Sarcastic About Plastic

Spastic. When my sons were growing up in the 80s, it was a word they learned in school. School for a short while was Highbury Primary. A suburb north-east of Adelaide, it was predominantly blue-collared, far from blue ribbon. Soon, it became a word frequently yelled out during arguments at home. “You’re spastic!” “No. You are spastic!” It was not taken as derogatory. Not by the adults, anyway. Whether the kids meant it to be, I do not know. Today, we do not use that word anymore. It has become offensive. The word is also taboo in the Spastic Society for the spastic cerebral palsy sufferers. They call themselves Scope. With the right support, every person has scope to achieve their goals in life. That is their catch-phrase.

Spastic. A word that was lost in my vocabulary since my sons left Highbury Primary and went to Burnside Primary instead. That was in 1996. So, it has been twenty four years since I last uttered the word. Twenty four years of being politically correct. But, suddenly today, the word sprung into my mind. Spastic. Idiots. Fools. I was a victim of cyber bullying. Some of my sexagenarian friends ganged up on me over a topic that is far from sexy. Plastic. Sarcastic friends. The discussion about plastic turned caustic when one of them accused me of being “what’s the word? It sounds like an oath doctors make.” Obviously, he wanted me to connect the Hippocratic oath with the unsaid word. Hypocrisy. Do I become a Pharisee for voicing my frustration when I see the ubiquitous usage of plastic in their photos? Why do they treat me with disdain and think it is a sham when I talk about the futility of our fight against plastic if urghhlings’ attitudes do not change about plastic? Especially single use plastic. “When in Rome, do what the Romans do”, one of them countered. In other words, they use plastic (proudly) in Penang; and if I do not like it, leave. During the course of our conversation, I became “you” rather than “us”. I was unprepared for this. How can plastic set me apart from these childhood friends? Suddenly, I am made to sound different, inferior, fake, a pariah. Fortunately for me, my father named me “forever strong”. Maybe not physically, but certainly, inwardly and resolutely. They displayed their sense of pride and confidence publicly, for all to see. “Why, do you want to go back to the days of banana leaves and eating with your hands?”, another mocked me. My Malaysian friends are openly happy to use plastic. They reckon I should try drinking piping hot soup with my bare hands if I didn’t want to drink from their plastic bowls. “You’re only environmentally friendly when it is not too inconvenient”, they chastised me. Nero fiddled whilst Rome burnt. Australia has been burning for over three months. These friends are still fiddling. They bragged about their antique collections of E & O Hotel tea cups from yesteryears. Of course, the era of elegance and class did not perpetuate the use of plastic. Fine porcelain, no less. These friends did not see the irony of their enthusiasm for pricey antiques. Such fine items are displayed in their glass cabinets – their practical use, never to be enjoyed. Instead, these friends eat from plastic plates and bowls, with plastic cutlery and chopsticks. Somehow, they see my fight against climate change, no matter how small this step, is a farce. “Are you going to blog about this? Here is a nice title. How about My Losing Battle Against Plastic?” “May we remind you, it makes little sense to antagonise us”. Another climate skeptic. Spastic. Sad. It is no wonder the world leaders are merely paying lip-service to combat climate change. Most people of voting age do not care! Despite global warming, the ever-increasing retreat of glaciers, extreme weather patterns and rising sea levels, my friends’ complacency and total disregard of their environment was astounding. Baffling, in fact. Just like Donald Trump’s, who withdrew America from the Paris climate agreement in 2017. My many detractors in their shrill voices said I was being hysterical, echoing Greta Thunberg’s fanatical screams. Global warming or climate change, I suppose, by its very nature, is a long term shift in global climatic patterns. We are old buggers, unlikely to face major repercussions of what horror that may be ahead of mankind’s future. Maybe that is why they do not care. Inconsequential to us. They might as well joke about it and poke fun at my serious intent to reduce my carbon footprint. “Plasticware is good! They last and last and last”, one of them said. That is the strange thing about looking at things from a different perspective. It is precisely the long lasting nature of plastics that is the problem! Single-use plastic bags can last 1,000 years before they decompose. Plastic is made from fossil fuels, and when they are burnt or left to rot in landfills, they release almost a billion tonnes of greenhouse gases into our atmosphere, every year. Discarded plastic also find their way into our oceans, even to the deepest place on earth, in the Mariana Trench. We cringe when we see images of dead whales, turtles and dolphins filled with colourful plastic in their stomachs. What is a looming major disaster is the microplastics that are being ingested by marine life, including plankton. It is plankton that play a vital role in capturing carbon dioxide and sequestering it in deep ocean sinks. Apart from this, plankton is of course what keeps the eco-system of the oceans alive. Without plankton, there would be no fish in the sea. Without fish, life as we know it will not be possible. A big chunk of the world’s population will die of starvation. Many today are wary of eating farmed fish; they are skeptical of the contaminants and antibiotics found in aquaculture. But, more and more, it is also the microplastics found in wild caught fish that are turning some of my friends off seafood altogether.

