Random TSA checks aren’t random. “I’m 99% of the time randomly pulled up at the airport,” the old man said. “Why?” he asked the fubsy woman in uniform. Her answer? “It’s random,” the officer said sweetly with a fake smile that revealed a set of uneven teeth, denying that he was being purposely picked. His Mrs had warned him earlier in the cab about his scruffy bandit looks. “For goodness’ sake, just cut off your hair and shave your beard!” she said firmly and glared at him with cold snake eyes and seethed dragon breath that would have melted butter. The fubsy officer’s busy eyes scanned at the old man, from top to bottom, stopping at his crotch area, making him self conscious of his bulge there that had grown against his brain’s wishes. “Why me?” he asked again. “You’re the next to walk through,” she said, disarming him with her smiling eyes and explained that it wasn’t personal.

“Where are you from?” the old man asked the officer.

“Taiwan,” the fubsy woman said, her skin colour seemingly more brown the more his eyes rested on her face. After dabbing the contents of his backpack with a scanner, she checked her screen before giving him the clearance to go. The Mrs had just joined him after being delayed by a couple of officers. “Now, she knows how I feel,” the old man said to the officer who had allowed him to go. “She too will have to get used to being stopped all the time now,” he explained. The buzzer went off and flashed red lights as she stepped past the screen door. They made her take off her shoes. Still, the buzzer screamed. So, they made her check her pockets. “It’s my titanium hips,” she said but they didn’t listen to her as they shepherded her into the X-ray booth and forced her to surrender with her arms raised high and legs spread apart. If only I could make her do that, the old man thought, pitying himself for lacking such authority.

In Wellington, the odd couple went to the ballet. Celebrating their 70th anniversary, the Royal New Zealand Ballet, supported by the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra, premiered Shakespeare’s most loved love story, Romeo & Juliet. Despite the long-standing feud between the Capulet and Montague families of Verona, it is love at first sight for both Romeo and Juliet; neither realising until it is too late – they have already kissed – that their families are sworn enemies. The next morning, Juliet’s nurse passes a message to Romeo to meet her in the church and marry her if he truly loves her. After the secret wedding, as Romeo and his two buddies leave the church, they meet members of the Capulet family. A sword fight breaks out between the feuding parties and results in the death of Romeo’s good friend, Mercutio, who curses the senseless feud as he dies. Enraged by Mercutio’s death, Romeo does the one thing he knows he cannot do – it wouldn’t be a ballet otherwise – avenges his friend’s death and is banished from Verona, on pain of death. That night, the young couple consummates their secret marriage before Romeo prepares to flee Verona. Juliet accepts a plan to take a poison that will render her dead for 42 hours. Romeo does not get the message about this plan because the friar is suddenly quarantined in a house due to the plague. It is not known how Romeo knew to find Juliet in her tomb but he finds her dead and kills himself with poison that he happens to have. Juliet wakes up soon after and finding her husband’s body there, she stabs herself fatally with his dagger rather than live without him.

The old man shed a tear and choked in his own saliva despite knowing the story well. He explained to his Mrs he was overwhelmed by the amazing dancers and the choreography, not that he was a hopeless romantic. But, he was secretly admiring Romeo’s good luck to have found a woman who loved him so much she chose death rather than a life without him. “That’s true love,” he said to his Mrs. “That’s just a love story,” she said before adding that it must have been Prokofiev’s music that tugged at his heart strings as she busily dabbed her red eyes with an already damp tissue. Prokofiev feuded with the Kirov Ballet, they wanted to remain true to Shakespeare but Prokofiev insisted on a happy ending and sought out a more willing collaborator in the Bolshoi who were happy to premiere his version of the two young lovers living a completely happy and loving life forever. But, despite his best efforts, the Bolshoi later changed their stance and so audiences today have to endure the pain of the lovers and leave the theatre with heavy hearts. But for the old couple, given a programme booklet which cost $10 by a young lady seated behind them whose booklet they borrowed during the first interval, they left Wellington in awe of the people’s friendliness and generosity. The young lady had heard The Mrs’ story of their attempt to buy one but the card payment failed to go through and the man at the counter would not accept Aussie dollars even though they were worth more than their local currency. So, the young lady went out during the second interval and came back with one for the old couple. Where else would you find such a caring person who would bother to do that for a stranger?

