The Thistle And Shtisel

Many of my friends find me prickly. Just an hour ago, a good friend from school remarked “You sure like to be pricked.” Chip has a beautiful rose garden at his sprawling home up in the hills. So, he understands one is easily pricked when standing too close to a rose bush. But, who likes to be pricked? So, he got me thinking. What on earth does he mean? I like to be pricked? Is he saying I make myself an easy target, either from my behaviour or from my words and therefore I am deserving of retaliatory remarks from them? It was never them vs us in school. I did not belong to any gang or group. Not even in the Boy Scouts, in which I was one of the early leaders. Yet, I never felt I was part of them. Nowadays, it frequently is them vs me. I am made to feel the odd one out. Maybe that’s unfair. Maybe I am odd. Memories of my lonely boyhood come surging back. Where is Shiny, my old faithful dog? He was a pariah pup but I did not care. He always welcomed me with a strong wagging tail. Unconditionally. He didn’t care if I was a lonely boy. The odd one. The one they loved to pick on. Shiny listened intently to all my sad stories, at times amidst the quiet sobbing. No one must know. If they knew their darts were getting through my shell, then they would feel encouraged to throw more at me. Shiny faithfully kept all my secrets. “At least the bush will reward you with a bunch of roses, Chip.” I retorted silently in my mind, but stopped myself from being argumentative to avoid the risk of him calling me something even more prickly, a thistle instead? How would I recover from that? A thistle, me? It is true I have never been a popular chap. I was grumpy before I got old. Well, maybe I was grumpy even before I got to my 20s. Within the hour of being called prickly, I was asked in another group if having oats for breakfast daily makes me grumpy. These days, our popularity can be gauged by the number of birthday wishes we get in our chat groups. Yesterday, Lak Thiang celebrated his birthday with great fanfare. He would have been on cloud nine for sure. I know I would be if I got that many “dings-dings” on my phone, all of them with a rowdy Happy Birthday message. That evening, everyone seemed to have a mini bar full of whisky at home as they toasted the birthday boy loudly and drunkenly. It was an impromptu online party, and as they started toasting and clinking their glasses, I promptly went to bed instead. I had no whisky to show them, and no whisky knowledge either. There was the usual talk about single malts, smoothness, smokiness, and age. About Scottish vs Japanese vs Irish. All so foreign to me. A good friend I grew up with, SuperBan, had a wild birthday party too, a couple of nights earlier. I added ‘super’ to his first name, as he reminded me of Superman the way he flew around the world before the pandemic. The chorus of birthday wishes for SuperBan was deafening all day and all night – he got a few more greetings the day after too. I come from a big school in Penang. My year comprised of ten classes with a class numbering over 45 students. So, one could say it is not surprising to receive many birthday greetings from such a big group. I shall not divulge the number of birthday wishes I attracted last year. There is no need to pick on old scabs. It is soothing to tell myself they don’t really know when my birthday is, so how is it surprising when no one sends me a birthday wish? I had lost touch with these school friends for over 40 years. When Greg had a motorbike accident some 6 years ago, he was bed-ridden for many weeks. What would an aged person do if he is immovable on his back in this computer age? He surfs the internet to locate long-lost friends! After Greg found me, I rediscovered my past very quickly. The names of old teachers, old friends, old haunts and old flames. The old slangs, the old Malaysian accents all returned. Asian words such as “Aiya, aiyo, lah, lor” have found their way back into my vocabulary. It is no surprise that there was an initial curiosity to reconnect with these old mates. That was over 5 years ago. I am afraid the novelty has worn off and the boredom of familiarity has crept back into our lives. Familiarity breeds contempt, I truly believe this old saying now. Hardly a day goes by without someone sending me a contemptible message. In school, I was usually the odd one in the school compound – the daft one who pretended being introspective gave people the impression that you were observant and as clever as the quiet achiever. So, when they found me and invited me to join the chat groups, I decided I won’t be daft anymore. I shan’t be that quiet boy anymore. but, you know what? Mud sticks and so does reputation. No matter how I behave now, no matter how cleverly I voice my opinion, that banner I carried as a young boy is still hoisted high above me today. I am forever that annoying idiot. I tried to change it, to tell them the idiotes isn’t the idiot. Idiotes in old Greek means a private person. The annoying one in school isn’t prickly anymore today, I heard myself say to them. But, if you let mud stick, you can’t scrape it off once it has caked hard onto their memory. Now I’m in my sixties but it is as if time has stood still for them. To them, I’m still the prickly one today. It feels strange. When I first arrived in Australia, I felt like an outsider. People seemed polite and friendly but that was just the Western way of being courteous. They asked me questions as if they were genuinely interested in where I came from. They had difficulty pronouncing my name but they repeated it badly enough times as if they really wanted to get it right. They looked at me with that funny look, as if the batik shirt I was wearing didn’t match the bad haircut I wore on my head. Come to think of it, I think they just wanted to let me know I was very different from them. I didn’t belong. I wasn’t one of them. Funnily, sometimes I feel I don’t belong in my circle of school friends too. They pick on me and me only. They “red-card” me during boisterous football matches. At first, I was happy. I wrongly assumed I finally belong to a club. Our Man-United fan club is aptly named “MU Fuanclub”, since Fuan (another boyhood friend) assumes chairmanship of the club. But, I have been the only one “sent off” so many times during games. The others who often voice their frustrations during matches have yet to be flashed a “yellow card”. Yeah, not even a warning. Mind you, the red cards handed to me all happened to be in games that MU lost. Yeah, some of the fans are sore losers – a fair deduction, I may add. These guys could not accept any in-depth analysis of how the games were lost. “NO BAD VIBES!” is their club motto. Can’t they see it is positive to look at the players’ negatives so their problems can be fixed by the coach? Somehow, they see me as an importunate bloke whose criticisms of the players are not conducive to a winning formula. No matter, I am just as happy to watch the matches alone. It should not matter anymore, right? We all have our own family, our own dreams, our own history. It should not hurt anymore if we feel we don’t belong outside all that. They hint that I make myself a big target, an easy target for them to “taroh” (Malay for attack). It is just a harmless pastime of theirs, I convinced myself a long time ago. When I was a young man, I used to feel I was in no man’s land, neither belonging to the West nor comfortable in the East. That feeling of being a foreigner seems odd for someone who has lived here for over 43 years, yet it has not escaped me that I was once accosted in a public toilet for being a “yellow Chinaman” and white rednecks also hurled abuse at me as they sped past in their rusty faded Ford Falcon and Toyota Corolla. It is no different when I return to Malaysia – I feel like a tourist rather than like a son returning to his motherland. Heck, the locals see me as a tourist too, somehow they know before I even utter a word. Maybe it is the way I struggle with the coins and notes. Maybe it is the way I tip the hawkers by the roadside.

Shiny, my loyal friend. Forgive me, you should never have been chained.

Two nights ago, The Mrs and I finished Season 2 of Shtisel. The series premiered in 2013. Make a season a year, by my simple maths, they should have finished Season 7 by now. Why hasn’t Season 3 been released yet?! I am a sucker for blockbuster movies, especially conspiracy-laden plots involving the CIA or graphic ones with blood-soaked horse heads on satin bed sheets. I can’t resist epics with amazingly creative plots such as Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter or movies with unforgettable music such as Out of Africa (John Barry, composer), The Mission (Morricone, composer), Schindler’s List (John Williams, composer). But, Shtisel is absolutely none of that. It is low-budget, absent of a star-studded cast (or so I thought) and without any action-packed martial arts, absolutely no violence. Set in an ultra-Orthodox Geula neighbourhood in Jerusalem, the main male characters are dressed in traditional Hasidic garb, long black suits, big black hats hiding their kippahs and loosely hanging silk gartels. There is a lot of swaying and rocking when they pray. Maybe it signifies trembling before God. Their focus is on God, of course. The Jews won’t use the name of God lightly, so they will refer to Him as The Kingdom of Heaven. Every sip of water, every bit of food consumed is done after praising God first. A Bracha is recited so often in the show I ought to be able to recite it too. But the story is not a focus on The Kingdom of Heaven, but on our journey through life. The ultra-Orthodox setting just adds colour and flavour to the story. The Mrs and I felt flat and listless last night. I think she was suffering from withdrawal symptoms too, so addicted we have become to the story about a Haredi Jewish family living in a corner of Jerusalem which hitherto was as foreign to me as Mars would be. It is a totally different world where great music and art are frowned upon, and watching TV soapies is discouraged even for those living in a nursing home. So, why is Shtisel so captivating? I think it is great story-telling that a story about the everyday life of a highly devout Jewish family can captivate the attention of so many. We all have our customs, our beliefs, our taboos. Our pursuit of love be it for someone or in this case, for art, can unravel the bonds of a family when the rules are guarded too strictly. Breaking the norms often causes hurt and despair, despite their belief that God protects and loves those who praise Him. The show reminds me that with or without God, life is full of thistles for all of us and I think that is why a story like Shtisel resonates so well with me.

