to enjoy their cosy house. Which, therefore, makes perfect sense for that ghost to reside in theirs. Why waste such cosy space with luxurious amenities?

The first inkling I had that their house was haunted was when their courtyard pond kept drying up overnight, consecutively for 3 nights. This happened on their first return from overseas, not long after they had thrown their house warming party. They stayed for only a week on that occasion. The man of the house asked me to keep an eye on the pond; he told me he suspected there is a leak. He had to fill it up the morning after the party. No, I failed to tell him I had also filled it up on 2 previous occasions.

The man of the house is quite meticulous, maybe even fastidious, I would say. Every item in the house has its proper place. The soap must be in the soap holder, and the soap holder must be placed on the left side of the niche in the shower cubicle. If the soap is suddenly moved, then questions will have to be asked. If the soap is suddenly found on the floor outside the shower cubicle, then no questions need to be asked! It has to be the work of a poltergeist!

The lady of the house is very neat and tidy, maybe even fastidious, I would also say. Every bit of rubbish must be immediately chucked into the bin, and every bit of scrap paper is rubbish. When she found a square piece of unused toilet paper on the floor of her kitchen, no questions needed to be asked! It has to be the same poltergeist, her husband said.

One wintry day last year, the couple returned from an extended holiday. You should have heard the commotion soon after they got into their house. No, no soap out of place, and no, no unused toilet paper on the floor. So, why did they cause such a scene? They must have seen me in my backyard tending to my roses. Both rushed out of their house, you should have seen their faces, as if they had seen a ghost! Both visibly agitated, interrupting each other rudely as they tried to tell me what they found on the floor in front of their Miele fridge. Since they couldn’t get the words out coherently, I said with some exasperation, just show me what you found! All three of us rushed back inside their house, led by the husband, followed by the wife who was struggling to catch up with her small Geisha-like steps. Look, look at that! She cried out softly in her meek voice. There on the kitchen floor was a brown withered gum leaf, almost cocooned in spider web.

Since that day, the husband has been watchful of such incidents. During one dinner party, he shared more ghost stories. There was one that did not convince me was the work of a ghost. His Mandarin Hotel slippers inexplicably left their dedicated spot on the foot of his side of their bed one night. After a long search, he said they were found under the dining table. A meticulous man, he swore that he would never abandon his slippers there. I gave him a litany of reasons why he may have inadvertently left them there. He drank too much that night was one obvious reason, I said. So, he began to run a test to prove the misdeeds of the ghost. Every night, he would accurately place the exquisite Italian dining chairs from Domo one inch away from the matching table. All eight of them, exactly one inch from the table. A week later, with a satisfied look on his face, he reported the test results to me. This was his findings: all six guest chairs remained fixed on their positions. His and hers were different from the rest, with arm rests. His was slightly bigger, with more intricate carvings, the throne. That one moved some six inches away from its spot on the sixth day. It’s settled, that was the proof we needed. There is a ghost who lives there!

Their lovely garden is also spooky. Their veranda lamps flicker, like little light houses warning trespassers not to venture in. The electrical contractor came, checked his installations with different gadgets, scratched his head and announced all is in order. He could not explain the random flickering of all the lamps, but assured the couple they are properly installed and checked, the compliance certificate bearing his professional signature. The plumber was also summonsed, but he too walked away scratching his head. He could not explain why the garden tap would suddenly gush out water at full blast. He has been back three times and was seen scratching his head every time. I wonder when his next visit will be.

A good neighbour I may be, most reliable one could say. When they are away for long periods, I am the one to tend to their roses, and clean their 40 foot pond. I am the one to trim their fruit trees, harvest their chillies and potatoes. Their ghost would know this urghhling, I spend a lot of time there in their garden. I have not been able to tell them no tests are required, no scientific theories to be disproved. I have actually seen her reflection.

Men in white have surreptitiously shaped my character since the early years of my life. In school, I learned to be careful of men in white, the Christian brothers. They taught Christian kindness and love, yet their tough disciplinarian methods seem abusive now. The unilateral punishment they exacted on little boys, were excessive even then. But I have read about Philomena’s story, watched her movie; hers was vastly worse. Pregnant out of wedlock, the Irish teenage girl was sent to a convent and her child fostered to a couple in America. At least the men in white in my school didn’t sell me to another family. But the men in white did involve themselves with Australia’s stolen generation. Aboriginal children were physically removed from their homes and sent to church run missions, others fostered out to white families. History shows they did less well in schools and were three times more susceptible to drug abuse and petty crimes.