After the feud at Verona, the old couple, sometimes also known as the odd couple, took off for Queenstown. They wanted to see for themselves the beauty that the South Island of New Zealand was famous for. Some of the awesome scenes in the Lord of the Rings were filmed near Queenstown, e.g. Te Anau and Glenorchy. “Why is Milford Sound called a sound when it is a fiord?” the old man asked their coach driver, Adrian. Adrian started work that morning at 7, so he merely growled an indiscernible sound that kind of sounded like who cares. Just call it by its Maori name, Piopiotahi, the old man told himself. The day before they set out to see the fiord, the couple caught a local bus from Queenstown to Arrowtown. The bee card bus fare for the hour’s journey was just a dollar! It was a dollar from the airport to their hotel in town also. It was cold and wet in Arrowtown. Arriving at five minutes before three, they were alarmed to be shooed out of the Thai restaurant despite the ‘We Are Open’ sign on the door. “But you are open,” the Mrs said to the Thai proprietress.

“Only till twree,” the Thai woman said. Her permed hair made her look older than her age, or maybe it was her business that aged her.

“Sorry, maybe you come back at sex,” she said, as she lifted her hand to check the time on her gold watch.

“Please, we will eat very quickly,” the Mrs pressed for a positive answer.

“No, no, it’s twree already,” the Thai woman said.

“Maybe we cook you your lunch and you sit outside to eat,” she compromised.

“No! It’s too cold out here!” the Mrs said.

“Let’s go,” the old man said, tugging at his wife’s hand.

“Don’t rush me, I’ll fall!”

So, the old man walked away from the Thai restaurant, his faster pace widening the distance from his grumpy and hungry wife. The sky turned greyer and started spitting bigger raindrops at them. The old man skipped up a few stone steps and looked up at the sky. His roving eyes spotted a sign that said Mantra and in smaller fonts below it, fine Indian cuisine.

“Doe!” he called his wife loudly, to let her know where he was headed.

It was just past the hour by then and despite knowing the restaurant was officially closed, he knocked at the door and was surprised it was left unlocked.

“Hello, are you open?” he stupidly asked a youngish Indian man who was fastidiously setting a table.

The waiter looked up but did not say a word before re-focusing his eyes on the fork as he placed it exactly inch-perfect on the table where it belonged.

“Hi, can we come in for lunch?” the old man asked again.

As if he had just decided to re-open his restaurant, the Indian man said, “Yes, of course, Sir!”

Guru Prasad turned out to be the owner of the joint. He turned on his charm and became the perfect host and had a long conversation with the Mrs whilst the old man combed through a thick menu. The Mrs soon forgot the old man was there and assumed her sovereignty over the dark-skinned chap with super white teeth. She had forgotten her hunger and cold hands as she delved into subjects about yoga and paintings, her pet topics of conversation. “Mantra means chan,” Guru said. The Mrs was bragging about her yoga knowledge and wanted to know if mantra had any yoga meaning. “It means chan,” Guru repeated.

“Chan?” the old man asked Guru, trying to help the Mrs understand the word.

“Yes, chan,” the Indian man repeated, his voice did not betray his growing impatience. “You know, chan for praying,” he added. In Sanskrit, the two words manas and tra literally mean a tool for the mind, to reach a higher place of divine grace. We want our customers to experience this through our exquisite flavours and quality service.

“Ah, chant!” the old man said, his voice raised in delight and his face shone with self satisfaction. The couple’s faces shone with more delight during their meal. The mango lasi was a pleasant starter to tease their already willing appetite. After having satisfied themselves with the ‘forever favourite’ the Mantra butter chicken served with basmati rice and the Nilgiri king prawns – a South Indian dish from Kerala, the Mrs asked for some naan to complement the generous servings after which the couple leaned back and stretched out their legs to relieve their heavy stomachs, totally pleased by the occasion. She had stopped complaining about the long walks they had been taking because she knew she had been over-eating. Pleased with her titanium hips, she was already a new woman, sure-footed, more spritely and less complaining, the improved version a vast upgrade from her old bones. A vast improvement on her old self, more importantly, said the old man to himself. The old man let the taste linger in his palate as he immersed in the afterglow of the grounded spinach, mint and coriander, green chilli along with coconut and secret spices. Mantra’s curries lifted the spirit of the diners and the quality of the food and generous servings reflected their spiritual mantra that bow to their customers with folded hands.