A Royal Doulton set from E&O Hotel in the 1980’s

Surely, my friends can see that reducing plastic usage and increasing recycling is the key to saving the planet. It is satisfying to know that the Australian Open this year will introduce a world-first in the tennis Grand Slams. Their ball-boys and ball-girls will be wearing clothing made of recycled plastic. At present only around 10 per cent of plastic is recycled in Australia each year. One exciting development in this field was announced last year. Len Humphreys and Sydney University professor Thomas Maschmeyer, invented their Catalytic Hydrothermal Reactor (Cat-HTR) which recycles plastic not from high heat but through a form of chemical recycling that changes the plastics at a molecular level using hot water at a high pressure to turn them back into oil. The oil can then be turned into bitumen, petrol or back into different kinds of plastics. Now, my friends may be right after all, and remain lackadaisical about the horrors of using plastic. These urghhlings do not exhibit any worries. They adopt the “she’s right, mate” attitude. It will be alright, just don’t worry. In the meanwhile, over 25.5 million acres of bushland have been burnt in Australia. Let us not fiddle while the country burns.

I Ran From Iran

Wars based on lies. Colonel Larry Wilkerson, former Chief of Staff to Secretary of State Colin Powell during the presidency of George W. Bush, recently confessed that he was one of the architects of the 2003 invasion of Iraq by America. The war was based on the lie that Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction and was poised to attack the West. Wilkerson added that when he was a young 21-year-old soldier, he fought in the Vietnam War which was also based on a lie. Back then, it was President Lyndon Johnson who fabricated the lie that two US ships in the Gulf of Tonkin had come under fire in international waters. Within three years after the “unprovoked” attack on American assets, there would be half a million US soldiers fighting in Vietnam. The same template for presidential war making was used on January 3 when Trump ordered the assassination of Iran’s revered major general, Qasem Suleimani. Many regarded him as the real James Bond of Iran – suave, sure and licensed to kill. The urghhling Trump announced that the killing of Suleimani, whilst he was in Baghdad, was to prevent an “imminent” attack on US assets, including the US embassy in Baghdad. Strangely, this important fact was never mentioned in any obligatory advice to Congress. To neutralise (a well disguised word for kill) a senior guy of a strong enemy nation in Iraq, a sovereign friendly country, without their prior knowledge or permission? That’s making more enemies in the Islamic world, and no matter how they sell the benefits of this kill to the American people, it surely cannot make them feel safer. As the head of Iran’s elite paramilitary Quds Force, Suleimani was “the vanguard of Iran’s alliance with armed groups in the Middle East, such as Hezbollah in Lebanon, Hamas in Gaza and a coalition of militia in Iraq.” He was a powerful influence in the Middle East. The assassination of Suleimani twenty months after Trump tore up the nuclear agreement with Iran despite the opposition by all other partners – Germany, England, France, Russia and China – may be another attempt to prod the Iranians to retaliate disproportionately so that the US can have an excuse for war. The two nations were, once upon a time, friends. During the 19th century, it was the British Empire and Soviet Russia that had Iran (known as Persia until 1935) sandwiched. Blessed with oil in the ground and its location in the Persian Gulf, it could be said this was also their curse. During WW2, the two allies invaded Iran on the pretext of countering the Nazis sphere of influence. In 1953, the US, for the first time, undertook a covert action to overthrow an elected foreign government during peacetime. Prime Minister Mohammad Mosaddegh had insisted on auditing the books of their 50/50 joint venture with the Brits, known then as the Anglo-Iranian Oil Company. Today, it is simply named BP. Although promised 16% of “net profits”, Iran hardly received a cent for all the oil that flowed. When the Brits refused to have their books audited, Mosaddegh through his parliament, nationalised Iran’s oil industry. That was enough reason for Winston Churchill and Dwight Eisenhower to plot the overthrow of the Iranian government. After the coup d’état, Mosaddegh was imprisoned for treason – a good example to show winners write the law, and losers lose everything. The CIA hired fierce mobsters to stage pro-Shah riots causing mayhem and death in the streets of Tehran. Is this also a template for creating civil unrests and riots to topple elected governments? I am reminded of the long suffering fiasco that is Hong Kong today. Mohamad Pahlavi was installed as the Shah of Iran after the coup. During his reign, the dictator was mostly a loyal “puppet” of the US until he was deposed by people power in the 1979 Iran Revolution. The “impossible” had become “inevitable” in a matter of months and brought to power an Islamic clergy armed with the Quran and “Divine Right”. It still seems incongruous that a cleric can bring down a monarchy that had lasted 2,500 years since the beginning of the Persian Empire. The Shah fled to the US for cancer treatment and to avoid trial for crimes against his country. This incensed the people who stormed the US embassy in Tehran and held 52 embassy staff hostage for 444 days. Ayatollah Khomeini viewed America as the “Great Satan” whilst he was undoubtedly treated by the Americans as an enemy of the state. The two countries have ceased diplomatic relations ever since – this, a far cry from the Shah era when the US provided Iran with their first nuclear reactor in 1957, and ten years later, armed them with weapons grade enriched uranium. Iran’s superior military might over its Middle East neighbours was also largely due to American help.