When I arrived in Australia in 1977, my homesickness and vulnerability was noticed by a man in white with a heavy brass crucifix around his neck. Mr Woodward was the school counsellor, soft spoken, gentle and outwardly caring. Quite the opposite of my experience with Lau Haw, but hey, we shouldn’t compare; they were, after all, men of the same cloth. A heavy brass crucifix is a loud banner for holiness, sacrifice and love. But, I was already familiar with the duplicity of men in white, from early school yard gossip. Some were prone to prey on boys whilst praying for forgiveness.

Bob, Mr Woodward insisted I call him by his first name, invited me to a dinner party. He said it is something he does for home sick students from overseas. He understood they miss their folks at home, a coded meaning, they miss their mother’s home cooked meals. Bob said it was also a chance to make new friends in a relaxed and informal setting. A group therapy perhaps for such lonely teenagers, who were lost in a strange new world far, far from the comfort and familiarity of home. His abode wasn’t humble, a gentleman’s bungalow in a leafy blue ribbon suburb. Dinner was a roast chicken with spuds and peas, delicious for a starving chap recently converted from vegetarianism. Dinner was odd though, I was the only student. What sort of parties do these white men hold in a white man’s land? Wasn’t the idea to make new friends in a comfortable setting? To forget quickly about missing home? After dinner, Bob turned on soft instrumental music from his impressive hifi system and changed the mood in the room by turning down the lights.

Come, he gestured to me with his kind eyes, his right hand patting the leather couch. Come, sit down, let’s talk a little before desserts. Like any obedient new arrival, the overseas student innocently sat down, leaving a safe gap from Bob. The experienced Bob was quick to reduce that distance to that of a bad breath. I panicked, suddenly my antenna turned on like that of an injured gazelle. I leapt to my feet and said with a firm voice, I want to go home now. As if on cue, Bob tried to imbue me with calmness, the hunted gazelle sniffed the air and decided the danger had passed. Bob reached out to me, calmed me and reassured me that all was fine. He slipped his hand under my tee shirt and started to stroke my back. I closed my eyes with trepidation, panic overwhelming my senses. In my mind, I saw the man in white, with a heavy brass crucifix hanging from his neck. I was the gazelle about to be devoured. I spoke with a strong voice, “I want to go home, NOW!” I wasn’t going to be his sweet desserts.

Clergy abuse on children has been on the spotlight for decades. Recently in Australia, the previous Anglican archbishop, Hollingworth was forced to resign as Governor General due to his conduct in handling sex abuse complaints. Just weeks ago, Cardinal Pell was convicted of historical sex offences and jailed. He was ranked number four in the Vatican’s hierarchy. Men in white… too many are urghhlings.

White is the colour of peace, and purity. I belonged to a Christian Brother’s school, right through my school life. The men in white , Christian brothers in their flowing white robes were predominantly white men. Br Michael was affectionately nicknamed Lao Haw, the tiger. I still don’t understand how a tiger can be affectionate. He prowled the school compound with zest and urgent determination. Boys would panic and scatter like wounded gazelles the instant we heard his name being uttered. Lao Haw! Lao Haw! Those with hair long enough that touched their collars were relentlessly hunted down. Lao Haw’s gait was supremely effortless, that of a white tiger out-running a lost baby gazelle. His white robe hid the long strides of his powerful legs, and more sinisterly the long white sleeves hid a well used bamboo cane. The hunt swiftly ends with the vicious swish of the cane on some pitiful boy’s buttocks. RIP, Lao Haw, you’re much respected and loved. Sorry I quit your school orchestra.

One afternoon whilst playing “achiloke”, a cop and robber game, I almost ran into the little office adjacent to the school tuck shop. An older boy hurriedly took me to one side and cautioned me never to venture into that room. He said: teacher will make you sit on his lap, and sometimes he will take your shorts off. Men in white…. be careful people, some do bite.

I have fond memories of another man in white. Tan-pek was always in his impeccably ironed white shirt and matching white trousers. A dapper man, with pure white hair, white strong eyebrows, sparse and long white beard, and I think white fluffy ear hair too. He would be easily cast as the Shou of the Fu Lu Shou, if he held a staff and a gourd containing the elixir of life. The God of Longevity lived up to his legend, for me at least. I was no more than 11 or 12 when during the month of the hungry ghosts, I woke up early one morning and in a trance-like manner, went cycling in the cul-de-sac outside my house. Instead of cycling, something told me to sit on my bike and be as stationery for as long as possible. Suddenly gravity took over and I hit the ground, with the middle of my head. For about 7 days I was bed ridden, feverish and lost all appetite. My world started spinning, and as the days past, the spinning got faster and faster until I had to grab the sides of my bed to avoid falling off it. The wound on my head wasn’t visible to me but it scared me when I felt it with my index finger. Softer than tofu, its texture was more like tao fu fah or tao huay. My mum’s frantic visits to the Sinsehs were in vain. Bitter herbs mixed with bitter powder, nothing relieved me of the vertigo-like symptoms. In desperation, my mum flagged down Tan-pek who was on his way back to his work from lunch. He didn’t even look at the patient, listened intently at my mum’s report of my injury with a grave look and gave her his script, told her I would need to complete three dosages to be fully cured. Three bowls of that! I couldn’t, I simply couldn’t, but I did finish two in two days. The infrequent tremors in my brain today do give me some regret in not taking that third dosage.