Queenstown proved that whoever created the world was a mighty talented artist. Rain or shine, hot or cold, bright or dreary, it didn’t matter. Painted with the vastest array of colours, a palette that showed no limits and an imagination that was peerless, this place was heaven on earth to the couple. Everything was sculpted and every imperfection turned up to be in fact, perfection. It was said the early settlers made their wealth off the sheep’s back and then they struck gold when Jack Tewa, a sheep-shearer found gold by the river’s bank. The true gold they found was on full display, neither coated in mud nor buried deep in basalt. Their natural environment was more beautiful and rich than all the assays of gold in the world. The gold rush soon attracted people from everywhere, including the Chinese. How news got to China fascinated the old man. It goes to show, you can’t keep a good thing a secret. With a couple of hours to use up before the bus arrived, the Mrs found her own way to the local museum and by the time she left it, the sun had retired into the darkness and the heavy grey clouds had descended and disappeared into the river. “Where were you?” the Mrs asked the old man, for once without a tinge of annoyance that he had abandoned her in search of beauty for his phone camera. She was pleased with her tale at the bus stop. Even the mozzies could not upset her mood. The old man was slapping and crushing them, oblivious of breaking some buddhist command about thou shall not kill, not even caterpillars or flies. His thought turned to the practising buddhist friends, many of whom were schoolmates in a previous life. What did they say about killing the coronavirus? It turned out the Mrs would by some strange twist in fate, be part of the town’s history. She had found a mistake in the museum’s glossary for their display of artefacts of early Chinese settlers. A name was incorrectly spelt, and to show respect for the dead, she felt compelled to right the wrong and pulled a couple of women with authority from unseen rooms to the public viewing area. “See, it should be a Y, not a T. His name was Yuan, you know, like the Chinese dollar,” her booming voice would have reverberated throughout the building.

The next day, the couple was up early even before the sun rose from its long sleep. See, she had told him not to waste their money! Why pay $60 for a room with a lake view when they will be out the whole day? It was still dark and feeling the icy cold, they knew the mercury had struggled all night to remain over zero. They got to the bus stop and were horrified that they were the only two people waiting for the bus. “Shit, are you sure we are in the right place?” the woman asked, in her usual tone of disbelief and distrust. The day before she had told him he was no longer the reliable man she married. She could have been blind and still felt safe when she was a pretty little thing in his arms. “Now I have to constantly check that you’re not wrong again,” she said without humour and without tact. Luckily for the old man, he was not at the wrong bus stop. They just happened to be the only ones at the first pick-up point. By the time the bus was full, they had used up forty minutes of the day. “Stupid shit system,” Adrian, said, throwing the manifest onto the dashboard. The old couple could see his real person, sitting on the first row, to the left of him. Wow, a narky bloke who didn’t want to be at work, the old man thought. But, the coach driver suddenly spoke on the PA system. His public voice changed his personality to one who was bubbly and chirpy. He told us about the day that laid in wait for us and assured us we would all have a great time. “Those who had ordered lunch, come see me when we arrive,” he said.

“Will it be fush and chups?” the old man asked, pretending to sound like a local. Adrian remained deaf or mute.

“Hi everyone, we will be getting off the coach in a short while. Those who are eager to try the frish Alpine water, please do be careful at the water’s edge,” he said. “See how the vigitation changes here, see to your lift and to your right, the Remarkables are now covered in bierch,” he continued, before the old man interrupted him. “Do you mean beech or birch, Adrian?” The remarkable Adrian didn’t reply, he was already in his own world caressing the sides of the mountain and zig-zagging the Devil’s Steps well past the speed limit. Remember to call him remarkable and you won’t forget the name of these mountains, he taught his passengers earlier. As the coach rolled gently to a halt by the side of a pristine stream that was showing the frish gifts from the overnight rain, he told us this was a stop for maybe sex or seeven minutes.

On the boat, the old man said “G’day” to a woman of grit and substance. Her teenage daughter showed no interest in the old man, lost in her own world, transported far away by a pair of white Earpods. She smiled with her lips but her distant eyes showed her disinterest in her surroundings. The woman, from Te Anau, was a dairy farmer who rose at four every morning, hours before the lazy sun would make its appearance. “How many heads do you have?” the old man asked, relishing in the thought that the number would be a reliable indicator of her wealth.

“Four thousand,” she said, unaware that he was busily calculating her balance sheet as they immersed each other in light conversation.