In recent months, The Mrs and I have been discussing a holiday to Iran and maybe Jordan. Sorry, for her, definitely Jordan. For me, definitely Iran. Since news broke about the possibility of war between the US and Iran, these holiday plans are now put on hold, indefinitely. As soon as there was talk of war in Iran, I ran through my bucket list for alternative “must do” holidays instead. Suddenly, Iran is no longer in my plans for next year, even though there is so much to see and learn about the old Persian Empire. I shall have to forgo a visit to the ancient capital, Persepolis – it is one of the world’s greatest archaeological sites. The long rock relief carvings of servants bearing gifts in front of the Palace of Darius was one place I told myself not to miss. I was not game enough to tell The Mrs Jordan’s Al-Maghtas or Baptism Site “Bethany Beyond the Jordan” pales into insignificance compared to Persepolis. She may very well ask me about Wadi Rum, known also as the Valley of the Moon. The Persian Empire’s first King, Cyrus the Great, freed the Jews from the Babylonian Empire and returned them to Jerusalem. You would think this single fact alone would make Iran and Israel friendly states forever. Yet, today they are openly hostile to each other. I had wanted to trace Cyrus’ footsteps and also look for Zoroastrian artefacts. I have read a little about how the religion Zoroaster started – it being one of the world’s oldest monotheistic religions. The fact that today a Japanese carmaker, Mazda, is named after this deity is quite remarkable and intriguing to me. Also on my bucket list was to follow the tracks of Alexander the Great in his victory over Darius the 3rd and therefore, the fall of the Persian Empire. In fact, it was only last year that I decided I must visit Tehran, after having watched Septembers of Shiraz. Although the story was nerve wrecking and showed the ugliness of the revolutionary guards, it did not convince me that the revolution itself was ugly. Not when 98% of the country supported the removal of the Shah and the Americans. Damn Trump. The urghhling has spoilt my holiday plan. As much as that’s annoying, it is nothing compared to potential lives lost. Iran’s first retaliatory measure for the drone attack that killed their General was to bomb American military bases in Iraq. Thankfully, no lives were lost. The threat of war is, despite this, very real. The threat of terrorist attacks at home and abroad is even more likely. Let’s hope he has not started another cycle of killings and revenge from this idiotic decision to assassinate a hero of Iran. It now seems near-certain that the downing of Ukraine International Airlines Flight 752 with 176 lives lost was a case of Iranian authorities mistaking the passenger plane as a US warplane. For me, the blame can be attributed to Trump. After all, he started it. He broke the three-year-old nuclear agreement brokered by Obama. His sanctions and travel bans have made life miserable for the Iranian people. They, like any other people in the world, just want to live a peaceful and happy life. With threat of war over their heads and further sanctions imposed, their misery is being ratcheted up. Why, urghhling Trump?

Naqsh-e Rostam, an ancient necropolis, about 12 km from Persepolis

P.S. 16 hours after I wrote this, Iran admitted their mistake in downing the Ukrainian jetliner – the plane was mistaken for a “hostile target” after it turned toward a “sensitive military centre” of the Revolutionary Guard. Days earlier, Trump had threatened to hit “very hard and very fast” 52 Iranian targets including cultural sites of historical value.