Wanton About Wonton

What is happening around us? I asked myself. Are we not aware how shoddy standards have become? “In what?” Wilson asked as he eyed his bowl of wonton noodles through fogged glasses. In everything! I almost screamed. It really is an assault on our senses, unprovoked, I may add. Well, let me start with your breakfast, Wilson. Just look at it, that’s not the wonton we used to have, notwithstanding the confirmation by the usually-sharp Aloysius that they are indeed current-day wontons. For decades, I would salivate at the thought of returning to Penang and re-acquaint myself with the world’s best street-foods only found in my birth place. We had fast foods well before fast food from Maccas and KFC were fads. Would I be wrong to claim that the genesis of the plethora of fast foods was the island paradise of Penang? When I was a kid, a bowl of wonton mee cost a mere 10 cents and a few short minutes’ wait despite the long queue at the school canteen. If the rotund canteen lady was in a good mood, she would even throw an extra wonton in my bowl. A big spoonful of pickled green chillies was a necessary extra at no additional cost. In those days, most of us were skinny if not scraggly. The canteen lady had to be near good food all her life to be become busty and well endowed especially around her waistline. Her wontons tasted great despite them being more skin than meat. The intoxicating smell of her soup as the rich egg noodles were bathed in it was simply divine. Her mere act of scooping soup onto the bowl often awakened my juices, so impatient was I to indulge in the imminent lust of devouring my meal. Food outside of school were of a higher standard, the higher prices dictated that. In every hawker stall we frequented, we did not have to queue for long. Somehow, those street vendors managed to churn out their delicacies without fuss or frustration. I think it is because they were truly skilled in their job, stoic and cheery with amazing goodwill despite the harsh working conditions in a hot and humid tropical environment. True professionals but alas, they were not recognised as such. No Michelin Stars were ever awarded to them. It is no surprise therefore, that they held the reins only for themselves – only a few of their next generation dared to take over their trade. What we see today is a permanent loss of those trade secrets and we end up with hawkers wantonly serving such lousy wontons. Wonton mee, aka Toktok mee in Penang on account that olden day vendors used to make Toktok sounds whilst traversing the streets to sell their nooodles, should be chewy and firm, or al dente – the yellow egg noodles cooked perfectly with a rich pork-based broth, garnished with leafy green choy-sum (Chai xin, which means vegetable heart, and therefore must be good for us) and meaty yet succulent wontons. The photo below is a terrible illustration of what I have just described. For Aloysius to confirm that those were indeed present-day wonton mee shocked me. That was a direct assault on my equilibrium that morning. How did we get to this nadir without a hint that we realise it? I feel we are all as guilty of this slide to mediocrity by condoning it, by accepting that this really is good enough. It is cheap. It is therefore ok. A good friend we call “Typhoon” pretty much summed it that way. “Penang food is good when the price is stable and the locals will sing their praises.” So, it all boils down to price. It does not matter if the noodles reeked of lye water, not even if they were starchy and soggy. It would not matter if the black sauce was a tad sweet or the green pickled chillies too sour or not crunchy. To them, the tasteless wonton was still ok as long as it represented more than a tiny morsel of meat. Wonton mee is a simple dish to cook, but in the hands of a novice, it can become a disaster very quickly. I mean, look at fried rice. It is such an easy dish to cook, right? You could pretty much throw anything into your overnight leftover rice, and cook up a storm. A bit of green peas, shrimps – raw ones or dried, it does not matter – and eggs. You love sweet corn? Sure, add some in. You crave for salted fish? Even better, just throw in a few slivers. We can’t go wrong cooking fried rice! Until I saw a couple of Youtube videos by Nigel Ng aka Uncle Roger. Was Uncle Roger too harsh on the British celebrity chefs? Nope! Haiya, the comedian tore shreds at Jamie Oliver’s fried rice. If these people dare to wantonly desecrate a simple dish such as Chinese Egg Fried Rice using a frying pan, then they deserve to be openly criticised! Where is the wok? Fried rice needs wok-hei! Chinese know all about the “breath of a wok” for stir-frying – it is in our genes for thousands of years. We know all about that energy, that extra heat to produce the slightly charred, smoky flavour that whets our appetite. The Michelin Guide tells us it is “difficult to achieve without a commercial cooking range”, but what do they know? Every Chinese home can produce “wok-hei” – like I said, it is in our genes. Jamie Oliver horrified us by using olive oil and chilly jam to fry his rice! He sizzled his spring onions “straight away” instead of using them as garnish?! We serve tofu whole, in big pieces but what did the British chef do? He destroyed his tofu as he mixed them into the rice. For us, frying rice is too easy. Many of us learned it as kids. Cooking rice is even easier. We don’t even need the “finger test” to know how much water to add to our rice. We use our eyes to measure the water level in the pot. So, why would people who don’t even know how to cook rice try and teach others how to fry rice? One of the celebrities was filmed rinsing her boiled rice in cold running water just prior to frying it. It is wantonly malicious!

A short video on a Penang Toktok mee street vendor by Penang AA Cook

When I was a young boy, I loved Nonya kueh. I did not realise how lucky I was to be born in Penang and to grow up in that culture where so many races from faraway places mingled and inter-married. Nonya kueh is uniquely a product of the intertwined Malay-Chinese culture. To me, it is a wonderful symbol of good when different cultures are able to come together and become one. These snacks or desserts are usually sweet but some are savoury. Main ingredients include glutinous rice flour, tapioca flour or mung bean flour. I prefer any kueh with pandan, coconut (grated or milk or both), and gula melaka. I left Penang in 1977 at age 18. I was clueless about the Nonya. None of my friends stepped up to say they were Nonya. Hakka? Nonya? Ya, just Chinese folk with different dialects, I thought. Yes, Yes. I was that dumb. I was not inquisitive about races. It did not matter what we were – Malays and Indians, Chinese or mixed. We all looked the same, sounded the same. We were the same, and I was sure we all loved Nonya kueh! My mum’s youngest sister, Suleh Ahyi knew I loved Nonya kueh. I think after 1977, I have had Nonya kueh in Penang twice only and on both occasions, it was Suleh Ahyi who walked to the Tanjung Bungah market to buy them for me. That is an aunty’s love, see? Ahyi has beautiful deep-set eyes. Sparkling eyes, actually. She has unusually high cheek bones and a pointy nose. Her hair was especially jet black. Without a word of a lie, I dare say Ahyi was as beautiful as Audrey Hepburn. She used to walk real fast. In 1996, I was 38. Yet, I could hardly keep up with her as she weaved in and out of the market crowd with her rattan basket clutched safely in her V-shaped arm. Thank you, Ahyi. You were really sweet to remember I love those kueh. There is a church-goer here in the eastern suburbs who makes good Seri Muka and Kueh Talam. I do not know her, so the rare morsels of kueh I get here are from Little Sis. They are friends, which reminds me I should really befriend that church-goer. I need to secure a more reliable (constant) supply of kueh. Little Sis makes very good Seri Muka and Kueh Talam too, but she is not very reliable. Besides, her supply of fresh pandan leaves has dried up. We had a harsh winter, maybe she forgot to bring her portable greenhouse inside one night. See, at least she uses fresh pandan, which is almost impossible to get here. Any serious cook will use real ingredients. Fresh ingredients. It still irks me so much that the stalls in Petaling Jaya and Singapore that I bought my last few Nonya kuehs from dared to use fake pandan essence, and not the real juice from real leaves. It is simply outrageous that they tamper with real food. Quite wanton, I say.

*Little Sis*‘ Bubur Cha-Cha, a Nonya coconut milk dessert

Since I am on the topic of wanton vandalism, how can I not mention the wanton attack on America’s democracy this week? The bastion of democracy itself was under threat. Suppressed people in other nations used to look to America as their saviour of their democratic rights. That is a farce, America is not the hero for democracy anymore. The U.S. Capitol, the house where their Congress meets, was stormed by Trump supporters who were eager to overturn the peoples’ votes. It was another display of the dangers of what a strong belief system can unintentionally deliver. The journey of how democracy can lead to autocracy through the unyielding pursuit of democratic rights to personal freedoms. It is this great roar of the masses who violently demand their right to choose their leader that may in the end topple a democracy. Those rednecks believe their leader’s claims that they were robbed from a rigged election, despite the 50-plus lawsuits being thrown out by the courts due to absence of evidence and in some cases, due to the admissions by Trump’s own legal teams that there were no legal and factual basis to support their claims. They blindly placed their faith on an unworthy and contemptible bloke who only cares about himself. Blind faith has dire consequences when placed on the wrong person or deity. The FBI has posted rewards for the arrest and successful prosecution of the rioters and thugs. So far, the leader of the mob has avoided arrest. I am bemused that the FBI has not recognised Trump was the culprit who incited the mob. “Be there, will be wild!” he said two weeks ago. He told them they cannot take back their country with weakness. His personal lawyer addressed the rioters and told them to “have trial by combat.” One observation that won’t go away is why was the Capitol protected by so few cops? Everyone knew there would be a mass protest that day. White supremacists from all over the country in their tens of thousands at a street protest that their leader had urged them to be wild will not be there holding candles, right? The stark contrast vetted out by police against peaceful (Black) protesters during the Black Lives Matter demonstrations show how the rules of law and order apply differently if you were not white. Awful, a wanton suppression of their own people. A wanton attempt to steal the election by him, not from him. Under threat of being brought to justice for his major role in inciting the mob, Trump has finally agreed to a smooth, orderly and seamless transition of power. Many think he has conceded. But, his faithful mob thinks otherwise. They read between the lines and breathe a sigh of universal relief that their messiah has not conceded he lost. He has only agreed to a smooth transition of power (maybe, he meant in his second term). After all, didn’t he promise them “our incredible journey is only just beginning”? They want to believe him so badly they wantonly disregard the truth. Urghhlings. Yeah, Biden won. Hopefully, America too.

Patently, A Latent Talent

Happy New Year! We have finally seen the end of 2020 – for most, it was their worst year ever. The first day of a new year brings renewed hope of better things to come. Surely, it cannot get any worse! It feels like a new dawn after the wild crazed scenes from the night before. The gully winds we get here are unpredictable – they can be gentle like leaf blower vacs annoyingly blowing leaves and dirt everywhere and anywhere but on certain nights under a gibbous moon, they can transform into mad and ferocious monsters that make the gumtrees weep and shake violently and uncontrollably. The madness during the night has long gone by the time the sun breaks through from the other side of the sky. The tell-tale signs we were visited by mad and ferocious monsters during the dark hours are usually the same. Any semblance of a well-cared-for garden is erased; the quaint yard’s zen-balance is disturbed by ad hoc garden displays of broken tree branches and bare rose bushes with just a sprinkling of stubborn petals that cling onto them. The indoor folding clothesline that has become a fixture under our pergola is a regular casualty too on nights such as these. It still escapes The Mrs’ attention that indoor stands are not designed for outdoor use. By the time she wakes up, all her garments that were viciously flung to the ground have been meticulously shaken clean of any dust and dirt and hung back on the clothesline. The most annoying items for me to retrieve are the polystyrene foam boxes that The Mrs uses to cart home discarded veggies from the local grocer. Her chooks may love the veggies but those white boxes are so light they become playthings for the strong gully winds to blow about all night.

In a few more days, Baby Son will be performing a concerto, live on the internet. The Mrs and I have been to quite a few of his concerts but this will be the first live concert online for us and more importantly, for him too. I suppose it will be no different than watching a live concert on TV. But, for him, it will be quite a new (and odd) experience to perform on stage to an empty hall dressed in a tuxedo with a mask to cover his face. Will he feel like the phantom of the opera? I have decided I should refrain from calling him Baby Son. He hasn’t been a baby for a long time. From now on, he will be known in my stories as Little Son. Little Son’s concerts are often sell-outs. A sell-out concert is, of course, a concert promoter’s dream. A parent’s dream too, for his son. The pandemic has wrecked the livelihoods of many – musicians have not been spared. It is therefore wonderful to see bands and orchestras adapt and experiment with not only new art but to also find a new avenue for their art. I hope the audience will tune in online and turn up to support their orchestra and musicians. Rather than sitting here quietly and hoping, I decided to help promote Little Son’s concert. If I could help sell just one extra ticket, why not? So, I shared the concert’s link with friends and family. I am fully aware of the fine line between sharing good news and bragging about good news. To help his concert sell tickets is, of course, my intention. In these bleak times, a well-attended concert could mean an orchestra extending its survival for a bit longer or the musician proving to the artistic director his popularity is good enough to earn him another concert gig. If tickets do not sell, then either scenario becomes less tenable. But, will these friends of mine think I am bragging instead? The obvious retort is of course, there is nothing to brag about. We are talking about an existential threat to the survival of many orchestras and bands. There is nothing to brag about. Before the pandemic struck and changed the world, people used to come forward during concert intervals or during after-concert signings and ask me if I was the concert artists’ father. “Oh, you must be so proud!” was a common remark as they grabbed my hand and shook politely. “So Proud?” I would feign ignorance. “No, that’s my middle name!” But, in truth, there is nothing for me to be proud of. Happy, yes but proud? It wasn’t my performance, I wasn’t on stage. I played no part on the night except to join in the raucous and prolonged applause that demanded their many reappearances on stage to accept the adoration of the audience. Sure, I was most happy for my sons as they soak in the love and appreciation of the zeitgeist. The wolf whistles, thunderous clapping, ecstatic screaming and the standing ovations are visible and audible measures of success in a concert hall. They took centre stage and made it their home. They made it look easy, to feel right at home under the spotlight. They were able to move some in the audience to tears. They made some so starstruck that people stayed back to join long queues for their autographs. Sometimes, people missed the second half of concerts just to mingle with them or take selfies with them.