The non-FDA concoction consisted of: one baby mud crab, its shell must still be soft. One small rice bowl of a young boy’s fresh warm urine, whose better than my own? Pound live baby crab, slowly add warm urine to the paste until it is of a porridge consistency.

Directions: consume above crab gruel completely, do not waste any, scrape any leftovers that could be stuck to the bowl. Crushing a live crab was cruel, eat it all, guts, eyes, shell, the lot, don’t waste a life.

To this day, I believe this man in white saved my life. I wish I got to hug him and thank him for being my God of Longevity. Thank you Tan-pek. I hope you aren’t too disappointed with the urghhling you saved.

Why do the tough only get going when it gets tough? My friends requested me to write about the tough times during our early primary school years. We were no more than seven or eight years old. Many of us walked to school, some for many miles, others walked for many miles after a long bus ride. Teddy wanted me to tell his story about the day he lost his bus fare, forty cents in those days was the equivalent of two sumptuous meals at the school tuck shop. Apparently he had to walk an unimaginable distance home after school that day. The chorus went out, almost in unison, when it gets tough the tough get going. You could not miss sensing the pride and satisfaction in their jubilant voices or imagine the smugness in their smiles. But what Teddy failed to disclose was how he “lost” his fare. Teddy has always lived up to his name. His big paws alone will inform you of how ravenous his appetite was. His Buddha-like smiles at the canteen table were a sure sign of his appreciation for the food that was about to be served. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he had lost his bus fare but gained two bonus bowls of “tok tok” mee. When it was tough for Teddy’s tummy, you know he was going to find something yummy.

So, why do the tough only get going when it gets tough? Why not get going from the start? Before it gets tough? Why wait? What would they do if it didn’t get tough? They wouldn’t get going? When life was good and without stress – albeit only for a few years – I relaxed the tight reins held on my business and went on cruise mode instead. My father during those years was becoming bed-ridden in a nursing home. I sensed his life was getting short, spending quality time with him became my only focus. I would spend a minimum of two hours with him daily, sharing happy news about my children’s success in music competitions, concert opportunities, exciting new store openings, anything to make his eyes light up and deliver a smile to his face. When there was nothing to share, I would watch the same episode of The Water Margin, Shui Hu Zhuan, with him. That episode was about the hero Wu Song, killing a tiger with his bare hands. Maybe I was still the little boy trying to impress his father? I do not think so. For men, there is a time when bonding is important and necessary. Then was the time for me and Pa. I harbour no regrets at all, even though the price was high. Letting go the reins of my business was costly. A rebellion challenging my franchise system was started by none other than my own Franchise Manager. Staff morale dropped, sales turnover crashed, franchisees threatened to walk out. Pa passed away in April 2007, and eighteen months later, the Global Financial Crisis hit my business, like a tsunami. It was neither life threatening nor debilitating to my mental health. But it was a clear and imminent threat to my financial health. There was every possibility that my business would be added to the list of casualties of the GFC. It sure was tough during those five years after Pa passed away. I mourned his passing daily, the tough business conditions only exacerbated my emotional fragility. When it is tough, the tough get going. The rally call echoed in my head, I need to be that hero in Shui Hu Zhuan.

If I only got going before it got tough. Urghhling!

Artificial Intelligence (AI) is the next big fake thing to be aware of. Lately, there has been much social media chatter about everything that’s fake, fake news, fake rice, fake eggs, fake romance, etc. The next big problem we have to deal with that’s artificial is intelligence. But, we were brought up to revere intelligence, were we not? It’s a goal most of us were inculcated to aim for. Surely, intelligence, artificial or real, will be equally as important and sought after.

Someone who stood out with phenomenal intelligence was Stephen Hawking. His stance on AI was clear. It will be invaluable towards human endeavours but ultimately will destroy urghhlings if not carefully deployed. From that I gather he would have concluded that we, Homo Sapiens defined as organic intelligence, would succumb to the long, unstoppable and uncompromising sieve that evolution exacts on all living organisms. Only the fittest will survive and pass through this sieve.