Stan’s The Man

Stan loves to hog the limelight. On stage, he luxuriates in the spotlight and disco lights. He is as attractive as a live lobster in the aquarium of my local Chinese restaurant. Big and big-headed, its movement emperor-like, and terribly expensive. Unaffordable, he’s the exact opposite of the slippery eel squirming around in the adjacent smelly, mud-filled aquarium. His movement on stage is as smooth as the eel’s though, not that the stage is his mud. On the other hand, there is nothing wrong with mud, for that is where the water lilies and lotus spring out from to dazzle us with their colour and beauty. From where I sit, the microphone appears to be a bionic extension of his hand. It does not leave his hand all night. A slick performer, natural and totally at home on stage. Some people are like that, some are born to lead, and some just love to talk and talk, and talk some more. Stan is both, he exudes leadership and loves talking, all night. He commands full attention from the stage. He is not short but appears to be due to the girth of his frame. Solidly built, the tenacity and steeliness in his eyes deter many from disagreeing with him; it is safer to defer to his command. The party of over one hundred revellers adored his performance earlier in the evening, but he could never be a good stand up comedian unless he borrows some punch lines from somewhere. A very poor imitation of Dave Allen with a perpetually replenished glass of whisky in his hand, I got to witness first-hand the rumours of his tendency to be inebriated whilst reading his script on stage. But, he has my full respect, not everyone can speak publicly so well and with such clarity. The confident man speaks the loudest. As the evening progresses, it becomes obvious it is time for Stan to leave his stage; his grip on the restless crowd is slackening, they begin to talk over his lengthy speech. So, he raises his voice to be heard, and the microphone begins to screech in protest at the increasing decibels. Luckily, the microphone is often held against his mouth, the smoker’s melanosis that he suffers from is mostly hidden from view. Likewise, it offers us partial relief from his nicotine-stained teeth. Stan loves anything and everything blue. He is often seen in mid-blue shirts, or dark blue ones with white polka dots. The tight short sleeves reveal a pair of solid full biceps which show the brute strength that Stan obviously possesses. His body-hugging shirt does not hide the man’s solid physique, but with his shirt tucked into his executive style trousers, and his ample waist decorated with a Pierre Cardin black leather belt, he appears corpulent and bulky rather than fit and strong. His demeanour is exaggerated and his swagger deliberate, accentuating his portrayal of success and prosperity. His 18 carat gold ring harbours a huge piece of green jade, enhancing the subliminal message he teleports to his audience. Stan’s the man. No one is allowed to outshine him, not that anyone wants to or can, as he will have you believe. Any perceived threat to his dominance in the sphere he resides in, will be stomped into oblivion. That is the nature of the man. Some describe him as arrogant, bombastic, unforgiving, a fake. He owns a patch of rather sparse hair. Combed meticulously, the crop on his head is thin and balding. The follicles are still unusually black despite his age, it is fair to suspect they were dyed only a few days earlier. The strands of hair are so sparse they appear to form thin black lines that barely cover his scalp. A receding hairline exacerbates his impending baldness. To be fair, the one positive about his hair is that there is only a faint trace of dandruff. Beads of sweat grow and swell from his forehead and cheeks, his constant action to wipe them off with his damp blue handkerchief seemingly unproductive. His brows are a small replica of MacDonald’s famous logo, the arches grey instead of golden and less tidy. The brows caress his once bright shining happiness-laden eyes. Now they appear as droopy as his heavy jowls. His prominent chin so proud it has grown another, a sign of abundance in his life.

When Stan is not on stage, he packs away his joviality and frivolity. He becomes assertive, less friendly but still loud. Unknowingly or purposely – I am not sure – he loves to celebrate his football team’s successes loudly and heartily even to the degree of “rubbing salt” on the supporters of the vanquished opposing teams. He loves blue. So it is easy to guess that he barracks for Chelsea Football Club, a great EPL club that calls Stamford Bridge their home. Every Chelsea win will be accompanied by loud hollers and ridiculously lengthy and rowdy celebrations from the man. It’s perfectly fine of course; we do not begrudge a man his fun and happiness. Stan lacks any inclination to comfort his subdued friends when their team loses. I suppose that is why the sports is a religion to many. There is no middle ground, either you’re a Chelsea believer or you are the anti-Christ. And since some of us are not Chelsea fans, we begin to bear the brunt of his taunts and torment the more our team, the Red Devils, lose.

Last weekend, my team did not lose to Liverpool. Another old friend, with the Greek name Stevros, had predicted we would be clobbered. Why Greek, you have to wonder. When asked for his prediction, he said 0-2. That is either the extent of Stevros’ understanding of the word “clobbered”, or a two nil defeat is a heavy defeat for him. “Hey Stevros, we didn’t get clobbered!” I invited him to pour scorn at my team. Sure enough, Stevros took my bait. “Aiyah..so eaten up by such nitty gritty..yes..they should have clobbered them.”

“Like sand, it’s the nitty gritty that makes us grit our teeth ” I replied.

“You can grit for all you want….your team should have been clobbered last night ..maybe the next return match..then you can GRIT YOUR TEETH even more.”

Uh oh, words in capital letters indicate Stevros is raising his voice. But in my moment of silly playfulness, I did not notice it. And then I made a mistake. “Yes, we supporters are the TRUE GRIT. Let’s hope your teeth have not receded from the grit.”

That’s fatal, Stan explained later. Too late! Stevros has begun his personal tirade at me.

“Why so personal ah..my teeth..? Why does it matter to you..you want to talk about your ASS..huh..?

And when you talk..talk in SIMPLE ENGLISH.. lah..many do not want to hear your gibberish talk..ok..??

If you want to be personal..I CAN be personal too..but I think it so CHILDISH to do so..

No need to SHOW OFF..keep it humble and simple..maybe that is all you have to show..?”