Wilson, my good friend who runs a printing business, insists that I write a story about Little Son’s concert. He threatens to withdraw his support to print my second book if I refuse. I don’t know if he is serious. But, I will tell him I can’t. They may be my sons, but they are their own identities with their own stories. I may be their father but it does not give me carte blanche to tell their stories. So, this is the compromise. Maybe, their story started 50 years ago. In 1970, in Penang. I was 12 years old when I won a State Award. It was without any fanfare at home – no praises from my parents, none from my siblings. No special treats, not even a slice of vanilla ice-cream sandwiched between two wafer biscuits from Cold Storage. No pat on the back, no pep talk from Pa. It was a non-event, even though my win was proclaimed as ‘Excellent’ in the Straits Times. It earned a little square box in the English-medium newspaper – what I won was the Trinity College of Music’s Bronze Medal for sight-reading. In music, sight-reading is the reading and performing of a piece of music that a musician has not seen or learned before. If you’re really good at it, the music in the score comes out alive, faultlessly as the composer intended. My teacher did not prepare me for it. There is nothing to prepare. You do not get a chance to practise for it; there is no second try if you stuff it up. This ability to play it well at first go, you either have it or you don’t. I did not know I had that ability. It was there all along, but it lay dormant, invisible and therefore unknown. I must have had great eyesight. You do need to read fast, and be able to read ahead of what your hands are doing. Your mind is a few bars in front whilst your heart is expressing the music a few beats behind. That’s talent, raw and innate. But, winning the award meant nothing to me. It did not feel like an achievement, it was no big deal. Yet, Big Sis suddenly brought this up last night – she remembered me winning this medal. “I should find it for you, it is somewhere in the house.” she said decisively. She seldom fails to find our old mementos. There have been a few awkward moments such as those when she openly hands out old photos of my old flames (in front of The Mrs!). But, this morning, she texted me to tell me she could not find it. Only then did I recall that Ma had found it and given it to me a few years ago. So, in the last 50 years, I had forgotten twice that I had the medal with me. Maybe my parents never dreamt I could be a musician. Maybe they did not want me to be one. Maybe they were of the opinion that there is no money in music. For a typical Asian family, the safe bets for your child to have an assured comfortable life would be to enrol them in medicine, dentistry, law or accounting. Yet, kudos to my parents, they had a discussion with me about furthering my violin lessons in Vienna. For a brief few weeks, there was serious consideration that I should learn German in preparation for a student life in Vienna. It did not eventuate – I think everyone knew I did not have that latent talent to be a good violinist. But, I won the medal, maybe the latency was buried too deep? I think the fact that my parents could entertain the idea of me enrolling in a music degree despite their misconception that musicians were poorly paid laid the groundwork for the next generation that they can be whatever they choose to be. Our career path should be determined by our passion, not by the promise of money.

The bronze medal with my name inscribed on the back of it.

My sons have taken me along with them in their journey in the music world. I have to say theirs is a very different world. It does not get mundane for them, nor do the zillions of hours spent on getting the scales right and bowing techniques immaculate faze them or bore them. Different instruments and different bows produce different sounds, different textures and different colours, and these in turn reveal a different world of possibilities to them. They have been fortunate too, to grow up in Adelaide. The local conservatoire here, The Con as it is affectionately called, was the fertile environment to nurture their talent. Mrs Yelland, their first teacher, gave them everything they needed as young students in a hurry to get onto the national stage. Passion cannot be taught, it is innate too. But if passion could be acquired, then Mrs Yelland had certainly passed it on to them. It is that urge, that hunger to discover, that never-ending quest to learn more and more, to accumulate knowledge and skills, to keep improving, to never stop. That is passion, and it is passion that is behind every successful person. I remember the stale fug of Bishop Hall where they gave their early recitals. There is one evening that still resides fresh in my mind. After the successful recital, Mr Laurs, with that twinkle in his bright round eyes, beamed a smile that complemented his friendly podgy face. He hugged them proudly to let the room know that they were his students. Bishop Hall was named after John Bishop, the father of David Bishop who taught Mr Laurs at The Con. Later that evening, I got lost along the dark and dank corridors of the conservatorium which tunnel their way up to the main stage. There was a spine-tingling moment on one dark and dusty section which never saw any light of day. I felt a sudden icy-cold gust of air brush my face as the name James Whitehead echoed softly along the corridor. James Whitehead was also a great teacher who taught Mr Laurs at The Con. Now as I look back, it would not surprise me if it had been the latent power of the spirits of these great pedagogues that guided the young talented musicians to realise their potential.

Hay And Berries, From Hay To Berri

January 1986. It was my first road trip from Sydney to Adelaide with my young family. Correction, very young family. First Son was 3 years old, the other two were still in nappies. I was a young man of 28 years – naively confident, ambitious without any definite goals, and a no-nonsense bloke (to put it kindly), or in other words, humourless. I was well entranced, caged in the trap set by societal norms of the day. Norms which have not changed much, not even after these last 34 years. Not even during a pandemic. Society still dictates that we have to find a job, and keep a job when we find one. If we find one. Bleary-eyed commuters, frazzled drivers on grid-locked roads, desperate shopkeepers in quiet malls, zoned-out factory workers bored out of their minds. We are all trapped in this setting we call life. All of us, in pursuit of happiness. In pursuit of a livelihood, or for those luckier or so we think, in pursuit of greater wealth. With the advent of consumerism, we now have more pursuits. Ancient life did not require us to work 9 to 5 or in many cases, from 7 to 7. To live well, all we needed to do in ancient times was find some plants and berries or kill a prey for food and protect ourselves from harm. We were free to roam the land and eat only when we were hungry. If we didn’t find any food, we went hungry. But, there will be the next meal, we just did not know when. But, later on, some urghhlings decided to form a tribe. Tribes invented land ownership and we became territorial. The concept of territories meant we were no longer free to roam anywhere we liked. Limited freedom to travel and hunt where we needed to, and the vagaries of the weather combined to force us to settle down in a single place – that led to agriculture. It was the Agricultural Revolution, also known as the Neolithic Revolution some 12,000 years ago that changed our lives forever. We lost our freedom. Since then, we may have invented human rights but we still have not rediscovered our freedom. Being territorial has also meant urghhlings cannot avoid wars – the pursuit of more land for more resources means our history is never short of conflicts, conspiracies and conquests.

I enrolled in a local gym a couple of years ago. They provided me with a free personal trainer, which made me feel special. That feeling of importance did not disappear a few days later when I recalled that my youngest son had paid Sam’s fees in advance. Sam, a well-sculpted Aussie male was perfect as a gym instructor, passionate about fitness and body-building, and importantly, he was a most affable chap. But he was also trapped in life’s pursuits. For him, he wanted to win a body-building contest. Every session started and ended on a treadmill. To warm up and to wind down. When I was on the treadmill, my mind took a snapshot of my own reflection on the mirror a few meters in front of me. It was in fact a snapshot of what my life was. On the treadmill, I began by selecting the machine settings required for my desired attainment targets, be it calories, time, speed or whatever. Much like what I want to achieve in any endeavour. I then pressed the start button and the pursuit started. Running, running, running. On the same spot, never venturing away from the machine, thinking only about reaching my goals. Dripping wet with sweat from my effort, I stepped off the treadmill at the end of the session feeling satisfied that I did my best, maybe I even managed to reach my targets. That snapshot in my mind woke me up. Life has been no different. We get up in the mornings, and almost immediately, we are on life’s treadmill. Grinding away, always with a target to zero in on. Get that customer, complete that project, seal the deal. Bring home the bacon. But, I missed out on smelling the flowers, meeting the neighbours and admiring their gardens when I spent all that time on the treadmill. Did I ever stop to truly enjoy a cup of coffee? Or pause to ask my colleagues how they were. That first visit to the gym was like the lobster dinner I had when I bit at a claw and lost a filling. The moment on the treadmill felt the same as when I discovered a tooth that was missing its filling. No matter what I told myself, I had to probe it, examine it, push on it with my tongue. I knew the filling was lost. Likewise, I knew I had lost something in this life. As we grind away monotonously, life becomes greyer and greyer, losing much of its vibrant colours. Familiarity makes us blind. Last week, First Son had his ear pierced. He needed to tell me that because I could not see it with my own eyes. I was too busy pre-occupying myself with life’s inconsequential demands. Why have I worked so hard? Why do we get up in the mornings? I hurt my back after three visits to the gym, and had to spend two expensive sessions with a chiropractor. Maybe I should say, Sam hurt my back. After all, he was supposed to be the expert. Experts should make sure their clients are well looked after. But, I was on a treadmill. So was he. Society dictated he had to earn a living, to pay for his rent, his bomb (an old car badly in need of a tune-up) and the 3 whole chooks and 2 plates of pasta he consumed daily. Running wheels are not just for our hamsters or pet mice; we too have our own running wheel. Life.