“Is it true the cows are always pregnant,” the old man marvelled at the lucky bulls that numbered about sexty, she said.

“No, they have a few months off after they calved,” she said, “so, about five to sex months, they do not produce milk.”

“Is it true the male calves are quickly sold off as veal? How do you know if it’s a heifer?”

“Well, you ought to know the answer,” she said, making her two callused hands into two big round balls. Farmers are incredibly resilient, at times having to battle whatever force or pain the weather throws at them.

Many minutes had passed and the old man revisited the matter of the lucky sexty bulls.

“I am just curious, but how do they cope having to impregnate thousands of females in a small window of time?” he asked sheepishly. He knew that sheep had to be sheared just before winter set in so that the cold would encourage them to feed more eagerly, thereby fattening the females to improve their fertility in time for the spring slaughter.

“Oh, we make the bulls mount on wooden replicas, and collect their fluids in cylinders. A drop is enough to make a cow pregnant,” she said.

To all the women in this story, there is a Maori word for them. Mana Wahine, respect the prestige of women.

They had just got back from another sumptuous meal at the restaurant down Greenhill Road the old man fondly nicknamed “my private kitchen’. A rigid time-keeper, he was fully aware he was behind the schedule he had set for himself. His travel bags should have been packed before dinner. In another four and a half hours, he would have to be awake again for the 4 am taxi. So, he decided to simply limit his things to fit a cabin bag. The less he had to pack, the less he had to think about what to bring and what not to bring. Three spare undies, a couple of t-shirts, pyjamas, two pairs of socks (going overseas, and therefore must be matching ones), and two pairs of pants in case there was an ‘accident’. Old men tend to have the urge to pee as soon as the thought of peeing crossed their mind and the urge somehow brings about an urgency. The urge leads to an emergency which ends with an urgency. That’s how we get from urge to urgency, that’s how words are formed; he was sure of that. The last item he threw into his cabin bag was a bundle of masks, even though it was undeniable that masks did not stop infection and there was a recent published scoping review that discussed the need to reconsider mask mandates – it focused on the toxicity of chronic carbon dioxide exposure associated with face mask use, particularly in pregnant women, children and adolescents.

https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/37057051/

Earlier in the week, a vigilant sibling had urged all their family members to take the fourth booster shot and continue to wear masks. The old man said her stance did not consider that the risks of vaccine side effects and health issues from prolonged mask-wearing outweighed the benefits ever since the symptoms from Covid had become mild for the majority of people around the world.

“If you want to risk it, you can. But for our mother’s sake, I would have thought we should mask and keep her protected from catching it,” the vigilant sibling said.

“On second thoughts, I shouldn’t be taking turns looking after ma since I risk catching it if you don’t wear a mask and don’t take the jab,” she added, as if he was the only person in the whole town who could infect their mother. Do it or else. Another ultimatum from her.

“Have you not looked at the recent studies that concluded that masking presents more detrimental effects on wearers due to the high intake of carbon dioxide over extended periods?” he asked.

Instead of asking him for the source of the scientific study, another sibling waded in.

“I’m definitely not a conspiracy believer. I cannot imagine that the majority of scientists and medical experts are keeping their mouths shut. My observation is that you can’t even keep one person’s mouth shut,” she said.

Ouch, another loaded sarcasm. But, the old man didn’t keep his trap shut. As a kid, he was bullied by those two siblings. They ganged up on him even in adulthood, as if they had that preordained right to ostracise him, to issue a pre-emptive strike to silence him and tell him he doesn’t belong.

“All professionals belong to their professional bodies and can be struck off if they don’t toe the official line. Some have in fact been banned from practising or shadow banned by social media,” he said.

“Thank God we still have our ABC,” she replied, showing her faith in God and the ABC.

“The ABC is government-funded, so what do you think? They are still independent?” he asked, hoping that she would drop the subject as he wanted to keep it to the one issue – to mask or not to mask. It is fair to leave it to the individual to decide but the vigilant sibling had just given an ultimatum. We cannot change the subject yet!

“ABC never criticises the government?” she continued asking. He bit his tongue and refrained from saying the obvious. Of course they do but only in matters that they are allowed to criticise!

“It’s not that wearing a mask is useless, it’s how you use it,” countered one intellectual sibling.