Quite taken aback, I meekly offered a quick apology. “Anyway, we are supposed to have light hearted banter here. If I somehow, somewhere offended anyone, let me be the first to apologise. I do not know when I showed off to you ….. anyway, life is short, bro. To some, sharing is showing off. I’m only sharing, there is nothing to show off from my side. I already publicly declared I was once almost bankrupt. Is that showing off ? Let’s refrain from judging others so readily. Friendly banter amongst brothers should be ok, right?”

Yes, we 61 year-olds call one another brothers, this is a legacy of the Lasallian and Xavierian education system. We all hail from the Irish connection of Lasalle Brothers but the supremo who began the schooling system in Penang was Br Charles Levin aka Br Karl Wolff, a grandson of Germany’s 19th century “sugar king”.

Stevros had not finished his bombardment. “…. you mentioned about my..receding teeth..that is not personal..? If you attack me personally..I WILL retaliate appropriately..yes..we can share and bant (sic) all we want but refrain from personal attacks…its ok..I hope we are good..just be mindful of our statements moving forward..I apologise too for any personal attacks..that’s something we should avoid..keep it simple and humble..thats my motto..”

Privately, Stan told me to shut up. “Don’t egg him on. He will want to have the last say. He always thinks he is right. Why did you attack his teeth anyway?!”

Sorry!! How was I to know someone will get upset over nothing. Such a tantrum over a set of teeth? Maybe he suffers from teeth erosion, but gosh, there is no such thing as receding teeth! He made it up but accused me of saying it. “Receding teeth” is more fake than dentures. I said I hope his teeth have not receded from the grit, i.e. TRUE GRIT guys do not shy away or retreat from the grit. We do not need reminders that at our age, it is common to experience features that recede. Gums, hairline, even self importance. In today’s society, the aged sadly recede into the background, they (sic) no longer command attention, they (sic) are hardly visible, often unnoticed and unheard. But teeth do not recede! So, why would anyone feel personally aggrieved over something that is fake, that doesn’t exist in their person? Urghhling!

This morning, I was woken up by the noisy birds in the park opposite. They must think it’s a market place to trade in worms. The furious tweeting and chirping are not conducive for non early risers. As I opened my eyes, it suddenly dawned on me that Stan the man could simply be a figment of my imagination. Maybe Stevros does not exist either, as fake as his “receding teeth”. But, I want to cling on to the romantic idea that all is true and well with the “Lasaints” brotherhood. A truly caring and friendly brotherhood of the boys from Penang’s Lasalle and St Xavier’s Institution.

I was advised to add the following disclaimer:

Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Monteperle, The Pearly Gates On God’s Hill

The name was perhaps inspired by the description of the New Jerusalem in Revelation 21:21: “The twelve gates were twelve pearls, each gate being made from a single pearl.” Their logo indeed hints at the twelve gates making up the sun as the gateway to heaven. The winery is situated on Gods Hill Road, Lyndoch, in the Barossa Valley. My brother-in-law recently befriended Louis Liu who runs Monteperle Wines. I did not hesitate when asked if I wanted to join him on a visit to the 26 hectare winery in the Barossa. When we arrived at the gate, I was immediately enthralled by the heavenly beauty of the vineyard. It was as if we had veered off course and landed in paradise. Strikingly pretty, I suddenly realised there is no need for me to fulfil my dream to visit Tuscany. This place is certainly as magical and romantic. So different from the rest of Australia right at that moment. Much of the country has been scorched by a prolonged drought extending from Queensland right through to New South Wales and northern Victoria on the eastern seaboard. The bushfires have raged on for over two months, making it the most catastrophic the nation has ever experienced. Nine boutique wineries have burnt to the ground in the Adelaide Hills in recent weeks and Kangaroo Island in South Australia has seen some ferocious fires overnight also. Only the Northern Territory has been spared, with a national tally of 25 deaths and over 1500 homes lost so far. People are resigned to expect more severe fires as this is just the beginning of a long summer.

Yet, there on God’s Hill, I was held breathless, captivated by the natural beauty and serenity as we passed through the gate. After a long spell of hot and dry days since Christmas, the sudden change to a cool 14 degree day was a welcome reprieve. From the grounds of the steel-clad fireproof building, it was the vast expanse of mocha-coloured hills in the distance that caught my eye. Immediately below the light bluish grey sky, the rolling hills seemed to be waving at me. In summer, they turned mocha in colour and the green of the gum leaves appeared more grey instead. Immediately below the hills were the straw-coloured valley of dry grass and remnants of summer crops. Closer to the property, the darkish green tops of gum trees broke up the vastness of the landscape which then transformed to shades of beautiful green vineyards closer to where I was standing. As we crunched on sun-baked leaves and dead grass, I was impressed by the countless rows of vines with the healthiest green tops that seemed to extend as far as my eyes could see from left to right.