Back to 1986. My first road trip with my wife of 5 years, and 3 kids was not meant to be a holiday. It was never the journey but the destination for a young man in a rush. A new career beckoned me in Adelaide. A senior role, a well-paid executive position. It came with a company car, and with the other perks, it meant I could quite easily upgrade and buy a you-beaut full-brick house in a blue-ribbon suburb and call it our new home. We no longer had to live in the fibro house that bore the brunt of silly jokes; no more sighs of exasperation from Pa about a “Chao-Chu” (rubbish house). We no longer had to live near a “ghetto” for aborigines and worry about our kids mingling with “those” kids in a “backward” school more attuned to success in rugby and success in ridding their compounds of drug addicts. I planned to arrive at our destination within 16 hours. The idea of grabbing the opportunity for my family to enjoy a rare Aussie holiday in the vast continent we call “our country” did not dawn on me. It was only about getting to our destination. I did not realise it, but I was already stuck to my treadmill even then. So, I avoided the route to Melbourne, and missed Jervis Bay and the famous Kiama Blowhole. Mornington Peninsula? Scratch it off the list too, “too bad, we do not have time” was my reply to a friend’s suggestion that “the kids will enjoy picking strawberries at Sunny Ridge Strawberry Farm and the nearby Hot Springs.” Why visit Melbourne’s Chinatown on Little Bourke Street? Why? When we have our Sydney Chinatown all the while? After that, we could have left the hustle bustle of Melbourne and spend 3 days driving along one of the world’s most scenic coastal routes. The Great Ocean Road still escapes me although it has been on my bucket list. Back then there were 12 Apostles to marvel at – today, there are only 8 limestone rocks left, the rest have been washed away. We missed visiting Mount Gambier also, a region that reminded many people of the Bordeaux of France. The kids would have loved a short-stay in a nice country cottage and waking up to the sounds of roosters welcoming the sun. Past the vineyards, and soon we could have arrived in Murray Bridge, and then the German town of Hahndorf and then Adelaide! Instead, I unfolded the brand new Gregory’s paper map, smoothed it with both my palms and sought out the shortest route with my index finger. Showing the journey to The Mrs, my finger followed the route which was mostly dead straight on the map. See? Sydney, Wagga Wagga, Hay, Berri, and hey presto, Adelaide! Time required, 14 hours, 14 minutes. But, we have three boys, all 3 years and under. There will be lots of toilet breaks, tantrums and nappy-changing, I reasoned. So, my plan was to reach Adelaide in 16 hours. They will be comfortable – I bought a new Tarago van, well, it was a demonstrator model. Savings? $1,000. I did not like the rego number – it ended with 114. In Cantonese, 114 sounded like “yat yat sei” (die every day). I wanted the car dealer to change it, but The Mrs stopped me. In Mandarin, it is auspicious, she convinced me. 14 means “for life”. The number “4” is a good number. We need the four seasons, four directions (North,South, East and West), four elements (Earth, Water, Air and Fire) and we have four limbs. A day is divided into four sessions – morning, afternoon, evening and night. Four is a symbol of earthly balance and completeness. The Buddha already pointed out to us the Four Noble Truths. How could I disagree? I should have. A few months after we had settled down in Adelaide, our good friends Richard and Cindy missed us so much they came to visit. We took them to the Barossa Valley and on our way to the third cellar door for the day, a car smashed into the passenger side of my Tarago with the “yat yat sei” rego at an intersection. Apart from some minor cuts and bruises, no one was seriously injured. Since then, I avoid the number “4”, preferring the number “8” whenever possible. “8” in Cantonese sounds like prosperity, which until recently was another life pursuit for me.

We got to Hay in super quick time. Hay, as the name reveals, is a country town where one would see stacks and stacks of hay on the plain. A major wool growing area, the only memory I have of the town on the banks of the Murrumbidgee River was the many mini whirlwinds that escorted us out of the town. To get to Berri from Hay, I used the Sturt Highway travelling westwards. It was the most boring journey I ever encountered, all 5 hours of it was pretty much dead straight, dead flat and dead boring. The Mrs kept changing to the radio stations that played our favourite songs to keep me awake. 2CH was my favourite channel; I was keen on Frank Sinatra, Perry Como, Don McLean and Anne Murray. I was very pleased when we reached Berri. If anyone tells you people can’t die from boredom, tell them they have not driven from Hay to Berri. To be sure, I can confide now that I almost fell asleep behind the wheel many times on that stretch. Berri, the Riverland town in South Australia is famous for its apples, citrus fruits and grapes. Nope, they do not produce any berries at all. Quite misleading that, until I found out it is not an English name. Berri is an Aboriginal word meaning “a wide bend in the river”. For me, Berri is the first place that welcomed me as a new “immigrant” of South Australia.

In the Tarago, from Sydney to Adelaide in 1986.

P.S. Sehchee, my sister in London, still remembers the fruit classifications from biology lessons in Penang. Believe it or not, grapes, lemons, oranges are technically berries but strawberries and raspberries are not!

2020 In 2020

Hindsight, they say is 20/20. The Mrs says it to me frequently. It is her way of telling me what I know does not make me smart. Who does not know what has already happened? At times, she uses it as an admonishment of sorts. “You should have known it would happen! Hindsight is 20/20, why did you decide not to do that?!” 2020 has been a dramatic year. Before the Chinese Lunar New Year in February this year, The Mrs already told me 2020 would be a bad year. I ignored her, told her she is so superstitious. “The sharemarket will cop a battering, time to sell off all your shares, son.” I overheard her advice to First Son. She even predicted the major floods in many parts of China. “Horrors, the Three Gorges Dam will be threatened! It may even be under water.” she warned, daily, over breakfast for weeks. Now, that is prescient, to know what is going to happen before it happens. 20/20 vision means you can see clearly at 20 feet what should normally be seen at 20 feet. In her case, what she saw 50 weeks ago has pretty much panned out. A 50/50 vision! But, she won’t take any credit for her perfect foresight. Chinese astrology long ago predicted that calamity would befall this year of the Gengzi (庚子年). It is all written down, eons ago. The year of the Metal Rat is the 37th year of the 60-year cycle of the Chinese calendar, bringing with it natural disasters, wars (tariff wars and trade wars included) and disasters such as pandemics and bushfires. Their predictions have come true about health afflictions relating to the “lungs and breathing” with symptoms including severe coughs, blood disorders and diarrhoea. Sounds familiar? For the doubters, let us look at the previous Gengzi year, i.e. 1960. It was the year of the Great Famine that followed the Great Leap Forward, during which up to 55 million Chinese died of starvation. I remember Pa’s old Chinese magazines that reported on the herculean feats of the collectives that managed to almost double their agricultural output from 1957. We did not know it then, but they met their grain targets by simply lying about it, inflating actual figures by up to 10 times. At the same time Mao, without any knowledge of metallurgy, ordered the peasants to surpass the UK’s industrial output in 15 years. The peasants’ focus on the land was diverted to convert their backyards into backyard furnaces, producing steel from scrap metal, except that they used woks, pots and pans when they ran out of scrap. If 1960 was not calamitous enough as a Gengzi year, let us go further back to the one before that, i.e. 1900. 1900 was the year the Eight-Nation Alliance invaded China during the Boxer Rebellion. The following year, the defeated Qing government was forced to sign a peace treaty that required them to pay an indemnity in the billions in today’s value, over 39 years. The foreign legation guards would remain in China until WW2. By now, most of us should be convinced the Gengzi year really does bring death and misery, especially to the Chinese. 1840 was one of the worst Gengzi years – in April that year, the British parliament declared war against China. It was the beginning of the First Opium War, a war that followed Britain’s gunboat diplomacy to extract a huge advantage over China, who at the time was their largest trading partner. Europe’s demand for Chinese luxury goods e.g. silk, porcelain and tea created a huge trade imbalance whereby China only accepted Britain’s silver as payment for their trade deficit. The British resorted to ply opium to the Chinese to fix their trade imbalance, against the wishes of the Qing government. A Qing letter to Queen Victoria which appealed to her moral and legal responsibilities went unanswered. Drug trafficking sanctioned by a monarch. It is no wonder today we still call drug traffickers drug lords. The Opium War left an indelible scar on the Chinese – they lost Hong Kong and was forced to grant territorial, financial and trade concessions to the Western forces.

First Son did not need this much Gengzi history to act on his mother’s free advice. Very early in the pandemic, he offloaded his total investments in his favourite ETF. The exchange-traded fund he had his savings in had vastly outperformed the local index. First Son is an intelligent investor – after all, he has read Benjamin Graham’s The Intelligent Investor. That makes him far more intelligent than me – I had only read 3 years of UNSW’s Bachelor of Commerce degree and lost big-time in the last two major sharemarket routs. The Mrs loudly celebrated First Son’s good fortune when the Dow dropped like a brick into the harbour. “Aiyo, see? I told you so! So lucky you listen to me!” she pranced around her kitchen impersonating the great Maradona celebrating his “Hand of God” goal in the 1986 World Cup. Although the ETF is now trading higher than the pre-pandemic level, maybe we have yet to see the worst from the Gengzi. 2020 has not finished. A bird in hand is worth two in the bush, son.

For those who believe in the Tarot, the card corresponding to 20:20 is Judgement. It symbolises a renewal, a new era of independence, a freedom of the body or the mind. In 2020, there is indeed a renewal. We see massive change in the way we live, from the massive fatalities around the world. The pandemic has brought a lot of grief, especially to the Americas, Iran, Indonesia and large chunks of Europe. We no longer shake hands when we greet, we do the elbow bump or the Asian bow, hands together near the chest, clasped or in a prayer-like position and accompanied by a respectful bow. We see people on the streets wearing masks all over the world now. In my early travels, I marvelled at the uniquely Asian social etiquette of caring for their fellow citizens by not spreading one’s germs in public. I think it is this caring for the greater good rather than caring for one’s “human rights” that clearly shines through in which is the better social norm to adopt. In 2020, I have watched football being played in empty stadiums, where the echoes of coaches’ commands can be clearly heard. There is a total absence of cheering, chanting, stomping, singing, booing or flag-waving. Hardly an audible applause when a goal is scored. Last night, I attended my first online live Christmas concert by one of the great symphony orchestras in the world. Prior to 2020, who would have thought we would pay to attend an online concert? The music was beautifully performed by the orchestra that was less than 1/3 of its usual size. Limited in size due to the social-distancing rule, the programme lacked the usual big work we are accustomed to at an end-of-year Christmas concert – Handel’s Messiah. A Christmas concert is meant to be uplifting – the carols hark the angels and celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. The orchestra players certainly did their best to lift us from the doldrums of 2020 yet what I felt was a great sense of sadness. The night was devoid of a usually packed audience. Only a smattering of light clapping and hitting of bows against the music stands was all the applause that rewarded the soloist. There was no cheering, chanting, whooping, whistling. No raucous applause. No shouts of bravo.