“Well, how we wear it determines the effectiveness but isn’t it odd for us to breathe in carbon dioxide trapped behind our masks for extended periods when we ought to be breathing in oxygen? That point alone is enough to question how good that is to our health, does it not?” the old man asked the intellectual sibling nervously. He knew he would be inviting further criticisms or mockery about his simple way of looking at things.

“You just have to learn to wear your mask properly,” the vigilant sibling said.

“No harm in being careful,” said another.

“Too much of carbon dioxide kills. Haha,” laughed the vigilant sibling.

“During the worst period of Covid, I found it hard to breathe for extended periods with a mask. So, I had to cheat to relieve myself from the stale air. My biology knowledge is very basic. Our body breathes in oxygen and breathes out carbon dioxide. Too much of the latter can kill us or at least damage our brain. Stats show masked kids in school had learning difficulties and impaired memory,” he said, knowing that sounding like a simpleton would please his siblings. They would be rubbing their hands with glee, enjoying the chance to belittle him again.

“One lesson I learned from a wise man during negotiations on a contract is that you try to reduce risk while recognising that you can’t reduce all risks to zero. That’s why there is an insurance industry. We buy insurance as a precaution. Taking care of our health and being considerate for the people close to us is not much of a burden,” the intellectual sibling said.

“Insurance requires the application of actuarial science. I’m just a simple person who lacks such knowledge and ability. But common sense tells me the risk of breathing in carbon dioxide is worse for my health than the risk of catching Covid, symptoms of which are mild or asymptomatic for many currently,” the old man said.

“Anyway, I know I don’t have the ability to convince any of you, so let’s just agree to disagree,” he said, ending their conversation.

At the Sydney International Airport, the old man was visibly thrilled to see a sign that said “International Departures”. Finally, he and The Mrs were about to travel overseas again after a three year hiatus due to the pandemic. The airport glittered with modern-day gold. The world’s best brands were there in that vast temple of consumerism. Old people have little need for those kinds of expensive branded stuff, so the old man who had an hour to kill watched the people go by instead. People had no time for people, they were too preoccupied with the glitter in front of them. The place was chock-a-block full of willing consumers. Being on holiday changes our behaviour, we become more willing to spend, even in shops that don’t allow us to bargain. Supposedly duty free, Arnott’s Tim Tams were dearer there than in Erindale Foodland, in a blue-ribbon suburb not known for bargains. So, duty free isn’t free of price gouging. The people didn’t care. They were on holiday! They were also not wearing masks. In the throngs of thousands, only a handful of people did, more often than not, the elderly.

In the plane, a handful more people had their masks on. Strange that. In the shops which were chockas, they felt safe enough not to worry about masks but inside a plane, they felt the sudden need to protect themselves; maybe they no longer had the glittering consumer goods to distract them. The old man found it annoying that the bloke two rows behind them coughed loudly and frequently and from the sounds of it, without covering his mouth. They were not muffled or restrained but coughed out with reckless abandon. So soon after a pandemic, there were those who had already forgotten about good hygiene and the merits of social distancing. A chap next to them sneezed but he did it into his hands. Did we not learn to sneeze into our elbows?

A prim lady with gold-rimmed glasses on the opposite aisle of the 737-800 took off her mask to dig into the gummy chicken pieces buried by thick gooey brown mushroom sauce. She did not touch the white soggy jasmine rice but she finished the Chardonnay which was clearly a treat to her. The old man guessed she would ask for tea, and was quite chuffed to be right. It was a good half an hour by the time she put her mask back on. Surely, that was plenty of time for any coronavirus in the recycled stale air to find their way into her nostrils.

The plane pierced through thick clouds on its way down to 5,000 feet. “We are landing soon, Doe,” the old man nudged at his Mrs, using their term of endearment reserved for each other. “Your breath stinks,” she replied, uncurling her back like the white Chinchilla she used to keep during her uni days. The plane groaned noisily at the clouds and shook off the bumpiness with a few sudden shudders. Soft and snuggly like cotton fluffs to look at from a distance, those clouds were hard and stubborn to a darting projectile of aluminium, kevlar and glass composites. The captain landed the plane with hardly a bump, the old man observed, the miracle of such a feat never escaped his appreciation and gratitude.