On their Gods Hill Road vineyards, four varieties of vines are cultivated by Monteperle. Grenache, Shiraz, Mataro and Cabernet Sauvignon. The GSM was their flagship for 2018. The nose is delightfully strong and intense, and its palate is round, full and complex. Being of a young vintage, it was surprisingly not astringent. Give it a few more years and it will become a really superb wine. It did not surprise me to learn it earned 96 points in the 2019 Cairn Show Wine Awards. Tony Carapetis, their wine maker, take a bow!

We enjoyed a barbeque which was personally prepared and cooked by Louis. If that was not special enough, the succulent lamb cutlets and Wagyu eye fillets from a local farmer certainly were. To top it all off, we had our first tasting of the 2018 GSM. The Shiraz in the GSM comes from the same Syrah grape vines that Penfolds used to procure for their Grange production prior to 2014. I am worried this secret will not be well kept for long. This was my first wine-tasting experience that polished off two full bottles of the same wine. Yes, that was how good their GSM was! On our way to Gods Hill Road, my brother-in-law received shocking news that his elder brother’s wife had suddenly passed away earlier in the morning. We made a toast to honour the memory of her life. Elton John was right. Life is like a candle in the wind. “To Stephanie”, we cried out amidst the clinking of Riedel glasses. The tradition of clinking glasses is about connections – establishing, honouring, celebrating and remembering them. May Stephanie be in a good place now; hopefully, somewhere as beautiful as Gods Hill Road. Whilst the glasses were clinking, I quietly made a toast to Ludwig van Beethoven in my heart. Coincidentally, both Stephanie and Beethoven died at age 56. Life is short. Life is uncertain.

She was a buddhist. May her rebirth or renewal be to a better place. The buddhists believe that unlike the pearls in a pearl necklace which are held together by a string – the ‘soul,’ which passes through all the pearls – successive existences in a series of rebirths are piled one on top of the other. Each rebirth is separate, but it supports the one above it, with which it is functionally connected. Life continues after death. And for those of us who are left behind, life goes on.

Beethoven’s life was short too but his memory lives on. His 250th birthday anniversary will be on December 16 2020, but the whole world will undoubtedly be celebrating his birth right throughout the year. I will remind myself to leave a bottle of the GSM for his birthday bash in December.

Celebrating rebirths and renewals, my visit to Monteperle Winery reminded me of the wisdom of looking at life as an ongoing cycle of renewals. Life goes on, let us make ourselves better human beings and in doing so, we will make life better.
In winter, it is the vines that will turn red and lose their leaves whereas in the distance, the straw-coloured valley will become a lush green full of renewed life and promise of a great harvest. Thank you, Monteperle. Apart from experiencing their top tier wines, the “mountain of pearls” has been a worthwhile visit for my soul too. Pearls are a symbol of wisdom that is acquired through experience. Some believe that their calming influence can balance our karma, strengthen relationships, and keep us safe. They also symbolise purity, generosity, integrity, and loyalty. As I raised my glass to thank our host for the wonderful afternoon, I became acutely aware that at Monteperle Vineyards on Gods Hill Road, what I experienced was much more than a glass of fine red wine. It was the revelation that wine symbolises transformation, from grapes into wine through fermentation. A symbol of divine grace and intimate love. A rebirth.

Dramas, Cinemas And Aromas At Christmas

It is always a long wait for Christmas to arrive. The reason to have a short stretch of happy public holidays comes only once a year and it is therefore the only time of the year when my family is complete again. A really long wait but no sooner had my sons arrived home then the goodbye hugs and bon voyage wishes began – a mere few days later. The Mrs and I have been empty nesters for two decades.