I will admit that I have been to a Tarot reading. It was in 1986, the year I returned to Adelaide after having spent 8 years in Sydney. In those 8 years, I got my B.Comm degree, met The Mrs in the university, married her immediately after our graduation, and we became parents of 3 boys. Yeah, those were busy years! My first job as a trainee accountant of the Commercial Bank was based in Sydney’s Chinatown. Yup, hindsight is 20/20. I should have patiently stuck to the bank – The Mrs has not stopped reminding me of my brashness. “You could have been someone very high up in that circle.” Did she mean in banking or in Chinatown? But, I hated it in that circle. It was grey, cold and impersonal – everyone there reminded me of Mr. Dawes in Mary Poppins’ Fidelity Fiduciary Bank. Every tuppence mattered. We had to balance the books to the last cent or we could not go home that day. I hated it more when it became personal. There was one blonde bitch who took a strong dislike for me. Maybe I had bad breath, maybe I stank – it was summer. Maybe I took her friend’s job. Maybe I balanced the books with ease and she didn’t. Maybe she encountered too many Chinese customers who gave her trouble. She did not tell me why she couldn’t stand me, but maybe it was simply that I looked different or smelled different. Maybe. So, I quit and got the job as a factory accountant in Matraville instead. The HR manager, (Personnel Manager, in those days) with her beautifully posh British accent, said I was Godsent. Wow, that was the one and only time someone said that about me. I felt like rain. The world needs rain, right? It was a better feeling than working with cold and grey white racists. I was happy until my brashness got the better of me (again) and I decided to move to Adelaide. The Mrs did not hesitate. I think she knew at the bottom of her heart we had to leave our very good Sydney friends. We loved them so much we spent all our weekends with them – they were as addicted as us to Mahjong. When The Mrs returned to Sarawak to visit her ageing parents, she took First Son with her, meaning I was left to look after the two younger ones. That did not stop me from visiting our friends. I discovered it was possible to play Mahjong, carrying one baby in my left arm, and bouncing the other baby on a bassinet with my foot. So, it was an easy decision to leave Sydney in the end. The Adelaide job was too good to refuse. The boss told me I was “set like jelly.” At the time, I felt strange to be described like jelly – wobbly, fruity and soft or spineless like jelly fish? He meant I was set of course, the job was mine for sure and it came with a blue 4.1 litre Ford XF Fairmont Ghia. He made me the Administration Manager or loosely known as King of the Office. There, I met Esther. Esther was a beautiful damsel with gorgeous facial features but she waddled like a duck. Suntanned, her deep almond eyes and high cheek bones complemented her full lips. But, her thick waist and oversized butt made her clumsy. I worried her 6-inch stilettos were not meant to support such a heavy load. “Have you had your future read?” Esther asked me one night after work. It was almost compulsory in those days for “management” to stay back after work and mingle with the staff in the smoke-filled boardroom. I used to go home smelling like an ashtray. With a bottle of West End Draught in her hand, she traipsed towards me and almost tripped over the waste paper basket. “So? Do you know what the future holds for you?” She insisted on knowing. “Yeah, sure.” I said. I was in Hong Kong a few years earlier, assessing a job prospect when The Mrs suggested we consulted the Gods in a Chinese temple we happened to walk past. “But, they told me nothing I didn’t already know.” The Gods told me not to accept the job offer, that Hong Kong was not a place for me and my young family to call home. The small one-bedder offered to me was barricaded like a prison to keep thieves and robbers out. The view from a small window was of a concrete jungle. The many small square compounds were concrete too. No flowering bushes, no Angsana trees laden with a golden bloom. Not a single tree, if I remember correctly. Esther told me to do myself a favour and have my future read by a Tarot medium. Which young and ambitious person doesn’t want to know their future, right? Apparently, 98% attend a Tarot reading for relationship reasons. Who to marry, who to break up with? The rest go to know about their health and wealth prospects. Why did I go? Curiosity, I guess. Esther insisted. She felt there was something I needed to know. So, I went. But, I went prepared. I was not going to reveal anything to the Tarot reader, I said. No ring on my finger, no watch, no Pierre Cardin suit. I parked behind her street and walked to her house. I did not show off my blue XF Fairmont Ghia. I kept my body language to a minimum, and hardly said a word. No easy clues for her! Yet, she knew a lot about me. She knew about my weaker left eye. Was I squinting? She knew about my weak tummy – maybe I left a hint of overnight fart in my pants? She knew about my toe problems which only became apparent to me last year. She knew I lacked fibre in my diet, but I was sure I did not look constipated. She told me to spend more time with my father – I am forever thankful I took her advice. She knew Pa had a very strong bond with me, he was “a very wise man. Very spiritual, a wonderful person.” She knew I need to be near water. She told me to build a nice pond, with a waterfall. She said I thrive on stress but the water will be calming for me. She told me about my windfall gain, ten years before AMP demutualised and gave me $36,000. She told me I would enjoy lots of international travel – what hints did I give her? None! She told me I would stay married to the same woman. Yeah, I am loyal like a dog, she could see that? She told me one of my sisters will divorce, many decades before it happened. Of the five sisters who married, one did divorce. 20%? That’s about the right odds, except she did not know how many sisters I have! I did not hold the Judgement card, no 20:20 but she told me I had the best card, the Magician’s card. With it, you can achieve whatever, as long as you believe it. Just do it, don’t hold back. Maybe it was the subliminal message that encouraged me to go into business for myself. Well, for The Mrs actually. The most accurate predictions she made were about my kids. She wasn’t told how many children I had. Yet, she knew I have three sons! She said First Son “has a scientific mind, exceptionally bright and very successful.” A doctor? A chemist? Well, he did Computer Science in uni. That is surely scientific! She said the other two sons would be both famous, known even as far away as in the streets of New York. Second Son sees his father as his idol, she continued. He does not suffer from peer group pressure. Baby Son is a total charmer, born with a golden spoon in his hand. I do not know about that idol bit, but she is spot on about the rest. Baby Son indeed is a “shuai ger”, a good-looking dude and as Pa used to say, “he can be a movie star!” There is one prediction that isn’t true though. Or, at least, it has not come true (yet). “There will definitely be a 4th child”, she repeated. She tapped at the Card of Birth and held it up. See? You will have another son. A true gift. Highly intelligent, a very special person. He will be very very well known, more famous than a politician. “Hmmm, more famous than our PM?” I asked.

Don’t Whine About The Wine

Australia’s largest trading partner is flexing their economic muscles. Our PM is a fool, mate. In chess parlance, he made a Fool’s mate. It is awfully difficult to drum up business – our trade emissaries would have spent millions wining and dining the Chinese, attended uncountable trade shows with our commerce delegates and perhaps even kowtowed to the throngs of Chinese buyers privately. Keeping a customer is often harder than winning one. To win one, you spend big on the marketing campaign and make sure your offer is of better value in terms of price and quality. To keep a customer, we have to exert so much more effort and at the same time incur ongoing expenses to keep the customer happy – honour our commitments, deliver more than we promise, maintain good communication channels and if necessary, keep a close relationship closer. Fix any problems quickly, stay competitive by regularly reviewing the quality and price of our products/services and avoid doing or saying anything to upset the customer. It is simply common sense, any average business understands these basic tenets. Yet, what do Aussie politicians do? They embark on a campaign to annoy our biggest trading partner. In weighing up the nation’s security versus prosperity, they choose to harm our economy by deciding that China poses a clear and present risk to our security. In 4G communications, Edward Snowden had already abundantly showed that no nation is safe from being spied on. PRISM is the American National Security Agency’s code name for their program in harvesting internet communications, without our knowledge and therefore without our permission, on a grand scale. So, why would 5G suddenly become a new threat to our security? Data from our communications is the number one source of raw intelligence – it always has been. It is not something new just because Huawei is at the forefront of the technology. What is new is that a Chinese company is leading the world in internet technology that will likely make it the authority on the Internet of Things. So, Huawei 5G has to be slowed down so that the US can hope to catch up. The Huawei decision is the first of many Australian narratives to loudly and publicly side with the Americans – this is seen as a necessary strategy to affirm the ANZUS treaty and to be regarded as a reliable member of the Five Eyes nations. As I said, the Aussie political elites embarked on a Fool’s mate when they continue to assume that the military alliance with the US is the best guarantee for our ongoing security despite the one obvious fact, i.e look at where Australia is situated on the world map and look at where the world’s largest economic power has shifted to. Look at the other Asian nations that are located much closer to China. Their biggest trading partner also happens to be China – they have their grievances and disputes, but hey, they do not grab their megaphone and loudly lambast China whenever their mood dictates. Everyone plays the long game; they know the end-game is to survive and prosper, despite their political differences. The ASEAN members have most to lose from China’s initiatives to corral back islands that historically belonged to China in the South China Sea. Historical claims are not valid under the U.N. Convention on the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS), as the Permanent Court of Arbitration (PCA) ruled in 2016 in the case brought against China by the Philippines in 2013. But, who is the PCA? Contrary to popular belief, the PCA is not an agency of the United Nations, which may be why China therefore continues to ignore that ruling. ASEAN’s response has been mute unlike that of the Americans and Australians. China’s neighbours prefer to carry on doing business with their largest customer whereas the latter two which are located very far away from the disputed islands have been sending their warships to the hotspot for “war exercises”. Recently, India and Japan have joined them to form the QUAD, a military alliance to further annoy and threaten the Chinese. “You make me your enemy and we will be your enemy,” China has declared. Scomo, please do not touch your chess piece. Your next move could checkmate us. Do not run your country by running it to the ground. Be alert and be aware but do not mess up the nation’s economy by messing with our biggest trading partner. Remember, they are our biggest customer and we do not berate our customers with loud accusations and publicly confront them over their internal issues that we do not fully understand.

As if to further show our ignorance of our standing in the real world, some prominent Aussies have been quick to promote the boycott of products made in China. As if that would make a dent to their economy. Don’t we know they call us small potatoes? We, as a country, are no bigger than any of their big cities. The volumes we buy from them is pittance. Such unfriendly strategies are self-defeating, they only add fuel to the fire. We joined in the chorus about Trump’s “China virus” and foolishly and unilaterally called for an independent investigation into the source of the virus. It seems they have already decided the source is China since they have called for the investigation to start in Wuhan. Recent discoveries have suggested the virus was already present in Italy, Spain and in the US in late 2019. We lambast the Chinese about the Uighurs, Tibet, Taiwan and Hong Kong. Not so long ago, we saw fit to shake our finger at them for the exploitation of child labour and of untold damage to the environment. We scoffed at their empty residential towers, the highways to nowhere and the cities that are devoid of people. All that to perpetuate the outdated crass belief of white superiority over all others. That a small country like Australia can stand on the world’s lectern and think we can dictate to a global power with our free speech (at times evidence-free) shows our haughtiness and misplaced arrogance. The world has been the poorer when leaders show lack of leadership in the necessary art of mutual respect and courtesy.

$88 for this? Where can you get it? Not in China!

Please stop me. Pour me the wine and I shan’t whine anymore. Sai weng shi ma, yan zhi fei fu. 塞翁失马, 焉知非福 When the bandit chief loses his best horse, is it bad news or good news? The stallion came home with a horde of mares and foals! When the bandit chief’s son broke his leg, is it bad news or good news? He remained safely at home and didn’t have to fight the enemies in battle. In the conflict between China and Australia, it is definitely good news for me! I love rock lobsters but never could afford them regularly. When I was last in Singapore, just a few years ago, Aussie rock lobsters there were cheaper than ones here! Then, a 2kg lobster with yi-mein (Cantonese egg noodles) cost well over $400 in Adelaide. My host in Singapore gleefully shouted me that dish and saved 1/4 of the price. It didn’t make sense then and it still doesn’t make sense now. Sure, overseas customers can afford it more so why do they pay less? In 2009, at a G’Day USA function in LA, I was shadowing the waitress who was serving the most delicious Spencer Gulf king prawns. She was a pretty lass, bright and alive, but I was actually eyeing her prawns. Those were the best South Australian prawns I ever tasted. Freshest, sweetest, most succulent. Ever. I shall reveal how many prawns I had that night. But I found them in LA, not home where they came from. It didn’t make sense then and it still doesn’t make sense now. Why is it we can’t buy the world’s best king prawns here? They are local! I understand the rich people overseas are willing to pay for them but hey, they usually get them free in events such as the G’Day USA which are funded by us taxpayers. Similarly, the same applies to all the best produce we churn out. Many years ago, I found our best pears, peaches and plums in Hong Kong and Singapore. Prices weren’t much different but they get the best, handpicked, I suspect. We get the deformed ones, the smaller ones. We get the tasteless varieties, picked two seasons earlier and frozen just for us. It didn’t make sense then and it still doesn’t make sense now. A couple of years ago, my sister from London came to visit us. Her hubby loves French wine but he was finally swayed by some of the Barossa’s best. They were good enough for him to cart a box back. It’s hard to understand and even if some of them didn’t break in-transit, those premium wines were cheaper in the UK than the cellar-door prices we paid here in our backyard. It didn’t make sense then and it sure still doesn’t make sense now. I love a good steak too. Our Angus beef has a unique exquisite taste due to its marbling. But a good ribeye was reserved only for Christmas, and only when our good neighbours invite us over. My excuse? Only they have the sous vide machine! The price is simply unaffordable, since the Japanese and Singaporeans can outbid us for our steaks. But, there is good news on the horizon. China this week just banned another Aussie beef exporter. I think we will still have our ribeye this Christmas after all, even though our good neighbours cannot come back in time due to the pandemic.