Wellington didn’t greet them well. Detained at customs for too long because there were only two machines that scanned the luggages for illicit goods, The Mrs said it could only get better from then on as she stepped outside the airport. She was right. By the second day, the two visitors were totally charmed by the people. Coming from friendly places such as Penang and Adelaide, it was a surprise for them to find even friendlier and more helpful people in Wellington. One tall man in a business suit with long strides even back-tracked some five yards to again point the elderly couple in the direction of their lunch appointment at Crab Shack. It did not matter to him that the sky was spitting raindrops at his nice suit. A bloke directing a private helicopter into Shed 6 at Queens Wharf stopped and offered them a photo opportunity. A shout-out to Wayne of Wellington Helicopters, thank you! Where else on earth would you find such friendliness? The most precious thing we own is time and these people gladly give theirs to strangers. Giving our time is the best gift of all.

The Gallipoli exhibition at Te Papa Museum was a poignant few hours for them to reflect on the horrendous suffering and the costly sacrifices made in the name of the King George V. That the Anzacs left their homes to fight a distant war that was nobody’s business but the Turks was not lost on the old man. The Turks who were defending their country from Allied invaders wanted to remain neutral in WW1. The Ottoman king refused the Allied request to expel German naval missions and for that, they were dragged into the war. Was it not a crime against humanity that those young soldiers who had barely lived their lives or enjoyed their time on earth were sent to their deaths in such a botched up fiasco? Winston Churchill was the mastermind of the campaign. Did he do enough to redeem himself in WW2? Lest we forget but it seemed too many had already forgotten. The drums of war are again beating loudly and almost daily in the West, led by the US and obediently followed by the Brits and the Aussies. “These warmongers should be forced to come and visit this exhibition,” the old man said to his Mrs. Lest they forget.

There can be peace between human beings; we have this choice.

Chris Booth, The Peacemaker 1991

Peace between human beings. Is that even possible, the old man asked, secretly telling himself peace among siblings is already difficult. Even after the World Health Organisation ended the global emergency status for COVID-19 on 5th May 2023, his vigilant sibling sent a link showing the number of Covid cases and deaths in Australia. “Covid is not history, it is still with us. I still want to be take precautions, for ma’s sake. It’s a small sacrifice,” she said. Somehow, she was still disturbed by the weekly deaths of some 3,500 around the world from Covid. Was she ever so frightened of the common flu that killed hundreds of thousands every year?

Covid is history. We ought to celebrate! Not so long ago, we all thought the world as we knew it had ended. The elderly couple said they needed to take a short rest. “It’s less than four hours to Romeo & Juliet!” he said with excitement. The last ballet they attended was by the Mariinsky dancers in St Petersburg, so this will be another highlight for the simpleton in Wellington.

The lazy sun was slow to start its work that morning. Its gentle rays usually would have slipped through the curtains by the stroke of seven. The autumnal air was suddenly evident to the old man. He was no longer awoken before sunrise by the cacophony of the lorikeets and the sardonic laughter of the kookaburras; their rowdiness stopped soon after spring turned to summer. Stirring from under a thick mess of doona, crumpled and thinned from over-use, and a mountain of yellow-stained pillows that offered proof of intense and insatiable sex from yesteryears, he suppressed a cough from an itchy throat. The birth of a new day should have been celebrated as a gift from heaven. But, instead of being in a state of happiness and gratitude, he grumbled about the need to start the day when he wasn’t feeling quite ready, under a breath that the toothpaste from the night before had not refreshed. It was as if the beauty of the new day had not dawned on him and that the world was still as gloomy and sad as when he went to bed. The inconsiderate man let out a loud long fart; he did not care if it stank the room or woke up The Mrs. Typically, his behaviour was to do as he pleased, bugger what anyone said or felt; it was obvious to me why people treated him with disdain and did not gladly suffer the fool. For a long time, he could not understand why so many others were popular or why so-and-so was feted in their last school reunion or why he was often the target of derisive remarks.

“Just look in the mirror,” I said, with a mixed purpose of entertainment and enlightenment. It was true. I enjoyed mocking him for being the annoying idiot amongst his friends but at the same time, I felt his pain for being often singled out by them and wished he would learn from his bad antics. Not only was he idiotic, he called himself an idiot too. He narrowed his already narrow eyes and squinted at the halation of light that had escaped from a gap between the curtains. “What time is it?” He asked himself before discovering the answer from his iPhone. “Crikey, the chooks must be wondering why their breakfast is late,” he said, “and they will know it’s my fault.” He did a long pee and having been disappointed with the overnight crypto prices, he yanked at his penis to shake off the last droplets of wee. It wasn’t so long ago when doing a piss sounded like a powerful jet from a cannon. He had to accept the new reality of ageing. He missed the sound of a great strong piss.