When our boys left home, it took me a long while to accept the emptiness that enveloped my life. It seemed like I lost the purpose for my existence – it only dawned on me recently how grossly unfair I was to The Mrs to have felt this way. When they were growing up, the home was a busy and noisy place. A hive of happy activities. Sounds of their music dominated the air be it of their making or from the CD receiver. That was how I gathered my repertoire of cello music. They listened to all sorts of music too, of course. The standout for me was John Williams’ Star Wars – even today, his drum march in the Main Theme never fails to arouse the fighting spirit in my once young body. His Binary Sunset will live forever – whenever the french horn makes its entrance in the music, you just know John Williams will never disappear into the sunset. Also known as the Force Theme, it made a permanent mark in my memory – the music gave me so much hope during the scene when Luke Skywalker gazes at the twin suns of Tatooine. The music stopped for many years when our boys left home. The sadness, the silence and the solitude were strangers and unwelcome. Spurned in fact. It took years to reset my life. For me, the purpose The Mrs and I had in our lives had suddenly evaporated. We built a house and made it a home. Filled it with love, hope and laughter. And purpose. We were always the adults in the room. They were the kids, dependent on the adults for almost everything. Food and clothing, yes. Shelter and sanctuary, yes. Money, tick. Transport – more reliable and punctual than even Uber today, tick. As the head of the family – that is debatable if you ask The Mrs – I must confess there is a sense of self importance. Every major decision had my mark of approval. Every investment, good or bad, had my nod. Every path they took had my blessing. Skip Years 11 and 12 of high school and go straight to uni? The headmistress of Marryatville High cautioned us but I said yes. The sudden offer had come from The Queensland Conservatorium – we would be foolish to reject it, especially with the full scholarships. What knowledge they sacrificed from missing those two years of school can be gained from the Internet these days. But the two years achieved early in the conservatoire would be of greater benefit to the twins, I reasoned. I foresaw that they would be competing against the world’s best in their chosen field of music performance – the earlier they start their postgraduate courses, the better equipped they would be against the rest of the world, especially the Europeans and Americans. But that false feeling of self importance, being the “god” who is needed, disappeared once they left our nest. Now as I sit and observe them partying or relaxing at home, they give me this great sense of pride that The Mrs and I did our job well. All three boys have turned out fine. Excelling in their careers, they are educated, smart and worldly. Their conversations amongst ourselves or with their cousins, and other relatives are fast flowing and intellectual, topics are vast and varied, and their voices louder than mine. I am rendered a mere observer at the best of times when they are around, and if I do speak, I struggle to hold their attention. Have I always been this slow and quiet conversationalist? As an observer, I see the inevitability of bruised egos and hurt feelings when I listen to their staccato of extensive and quick exchange of ideas, opinions and prejudices, and their no holds barred honesty with everyone. We are brutally honest with one another which means that in every family reunion, there will be a drama or dramas to cope with. As Nicole Kidman once said, even she has to humbly take the rubbish to the outside bin whenever she is home. When my sons return home, they too leave their “stardom” outside my house. After many reunions, these dramas are replayed in my mind with constant reminders from the same culprits and recently they have begun to haunt me; whenever these dramas are retold, they make me feel inferior, defective, and bad. But, I am good at expelling such thoughts; it would be silly to let such toxicity linger within. Go away, for these dramas are usually not real, a figment of someone’s imagination. What is real is the goodness of my family, the good sons who grew up in the nest The Mrs and I built and the hope they bring forward to the future. Maybe that is why we love Star Wars. When they come home, we will watch the latest instalment together, or some other movie if there is no new screening of it – a visit to the cinemas has become an annual pilgrimage just prior to Christmas. This year’s story about the last Skywalker was not as captivating. But let us not blame Disney for that – the Mandalorian is superb – all eight episodes are fantastic and the ideas are refreshingly different yet bear some link to early stories.

The aromas during this Christmas holiday have broken the longest Intermittent Fasting streak I had achieved. For the past ten days, every dinner has been sumptuous, every lunch unforgettable. There have been some wonderful meals cooked at home too. Life is good when one is surrounded by generous people who can cook. Their meals are always so delicious you cannot say no to an extra helping. My waistline is definite proof IF works. Just five days without the usual 16 hour fast was enough to make me look podgy. I no longer possess a flat tummy! The pendulum clock has just begun to strike twelve times! Happy New Year! Let’s usher in 2020 with a new resolution. I have not made a new year’s resolution for many decades but tonight I want to make one. The inspiration comes from the eightfold path. Think no bad thoughts, speak no bad words and do no bad deeds. In Mandalorian speak, that is the way, for me. Maybe I can be a lesser urghhling in the year ahead.

Elgar Can’t Be Vulgar

It is written down. Irrefutable. Intended. Definitive and revealing. A permanent record. Every thing of importance to us is in writing. When we are born, we are given a birth certificate. When we graduate, we have a certificate to prove it. Soon after, we see a mountain of documents thrown our way, a contract of employment, contracts for purchases of the car, the house, and whatever that get us into debt – yes, bank loans are also in writing. Some of the most important pieces of documents in writing for me would include my passport and the title deed to my house. Without them, I won’t be able to leave the country or live in the building I call home. My marriage certificate was once important to me, it legalises my relationship with The Mrs and provides her with legal rights to half of everything I own. It is of little importance to me now, somehow. We do not need written words on a piece of paper to legitimise our lives together, not after thirty eight years of living under the same roof and under the banner of man and wife. Important documents spelling out what we own and owe. Definite and clear, it obviates the need for interpretation – there is no risk of misunderstandings. Yet, that is not always true.