Looking forward to half-price ribeye this Christmas

China has stopped buying wine from us. I know, I know we should be happy as we get to enjoy our great wines at a low price. I shan’t whine about it but I just realised my wine collection has depreciated in value by a lot! A good excuse to drink more, I suppose. Cheers!

A Gambit Or A Gamble?

The Queen’s Gambit on Netflix has been my source of entertainment this week. An orphan girl discovers life in an institution isn’t so mundane when she found the janitor playing chess by himself. She skips lessons and in-house movie sessions and finds every excuse to clean the blackboard dusters so that she can watch him play in the basement. During the day, she is addicted to thoughts about the game and she realises the white-and-green pills prescribed to calm the orphans’ behaviour somehow sharpens her mind to focus on chess. In bed, whilst the others are sleeping, she is looking up at the ceiling where the giant chess pieces are being moved by her mind – this is how she memorises the new moves, and searches for any flaws. Memories of my life as a young father flood my mind as I follow episodes 2 and 3. The journey my sons took in their pursuit of their passion are quite similar. The discovery of something that pulls at their hearts. An inextinguishable passion. An insatiable love, in their case, for music. Not just cello music, anything classical, and later, any music. Michael Jackson, Mariah Carey, John Williams, Norah Jones, Adele even. The discovery of young talent, almost prodigious some said, is a beautiful feeling. Especially when it’s one’s own children. And then, the scary phase. What their teacher saw in them and believed to be their destiny seemed far-fetch and unimaginable. To extrapolate a young child’s passion to some irrational and ludicrous goal of national stardom was irresponsible, I felt then. It is a lot worse when there are two of them. “They are just kids!” I said. “Just let them play at their leisure, no goals, no pressure, just for fun.” “How can we be the fair and responsible parents we think we are if we dictate what their careers will be when they are only 6 years-old?” So many what-if’s. What if they lose their interest halfway? Will they have anything to fall back on? What if one does well and the other doesn’t? What if they both do well but we cannot afford either of them to pursue their dreams? What if we can only fund one but not both? What if we mortgaged our house but still come up short? What if business turns bad and we can’t afford the loan anymore? What if they are stranded midway? What if they lose interest? What if they mixed with the wrong crowd? What if they flopped and blame us for the gamble? The following year, their teacher, Mrs Yelland, enrolled them in a local Eisteddfod competition. “No! No competition!” The Mrs bellowed with a certain non-negotiable voice. “We are too busy, we work everyday. We can’t chauffeur them there and everywhere,” she reasoned. Mrs Yelland, with her usual wit and alacrity, said she would do all that for them. “It will be fun for them!” she assured us. “I will buy them a cupcake at the deli,” as if that was all it would take to erase our anxiety. “What if they bomb out?” I asked myself. They don’t have to win a medal but for me it was equally imperative that they don’t permanently scar themselves from a disastrous experience. What if they break down on stage? What if they suffer a memory lapse? What if one wins and the other fails badly? Why teach them to compete with each other? What if both embarrass themselves? What if they are below par, not good at all? The best result I hoped for them was a draw for both. It did not matter about the placing. We got the next best result instead. One came first and the other second. The latter asked me for a can of gold Duplicolor paint from our auto shop on our way home. He insisted that he would spray-paint his silver medal. He was right, of course. They both deserved the gold medal. Call it a draw. Just like the story in The Queen’s Gambit, once they got the competition bug, they just kept winning. They defeated all and sundry, even those far older than them, even those in high school. Even those in uni. In their last Eisteddfod competition, they clinched the senior prize, as joint winners. The ideal result for them, finally. No, not for them. For me. Just like in the mini-series, I started a scrapbook to keep a record of their success. After that, there were lots of air travel to compete in the Young Performers’ Awards. Fondly known as the YPA, it remains the ultimate classical music competition for Australians. The national competition attracted people almost twice their age and included professionals too. One of my sons won the YPA, and soon after, the scrapbook became a drawer of media clippings and magazine write-ups which spilled over and became two drawerfuls. By the time they left for the UK, I needed a full-size travel luggage bag to keep them all. They left home at 15 to further their studies at a university in Queensland. The following year, our local university reversed their decision not to accept under-aged kids and provided them with full scholarships to entice them back. Little did the uni know that we did not need any enticements, as it was a big strain on us financially to fund their tertiary education away from home. For their postgraduate degree, they won a competition to study under a world-renowned pedagogue in the UK. That was a big deal, as the grand old master taught only 7 students a year. For both to be accepted, it meant the rest of the world could only muster 5 other students to be taught by him. Many of the what-ifs did not happen, and I am still grateful for that. Both of them managed to secure full scholarships for the majority of their time in the UK, I did not have to re-mortgage my house after all. OK, I just lied. I did take up a mortgage against the family house to fund their instruments. In those days, one stringed-instrument was as expensive as an average suburban house and a bow the price of a second-hand car. So, each of them was lugging the equivalent of a house and car on his back. Thankfully, The Mrs did not ever object to my “madness” as my mother called it. Ma, with immense exasperation, said I was out of my mind to put such a burden on myself but that was a father’s prerogative. A father’s gambit. How else could they have competed against the world’s best?

Not many world-class chess players risk their queen in opening moves. The Queen’s Gambit is similar to the Scandinavian Defense (1.e4d5) which features queen moves by Black on the second and third moves. But, instead of 1.e4d5, the Queen’s Gambit starts with 1.d4d5 followed by 2.c4 where White appears to sacrifice the c-4 pawn. But, can Black later protect its own pawn from this apparent advantage? Political manoeuvres and the deployment of strategies by our government officials to engage our allies and foe similarly require astute thinking and planning well before words are spoken and actions taken. This was not the case this week when Prime Minister Scott Morrison (aka Scomo) reacted to a mischievous tweet indulgently and without prior discussions with his cabinet team. The Brereton Report revealed war crimes committed by Australia’s SAS soldiers. 39 Afghans were killed, of whom some were tortured, and two teenagers had their throats slit. They called it blooding, the first-time killing of the enemy in a war. In this case, the murdered Afghans were used as props with enemy weapons placed on or near their bodies to depict them as killed in action. Scomo’s foolish reaction to the “repugnant” tweet by a middle-ranking Chinese official and his indignant demand for an apology from China is likened to President Xi admonishing a local Aussie city council official and demanding the nation’s apology for that private person’s behaviour. In chess parlance, Scomo made a Fool’s mate, the briefest checkmate delivered after an extraordinary blunder from a ill-disciplined bluster. After all, there is no denying the ADF personnel did commit abhorrent war crimes, and that the image tweeted was not a fake photo. Many in the media reported it as “digitally altered” but that does not mean it is not art. A piece of art that depicts a vulgar reality which then encourages analysis and in-depth discussions is good art, especially if it also resonates with the viewer and arouses emotions. There is absolutely zero chance that President Xi will reciprocate with an apology that was demanded by a very angry leader of a middle-power nation. So, why did Scomo make such an ill-advised move? Why ditch diplomacy and treat our biggest customer as our enemy?

China represents 48.8% of our exports. Why treat them like they are our enemy? China has said recently, “Treat us like your enemy and we will be your enemy.” Why did Scomo make a move that will only end in defeat? He demanded an apology, but that will not come. He demanded that Twitter takes down the tweet, but Twitter has not only ignored his demand but has not slapped a warning label on the tweet to say it is misleading or fake. He posted a lengthy message to the Chinese diaspora in Australia on WeChat but that has been removed by WeChat as they deem it to be misleading, distorting the truth and confusing the public. I suppose that is the PM’s gambit. But, his gamble spells economic disaster for his nation. Let us hope it will not also be a military disaster. See https://www.afr.com/policy/economy/china-hits-48-8pc-of-australian-exports-20200804-p55i9d

The PM’s gambit, a gamble that will surely fail

Hooray For Murray II

I miss Murray today. I got up at the usual time before the pendulum clock struck seven times in my mind. The made-in-occupied-Japan clock stopped working years ago. The Mrs threw it into the green bin but I salvaged it for whatever emotional value it still gives me. I can still hear its loud ticking and metallic strikes, sounds that I mostly fondly remember, but that is because I was never an insomniac. Its six o’clock strikes in the evening, however, were the most dreaded sounds during my early teens. It meant I had to go upstairs to close the venetian windows in the haunted shop house. It was usual for me to feel the hair on the back of my neck stand whenever I rushed past my grandma’s huge photo above her altar. That photo seemed to grow bigger as I grew bigger. Grandma’s eyes followed me in whichever direction I ran. Even when I tip-toed. But, I digress, let me return to Murray. It didn’t feel usual this morning. Murray wasn’t downstairs wagging his tail with his precious teddy bear hanging from his teeth. He bites on it so that he doesn’t inadvertently bite my hand from his enthusiastic welcome. He was not here to greet me like I have just returned after an eternity from a faraway place. His teddy bear is his first toy but it is the only one that has survived intact. I reckon his first toy has a psychological hold on him, maybe he can relate to Linus’s security blanket in Peanuts. Almost all his other toys were consigned to the rubbish tip very early on. His monkey will follow soon – it has been completely gutted and has only one limb left. “Monkey” used to be chubby and happy but he lost his squeak ever since the white fluffy cotton inside him was devoured by the ruthless pup. The plastic part that squeaks when he tramples on it or shakes it violently like a wounded prey has long been bitten into small pieces. The family room was just quiet, stuffy and stale with a faint scent of sambal oelek, after yet another 40-degree day yesterday. Murray had gone home with First Son the night before. He didn’t even look back to say goodbye. There was no woeful look on his face to tell me he didn’t want to leave. There was no “thank you” licking, no tail behind his legs to show his sadness that he wasn’t asked for his opinion to stay or go. He just sat obediently to be leashed and led away. First Son turned the light off at the porch and locked the front door. At least he said “bye” to me. Murray gave me nothing, not even a nod.

A home-sick Murray. When can he visit his mum in Murray Bridge?