I wished he would be bold and say to himself ‘enough is enough’. Many of his friends were bold enough to be bald but not him. With a mop of hair that would be the envy of many, a mild receding hairline was enough for him to seriously consider taking the drug finasteride despite the side effects of erectile dysfunction, the embarrassment of failing to get it up when duty called or worse, the loss of interest in sex altogether. “Those who chose baldness weren’t bold,” he quipped. They were actually worried about owning a flaccid penis. How else would an annoying bloke look at his bald friends? Be bold, a man has a choice not to be bald! So, I asked him why hair was more important to him than sex. It seemed like a bad deal to me. It felt like the opposite thing to do, choosing hair over sex with a voracious appetite. Then, the penny dropped – why his friends chose baldness!

He had wondered long and hard about his unpopularity. A believer in equality of the sexes, chivalry had long died for him. Whereas his so-and-so friend still defended the ‘need’ to sacrifice a seat on a bus for the elderly and the women. “But we are the elderly!” the old man retorted. A tactless man, that was how he talked to his friends. He disagreed, “I am just a no-nonsense man,” he said with a growl. He was right though, in pointing out that so-and-so would never give up his Business Class seat in a plane in an act of chivalry.

A boss in his workplace for the majority of his adult years, he came across as unaccommodating to many of his friends. Before he became the boss running his own business, he was the State financial and accounting boss for one of the wealthiest families in Australia. It was fair to say he made all the major business decisions and the buck truly stopped at his desk. It made him a bully, of course, but he did not see that. Those around him would have felt he had undeserving authority and unfairly did not share the decision-making responsibilities that affected his family. Looking back at how he treated The Mrs (sorry, mistreated), it was no wonder she was turned off by the bully and his antics. She had no say in any of the major decisions he made for them – not even the choice of the car’s colour let alone the car.

“It’s ok,” she confided to me the other day.

“He thinks he is the boss and the head of the family, but I am the neck,” said she, as she scoffed and hid her smile with her cupped hand.

So true, I thought to myself. He forgets he cannot nod or shake his head without his neck letting him.

Richard K, a great childhood friend of his who also hailed from Penang, had a lot to say about the funny contradictions in life. The two friends reconnected in Sydney in the late 70s and for a few years were best buddies who spent every weekend together playing mahjong. The old man told me he lost so much to another couple they played with that they boasted his losses funded their annual holidays overseas. The hurt from their taunts ended his mahjong addiction and they quickly moved to Adelaide in ‘86. His official reason was so that he could spend his weekends meaningfully with his growing family rather than flaunt his time on gambling, but if the truth be told, he had to curtail his mounting losses. A hugely funny guy, Richard was the life of any party. He would rubbed his hands gleefully, hunched a little and then his face would lit up with laughing eyes and a broad smile before he delivered his stories. “Have you ever wondered why lawyers and doctors call what they do ‘practice’?” he asked. Having lost a lot of his investments in a share market rout, he told the old man he finally understood why the person who advised him on buying and selling shares was called a broker. Richard and his pretty wife, Cindy, visited the old man and his Mrs many years later. Cindy, also an ex-Penangite, was a stunning beauty reminiscent of a young Lin Ching-Hsia. Blessed with a pair of perfectly-shaped twinkling eyes capped with curly long lashes, she oozed femininity and glowed with an inner goddess of sensuality and love. Richard was always lucky, with everything (and probably with everyone) he touched.

“Hey, old friend (Lor ba-yu in Shanghainese), why do you park your expensive cars on the driveway whilst you store all your old worthless junk in your double garage?” he asked with a cheeky smile.

“Friends who grew up together from childhood were the most precious of all our belongings,” the old man said. Not flustered by silly remarks or idiotic pranks, there was never any rancour towards one another. Words said in jest did not hurt their egos, which were always kept in check. No one was allowed to feel superior, if anyone tried, he would be swiftly brought down like a bamboo tree with a parang (Malay long knife). They were old men already but amongst themselves, they still behaved like the boys they were more than half a century earlier.

“Hey botak (baldie in Malay), lai chiak (come, eat),” said one of them to a bald-headed friend.

“Botak head, come to school at half-past-eight. Teacher said,’Why you come so late?’” another sang their childhood taunt like a choir leader in his baritone voice.

The boldness of baldness indeed.