Do we know of any AI? The outstanding ones all have names. There’s Deep Blue of chess fame, defeating the world champ Garry Kasparov. Deep Mind learned by itself how to play e-games and beat the best in those games. Have you met AlphaGo? The non-organic algorithm beat the organic algorithm, a Korean man by the name of Lee Sedol. Again, that AI taught itself how to play the ancient strategy board game Go.

Have you heard of music compositions by EMI, an AI? The audience was enthralled at a music festival in Santa Cruz. Publicity brought hostility and a challenge was issued to EMI. In one blind test, even Bach came second against EMI, and many would acknowledge that Bach is one of the best at spiritual music. That this non-being could write something so soulful is astounding. It debunks the theory that only humans can be soulful.

Most of us would not have heard of Vital, the world’s first non organic algorithm to be appointed as a board member of a company. AI has exhibited traits of nepotism, no different from humans. Vital appointed another non organic algorithm called Oncofinder, an expert on selecting cancer therapies. It wouldn’t surprise many if or when the first AI is announced as the new owner of a conglomerate. God maybe all powerful to create us but we don’t live for long, whereas man has already created legal entities that will easily survive their own creators. My own private company will easily outlive me. As long as there is a dollar in its bank account, my company can exist forever, long after I have expired. Not only that, the AI that humans create can in the foreseeable future, take over such legal corporate entities. What’s stopping AI from ruling or ruining the world?

The first AI I purchase will be named Fletcher. Fletcher, go fetch her for me. My wife just called out, “Urghhling!” I guess I have been summoned.

PS It was Yuval Harari who introduced me to some of these famous AI identities.

God and I aren’t on talking terms; we haven’t been for decades. When I was little, I think I bothered him too much. On special occasions, I would tag along with my mum to the temple in Pitt Street. There I copied her and relished the act of holding the joss sticks, and prayed. Even then I knew praying for favours would be bothersome for god. Imagine, hundreds of millions of urghhlings praying and asking for good luck, for the rain to stop, for the rain to start, for a good harvest, for good test results, for baby boys, for a good life with a good wife, etc, etc , etc! This would be happening every minute of every day, at every corner of the globe. And I knew God realises this would go on and on for eternity. There would be no day of rest, no holiday. For when is there ever enough for urghhlings? Yet, I was happy to pray and did not hesitate to whisper into God’s ears.

In school, I got to learn very early in my first year that there is another god. He is wrathful yet loving. And he loved us more than he loved his son. I was taught that he sent his son down to Earth and eventually to his downfall. I grew afraid of this god, he sacrificed his son knowingly in order to save urghhlings. My dad would never do that, I was sure of that! And when I learned how his son died, at the cross, I was quite cross with him. He was all powerful yet he did nothing to save his own son. He didn’t resile from his decision to sacrifice his son. At that point in the catechism class, I told the teacher I wouldn’t be attending any more classes.

In my early teens, some of my Christian friends were infectious with their “superior” religion. My personal mantra was leave god alone. Let him have a little respite. But my friends, bless their beautiful hearts, wanted to save me from damnation. Open your heart to god. Open your doors and windows wide so he can come into your life. And so, I started talking to their god again.

In the school chapel, I sat next to this gorgeous girl with long hair and watched her pray. She invited me in. I guess in means before that, I was out. We didn’t speak many words to each other, it wasn’t possible since she was busy talking to god. I didn’t think to interrupt their private conversation, eventhough I wanted to invite her to a movie or a kopi peng at least. She was too busy talking to god. I stared at Jesus’s face from afar. He didn’t look overly uncomfortable, as if he’d got accustomed to the torture. I wondered why I bolted from this room the only other time I stepped into this chapel ten years earlier. Then, I could hear the unbearable screams from Jesus and could witness the unbearable sorrow on the virgin’s face, helpless in her grief to help her son bear the crucifix.

She’s still talking to god! So many favours to ask, I assumed. Ask a good one for me, say yes to a movie with the boy next to you. So, I started praying too. Talking to him again. Asking for favours. I shan’t reveal what a young boy sitting next to a beautiful young girl would ask god for.

I opened all the doors and windows to my heart to god for the next two years. In the dead of night, I would invite him to come into my life. I hoped for any sign, any sound. I searched for any clues that he may have given me even though I thought a strong decisive god wouldn’t drop hints and leave signs; he would be clear and precise, right? I talked to god every free moment I had and every moment before I went to my dreams. For about two years, there was incessant chatter with god. But it was always a one way conversation, I was doing all the talking. There was no reply from god, no retort, no question, no yelling, no nodding of head. Just silence. My prayers about the girl with long hair went unanswered. Then one day I woke up. He’s not talking to me!

From then on, we are not on talking terms. In truth, he was never on talking terms with me. And I gave up. Urghhling, I imagine he would say about me but I never heard it.