Hooray for Murray. I read that the prices for pooches have almost doubled during the pandemic. Murray has turned out to be a fantastic investment! The lockdown had desperate people yearning for companionship, what better loyal friend than a pet dog, right? I love my gold fish but guppies aren’t puppies, not quite as cute and cuddly. I have always kept fish, right from primary school days. In fact, that was how I unfriended the boy who lived next door. He climbed over the back balcony wall and swapped my beautiful hand-selected goldfish with his inferior ones. His reaction when I challenged him? He swapped back what was his, the smartypants smirked and retorted. What an urghhling. He showed less grace and feelings than fish. When an old shubunkin I had was dying, its mates gathered around her and comforted her with their long tails. One old companion of hers curled its body close to hers for quite a long while, as if to hug her with palliative care. Yes, fish have feelings and a level of consciousness that seem to understand that death is upon them. Similarly, chooks also know when the stench of death is near. A few years ago, my chook run was penetrated by a fox. I used to accept that carnivorous animals kill but only for food. No matter how violently or bloody, death was seldom quick for the prey. I wrongly believed that in the animal kingdom, it is only human beings that kill for fun. Witness the gladiator, the matador, the safari hunter, the circus, the Melbourne Cup, the Royal Ascot, the Queen’s Cup steeplechase, etc, etc. I was shocked to learn that a fox kills for fun also. I lost three chooks that morning. I lost faith in animals. Dolly lost her head, but otherwise, their bodies were not eaten. All day, the surviving chooks were both very quiet, as if in deep mourning. That evening, I witnessed Brooke, my brown chook, extending a comforting wing around her companion as they perched together, fearful of the impending darkness. Poor Reddy, like me, has not been the same ever since that trauma.

*Hens do lend each other a comforting hand*

I fell in love with a black puppy that I met at a rubber plantation. “I want it, Pa!” Pa said no, that was going to be someone’s dinner one day. They killed dogs by stringing them up on a tree and bashing them until they yelped no more. Those poor loyal dogs trusted the gangly balding bloke whom I called “Ah Song”. Tanned and hardened, he had hands as strong as a vice, and eyes as cold as steel in winter. “Why doesn’t he put his dog in a gunny sack and drown it in the river?” Pa didn’t answer me. But, that conversation changed his mind and he gave the black puppy to me instead. I called him Shiny on account of his black shiny hair. He was my only pal at home. Whenever I got my hair pulled by a couple of bigger sisters, I’d go to Shiny and tell him about those bullies. That was how I became a cynophile. Cynophile, a dog lover, not sinophile. The Mrs is Chinese, I suppose I can be described as a sinophile too. But she calls me a thu-fei. Unfairly, I should add. What is a thu-fei, you ask? It’s bandits in Mandarin. You know, in kungfu movies, they are rogues dressed in black desperately in need of a good bath and they predictably die in the first few seconds flailing against the hero in white. I got into trouble with The Mrs once for being a fool. She reminded me our wedding anniversary is in March. Every year. Last March, I said “No way! It’s either in February or October.” “Not funny!” she yelled. It’s actually a true story. My very close friend who is as dear to me as a close brother, related his story to me. Richard and Cindy were married in Sydney in October 1979 but his dad misheard they were going back to Penang for their wedding in February that year. In Shanghainese, “Ding huang” is an engagement whereas “Cheak huang” means a wedding. They went back to Penang for their engagement but it became clear to the bride she needed to have brought along her wedding gown! Everyone thought it was their wedding day, a tea ceremony was included too. Theirs is a beautiful love story. Last year, they renewed their wedding vows on a love boat. Pre-pandemic, love stories on love boats were enviable. Next March will be my Ruby anniversary with The Mrs. Surely, it will be safe to take the COVID vaccine and go on a love boat too?

My love for Murray is unlike Shiny’s. It was not love at first sight. I wanted his brother instead. Murray was previously known as Harley, his brother was nameless – the weaker one, but more adorable. I could have doubled my money too, had there been no objections to having a dog at home. You see, The Mrs is an airulophile, a cat lover. But, Murray has turned her around, she now loves dogs too. What’s the word for someone who is both a cat-lover and dog-lover? Fickle? The Mrs holds vetoing rights. Her “no” is louder than mine! She didn’t want a dog. She offered many weak excuses. “Our old carpet would be ruined with dog pee.” “Our old furniture would be scratched.” “Our tiled floor would be dirty with mud-caked paw prints.” But, The Mrs too has fallen in love with Murray. Love that grows over time is the stronger love. Those who fall in love at first sight can also fall out of love quickly. What we call puppy love, a brief fascination or crush for someone when we were very young. But let us not decry our first love, Sigmund Freud recognised the durability of first loves. Why do we refer our childhood crush for someone as puppy love? Could it be that we understand how a puppy loves? With utmost loyalty, unbridled admiration and unconditional respect for us? Maybe even as great as worshipping us? Can we love our puppies as much as they love us? Murray insists on sitting on my lap during office hours. It is a wonderfully warm and fuzzy feeling especially during the cold wintry days. But, it’s not so comfortable in summer. It is another 40-degree day today, I can’t imagine Murray would want to be enveloped by me at my desk but then again, why not? The puppy loves me! But I should teach him not to fart right into my arms as he has been prone to do lately. Murray, it stinks! But, he doesn’t give me the gelid look even as I try to push him away.

Murray loves me. I know. He is amazingly caring, sometimes I think he is a nurse. When he visits, he unfailingly checks on my wound. There is a bad gash on my knee, I don’t even know how it got there. I think I woke up with it a few days ago. Murray inspects it with his nose, and gives me that reassuring look that all is well. The other day, he prompted me to change the band-aid after refusing to stop sniffing at it. I can tell he cares a lot. But, Murray, I wish you won’t ever feel compelled to kneel for your favourite Arnott’s Scotch Finger biscuits. You know, I will treat you some anyway, right? Hooray for Murray! Just like my pet fish and chooks, the pup shows being human isn’t necessarily being a human being.

Hooray For Murray

It was deathly quiet again this morning. Reminiscent of the COVID-19 lockdown in February, this morning was free of petrol fumes and free of snarling traffic noise. South Australia had been COVID-free for seven months prior to the weekend. Recently, I got so cocky I bragged about how normal life here was. I even chided my neighbours for their hesitance in returning to Adelaide when they had the chance during a long lull of zero cases in Kuala Lumpur. Now, they can’t return as they are experiencing another serious wave there. Correction. Now, they won’t return since we are also now in a major six-day “circuit-breaker” lockdown. Kudos to the South Australian government. They have imposed a hard lockdown. It was reported in some quarters that these measures are extreme. Considering that there have been just 23 cases linked to the “medi-hotel” cluster, of which 17 are within the family of the security guard employed in the state’s medi-hotel system, and considering that there are zero cases on the first day of lockdown from over 20,000 tests carried out near the clusters, it does feel like the state premier has over-reacted to the threat. But, most agree it is better to be safe than sorry – just look at the woeful American experience. It is inevitable for the virus to escape into the community and as long as the country welcomes back returnees from overseas into the CBDs, spending their 14-day quarantine in the cities’ hotels, then this cycle of wave-on, wave-off will continue. It seems we are as cavalier and ruthless as the 14th-century Mongol army that hurled plague-infected cadavers over the walls of the besieged Crimean city of Caffa. The city folk did not stand a chance – the Mongols captured Caffa without having to brandish their weapons. We know it is nigh impossible to contain the virus in the confines of a hotel – the frontline workers have to return home to their families, or work that second job after hours – thereby providing an avenue for the coronavirus to leave the hotels. How do we prevent aerosol transmissions through the hotel air-conditioning systems? How do we expect these workers to be 100% vigilant at all times? Allowing returnees to come to the cities gives me the feeling that we are just like the Mongol army.

Luckily, we decided we qualify as a business that provides “essential services”. So, we can remain open for business. The cops may disagree. They may say 99.999% of the things we sell are non-essentials but hey, we sell face masks! For the first time, they are mandatory in South Australia. Hooray! It was with Murray’s nod that I imported some from China when things looked dire in April. I remember asking Murray at the time, should we? 要吗？He nodded and bowed politely. Yes. No one looks to buy face masks from my shop, we were stuck with dead stock. Murray had not been in my good books until now. But, today he is our hero! We can continue to trade just because of this one product alone! Who is Murray, you may ask. Murray is First Son’s pup, born in Murray Bridge. The state premier went overboard by decreeing that we can’t engage in outdoor exercises and that means we can’t walk our dogs outside either. But hooray for Murray! The police this afternoon agreed that since we can travel to the shops to buy our groceries once a day, and since walking is a form of transport, there is nothing wrong with me walking Murray to the shops. One thing is obvious though. If you’re a coffee addict, then you’re stuffed. Coffee shops are not allowed to trade during the lockdown. Only bottle shops can remain open to look after the alcoholics – we cannot have them feeling down in the dumps; they are known to be “moody” without their regular liquor boost.

Murray has to spend his lockdown with me. He can’t take it being restricted to the office or First Son’s little apartment all day. In his home, I imagine all he has to entertain himself is to bark at the traffic below his third floor apartment that overlooks one of Adelaide’s finest parks. But here, he has much more to occupy his time and amuse himself. He loves chasing the chooks, but they have not taken much notice of him ever since they discovered he is just all noise. He may growl menacingly, he may scratch frantically at the fence but they behave as if he’s invisible. Even when he barks crazily like a mad dog, they don’t hear him at all. Poor Murray, he doesn’t know he is being ignored. He acts like he thinks they are all afraid of him, he genuinely believes he’s the king of the backyard. But the old hens, they just give a little shake of their ever-growing fat behind and slowly walk away.

Murray acts like he is a hungry wolf but the chooks know he is toothless

When he is let out of my house, he soon disappears behind some shrubs. Murray hides when he does his poo, never in front of me. He is not shy to pee in front of me but poo? No. When I do mine, he understands why I close the toilet door too. We are polite with each other and know to allow ourselves some privacy during poop time. Once, I was too hasty and caught him smelling his own poop. I suppose that is how we can check on our own health sometimes.

Lately, he has been less inclined to run after tennis balls. He will play “fetch” a few times with me but there is never any hint from him when he does not want to play anymore. You’ll know when he is disinterested – he will simply not return with the ball. “Murray, Murray, where are you?” He makes the decision about which game to play. “给, give, Murray.” The ball will be precisely placed on my palm if he wants to play “fetch”. But, if he wants to play “goalie”, he will agitate side to side abruptly like a football goal-keeper who is about to face a penalty kick. Murray follows the EPL with me; it is not surprising that he can leap high and fast to stop a ball heading past him.

Murray is an ardent follower of the English Premier League

Often, he is just as keen to destroy the poor ball. To save it, you will need to ask him to give it back. He knows to drop it right at your foot. When I am engrossed at work, he will drop it on my foot repeatedly to remind me he is waiting for my turn to throw it. Sorry, Murray. I have quite often forgotten you are still there under my chair. It may be many minutes later before I realise I have left him tensed and poised, ready to pounce to block my next kick. He loves to accompany me at work. I do ask him for his opinion when there is a need to make an executive decision. More often than not, his input is not required when I am merely performing the menial tasks. So, he can be caught napping but hey, let us not blame him. Today, it is 37 degrees but the air-conditioning has not been turned on. We are an environmentally-friendly business. Some of my cynical Penang friends think I am just a scrooge, saving on my energy bill. Well, let us not entertain their idea for now.

Before I forget, let me show you Murray’s office. He has a nice chair to occupy when he wants to remind us he is the chairman of our company. Most times though, he would rather be at my desk supervising what I do. He has admonished me a few times for being curt and unfriendly with horrible customers who are horrors to deal with. Horace comes to mind. I am sure Murray prefers to work with me. First Son does not offer him any biscuits during morning tea breaks but I do! “Want some more, Murray? 还要吗?” Murray will nod his head unambiguously, of course.

Look at Murray’s pictures on the wall. His first doggy bone and his paw print on his 1st birthday

Murray shows me the way to place The Mrs in a happy mood from the very first moment she comes downstairs in the morning. He makes her feel like she is the most important person in his life the way he greets her. No, much more than that – he treats her like she is the only person in the world. Yes, that is how he tells her she is precious. Cherished and loved, unconditionally. No matter how hard she tries to leave her bedroom silently to surprise him, his ears prick with the slightest creak of the timber floor and the small lift of his head from my arm informs me he is fully alert of her impending arrival. He will jump off the pillow from my work desk and race to his sofa chair to grab his security blanket. His tail will be wagging as frantically as the mee goreng seller fanning his charcoal fire, eager to greet her like a long-lost best friend. He forgets he was with her last night, lazing on her ample body like a cherub whilst watching Netflix’s Bloodline S3 E8. He will give her his most adorable look, with those big round doe eyes as he bites on his security blanket. He is clever enough to know that shielding his sharp teeth will avoid any inadvertent cuts to her hands during his uncontrolled and frenzied morning welcome. He makes her feel incredibly important and indispensable with his insatiable desire for her hand to pat him continuously. Any attempt by her to remove her hand from hugging him will see him clawing it back towards his body. I should try that tonight. Will it work for me? Will she feel the love from me? Will she reciprocate like the way she pats and hugs him?

Murray knows when it is knock-off time. I can’t explain it, but he knows when I call it a day. Before I even close my laptop, he will be up on his legs, doing the Adho mukha svanasana or downward dog pose. He is very good at it, and unlike me, he has never attended a yoga lesson. My only yoga lesson was a free one, an introductory session whilst I was holidaying in Singapore. OK, Murray, our work is done for the week! Let’s go out and have some fun! Fun for me is the necessary duties in my neighbour’s garden. Clean the pond, and check on the filter. Water the fruit trees with the pond wastes. Feed the fish. Murray knows these chores must be done first before we can play. I can see him gnawing at a sun-parched bone, holding it upright with his front paws. Very good dining etiquette, Murray! He enjoys it like it’s the best rib-eye steak.

Murray loves scratching himself on the lawn. He has a tendency to go berserk and start running round and round the teardrop shaped putting green, growling away like a broken lawnmower that won’t start. I find him most endearing when he smiles and exposes his ugly teeth as he rubs his whole body on the synthetic grass. Bless my good neighbours for insisting on the fake lawn. A tedious job prevented! I lost my argument that fake grass does nothing to invigorate a sense of freshness that cut grass gives us. But that was before I found out that the green leaf volatiles cut grass give is their way of screaming out their distress at the damage inflicted on them. The “green” scent is a distress signal!

When it is close to dinner time, Murray loses interest in the games we play. He doesn’t have a watch yet his sense of time is uncannily accurate. He just knows when to abandon our game and rush home. He knows to sit at the door to be picked up. He understands he is not allowed into our home with dirty feet. It is routine for me to wash his feet first in the laundry tub. Murray offers his leg, one at a time, for me to wash. Clever boy! No one told me how to wash his bum – I don’t even know if it needs to be washed. I hope I am doing it correctly, wipe with a sponge and hose off with running water. We have dinner together. Having said that, I should correct myself. We start our dinner together, I should say. It only takes a minute or two for him to finish his meal but I am a slow eater. A meal lasts me 30 minutes easily. He is patient though. Once he knows there aren’t any second helpings for him, he will hop up onto his sofa chair and wait for me to do the dishes.

The Mrs gets special attention at night. Murray simply knows how to please her. No one gets his attention at night bar her. Her lap belongs to Murray during Netflix time. The Mrs feels especially wanted and loved. Hooray for Murray. I have learned from him how to please The Mrs. It is so easy! Murray is always agreeable, he never argues with her. To him, she is always right! Completely right. Why didn’t I know that before? Before we say goodnight, Murray wants me to play chasey with him. I will run around the coffee table after him like how The Godfather chased his grandson around the tomato patch in the garden. Murray, I won’t collapse and fall down like The Godfather, right?

Soliloquy Spoils The Tranquility

It is the first Saturday of November today. The morning brings me the peace and calm that eluded me during the week. Murray, First Son’s puppy, sprints about the garden like a mad dog unleashed in a new place. He does not disrupt my peace, but that is before I discover the poo he left inside the old music room last night. The chooks, startled by a mischievous Murray, celebrate their release from the coop but their squawks only temporarily break the tranquility of a morning that is touched by the occasional cool whiff of fresh hillside breeze. The nosy magpies and noisy parakeets add to the harmony that The Mrs and I have infused into this creation of ours, our garden. There will be those who say they are as raucous as an open-air Italian food market but for me, their chirps and tweets are as musical as the flute section in a Rossini overture. I walk through the open side gate and the alluring scent of my neighbour’s rose garden awakens my senses. Perfect.

Gentrified tranquility disturbed by my soliloquy

But then it begins. Should I have brought a book with me? I should, at least once, use their nook designed to be a reading corner. But, what about the mozzies? It is still early and the bloodsuckers will be still hunting for victims. Talking about suckers, I think of losers. The way Trump describes the fallen US soldiers as suckers and losers. He may very well lose the election just because of that. John McCain’s widow decided to do something rather than just be angry with the President’s description of her hero.Yes, the late John McCain was a war hero. War heroes, we should honour them lest we forget. Instead, Trump dishonoured their fallen heroes. Will Cindy McCain have done enough to flip the traditionally red Arizona to the Democrats? One would think insulting the nation’s war heroes would be the ultimate act of treason by their Commander-in-Chief, right? Yet there we have it. Over 70 million of Americans just voted for Trump last Tuesday. Go figure! But who can? There is simply no ounce of logic that can describe it in words, let alone justify it. Trump’s loyal base is predominantly less educated, white and live in the sticks. But, many live in rich cities with thriving economies like Miami in Florida too. Yet, this time round, the landslide that many pundits predicted Trump will lose by, has been largely avoided with the help of Cubans and Latinos. Didn’t Trump make it clear he dislikes black immigrants? Don’t they come from shithole countries, he asked? Didn’t he say Nigerians will never “go back to their huts”, after visiting the United States? In May 2018, he said undocumented immigrants are animals. His failure to treat the pandemic as a serious health threat to the American people raises the spectre that here is a man who is only concerned about saving his own political career. He puts his re-election success ahead of the lives of his people by prioritising an open economy over the proven measures of social-distancing and washing hands when COVID cases were starting to increase. He politicised the simple and effective responsibility of wearing masks. Lockdowns and contact-tracing are tough choices to make but when governors adopted such policies when the science said there is no other choice, he tweeted his army of loyal supporters to LIBERATE those cities. He is playing with people’s lives with his political games, over 240,000 dead and almost 10 million infected in the country whilst he presides over his election campaign. Yeah, for him, that’s all that matters – four more years. Enough about him. The garden’s tranquility has been unnecessarily broken. There is no sign of the dreaded mozzie. So, I decide to head towards the reading nook where I can rest awhile to clear my head from the incomprehensible Americans, yes, all 70 million of them.

I should have brought my book to read here.

Murray is telling me he is hungry. He does not practise fasting and I should not impose my discipline on him. Let me pick a few cherries for Murray first.

Leave these cherries to ripen a bit more? The birds will say I should!

My favourite fruit tree will deliver an abundance of the juiciest prune fruit soon!

Whilst Murray is exploring the garden and looking for a good spot to do his “early morning business”, I decided to sit by the creek and listen to the gentle sounds of running water. Now, that is relaxing and soothing, isn’t it, Murray? Murray? He’s nowhere to be seen. Murray used to stick close to me, a bit like my shadow. But of course, he is now two years old. He isn’t so “liam-liam”, (hokkien for clingy) anymore. Which is good. I never liked him standing at the toilet door, waiting for me to finish “my job”. I had to be as quiet as possible knowing he is within hearing distance. He is becoming lazier too. Or, maybe smarter. He doesn’t think a smart dog should be fetching the ball over and over again when all I do is throw it away every time he brings it to me. He is often seen lazing in the sun rather than running around chasing a tennis ball these days.

Murray from Murray Bridge, on the bridge

The garden offers the best place for a therapeutic experience.

Murray, are you playing hide and seek again?

Murray, where did you go? He tells me he wants to explore the front garden. Maybe I should too. Just so I can genuinely praise The Mrs for the effort she has put in this week. Unlike her, I have neglected the front garden due to time constraints. The clock does not stop ticking when I occupy myself at work or watch the progress of the US election. The latter has seen me spend much time in front of the TV this week. The neighbours have not been back this year. The pandemic has snipped their wings – they haven’t been able to fly anywhere since Christmas. They could come back, of course, but they cannot imagine being stuck in a hotel room for 14 days. Plus, it would be risky to be stuck in a plane with the likelihood of being seated next to someone who may test positive. So, we have not seen them all year and being the good neighbours that we are, we have been looking after their garden whilst they are stuck overseas. Murray, don’t run out to the street, ok?

It’s the chook poo that these roses love!

But, it didn’t take me long to ask myself what do 70 million Americans see in Donald Trump? I can understand the Taiwanese barracking for him; after all, they would look to him as their saviour against China’s President Xi who has repeatedly said Taiwan is part of China and will one day be reunited with the mainland. Somehow, Trump’s blatant lies and divisive tweets do not faze his supporters. They love him because they don’t see him as a politician even though he has been in politics for over five years now since he announced he was running for presidency in June 2015. Why are these 70 million Americans not turned off by Trump when he tells the world he will not accept the results of the election should he lose because it will mean it was rigged and stolen from him? And that he will not promise a peaceful handover? That’s just nuts that the leader of the supposedly greatest democracy of the world can risk a civil war in his country just because he will not accept the will of his people! In the US, more than 1,000 people are dying from the coronavirus every day in recent weeks. Yet, these voters believe him and his quackery about the pandemic. Downplaying the virus is of course self-serving for the President who believes he cannot lose the election, but it is costing misery and death in America. Donald, you’re a quack. Quack, quack. Why is Donald Trump so popular despite his many flaws? Or is it because of his thorough disagreeableness and his proclivity for malicious bullying that almost half of the American population flock to him? After all, he denigrates all and sundry – his opponents as well as his allies – but never once has he criticised his supporters. Stop! I should stop talking to myself. It is disturbing that I am so out of touch with reality. I cannot see what 70 million Americans see. What is so good about their President? By now, the tranquility the garden offered me is totally gone and I should also leave.