Edward Elgar’s cello concerto in E Minor was written just after the First World War. Contemplative and autumnal, this elegiac work is my favourite cello music. I bought Jacqueline du Pre’s CD boxset for my sons when they were about six years old. That was the first time I heard Elgar’s cello concerto. The best time to listen to it is during the quiet of the night. Alone. It is hair raising stuff. Spine tingling. A sure way to activate the tear glands that produce the hormones prolactin that makes us cry. For me it is the one piece of music that is packed with indescribable depths of sorrow. You cannot help but feel the dark pain and heart-tearing suffering of humanity. du Pre was our idol. Vivacious and full of life, she was a giant in the cello world. We loved the documentary about her by Christopher Nupen. That was the first time I saw her play. On the VHS tape. It was in black and white. I did not know that the gown she was wearing during her Elgar concerto with Sir John Barbirolli conducting the London Symphony Orchestra was a striking red colour. For me it was her playing that made me fall in love with Elgar’s music. It was her obvious passion for the cello that attracted me to the instrument – its ability to speak to me even if it’s just an open string being played. Her lively, honest and carefree playing captivated a worldwide audience. Carefree, but never careless. Not all music is in written form. But it would be correct to say all orchestral music is written down. The composer wills it in his score. He informs the musicians how his music should be played. How it should sound. For instance, Vivaldi informed us clearly the sounds of the four seasons. His “winter” is chilly, bleak and the cold is piercing, with the strings sounding especially metallic. Gustav Holst described the planets in his seven movement orchestral work. We get to hear how our solar system sounded in Holst’s mind. They are all written down, every note, every rest, musical accidentals, articulations, dynamics, ties and slurs. The conductor reads them, understands what the composer wanted and demands it from the orchestra. Obvious markings on the score dictate what the composer’s ideas were. A pp here and an ff there. A fermata or an sfz. A fermata is a pause. But, how fleeting should we rest? The composer didn’t say. No other markings except for a dot. The same uncertainty with a dot above a note. How brief should the pause be? It was not a subito forzando that caught my attention in Elgar’s cello concerto. It was not a “ Suddenly with force” but what did Elgar ask for in his music where he had markings of ff with accent and ten. all at once? Is the effect as strong as an sfz? The one cellist who observed that unreservedly was du Pre. But, to many cellists, it seems incongruous to play that in the context of the music. In the depths of despair and melancholy, it sounds jarring and out of place to apply the note with sudden force. The accent seems wrongly placed, despite the fact that Elgar wrote it. Elgar couldn’t have been vulgar. Maybe he did not mean it. A mistake? In the midst of a stupor? But it is written down. Undeniable. Deliberate. Intended. Yet, many cellists do not observe it. They ignore that marking. They do not play it the way Elgar wanted. It sounds incongruous to the flow of the music. Over time, the players got accustomed to how it was played, without the accent and tenueto, and the listeners learned to accept that was how the music should sound. If you listen to du Pre’s recording of Elgar with the accent and tenueto, the note will sound rough, yet it was exactly how Elgar wanted. Now, I have to relearn how it should actually sound, as intended by Elgar.

On December 19, Donald Trump was impeached by the House. He blew his top at the whistle blower who told the world of Trump’s illegal use of his power to solicit the support of a foreign country to interfere in the 2020 U.S. elections. The one very important incident that triggered the case for impeachment was the phone call with the Ukraine president during which Trump asked Zelensky for a favour to announce the investigation into Trump’s major domestic political rival, Joe Biden. Major military aid had been withheld pending Zelensky’s announcement into the unsubstantiated and long debunked Biden corruption in the Ukraine. A visit to the White House was also contingent upon Zelensky doing the favour asked for by Trump. The White House issued a transcript of that “perfect” and “beautiful” phone call whilst disparaging against the whistle blower. The five page transcript is a written edited report of the July 25 telephone conversation, with many segments missing although Trump vowed to release a “fully declassified and unredacted transcript” of the controversial call. Yet, The White House and the House of Representatives are at odds with what the written words meant to their case. To the House, it was a clear case of quid pro quo, their commander in chief using his immense power to gain a personal advantage whilst risking national security. To the White House, the favour sought was a proper and diligent effort to ensure the proper use of foreign aid by the recipient country. Same set of words but with totally opposite conclusions. History will record that Trump was impeached for abuse of power and obstruction of Congress, despite his top officials’ refusal to give their testimonies of what they know about the extent of Trump’s involvement in the bribery. Elgar can’t be vulgar but the same cannot be said about Trump. Now, that is written down.

Imagine A Picnic With The Aborigine

Most days after work I see them. Rain or shine. The group of aborigines picnicking on Wita Wirra Park, next to Adelaide Himeji Garden, seems always carefree, jovial and free. Even inside my car, I can sometimes hear them hollering to one another, or maybe they were singing. Maybe not, they do not sound melodious. They often appear relaxed, without furrowed brows, I imagine. Somehow they know cars will not hit them. They are prone to crossing the road freely, staggering and wayward, sometimes. Except once when it was pelting down with stinging rain. It was the only time I saw them move quickly, with purpose. No umbrellas to shield themselves with, two or three of them held brown corrugated cardboard sheets over their heads. I am 61 years old and have worked for most of my life. In 1975, my pa sent me to work for a friend of his, Mr. Sim, when I was waiting for my MCE results. Mr. Sim had a haberdashery warehouse on Kimberley Street. I was to be his secretary and found it especially enjoyable to read his old correspondence with some exporters in Hong Kong. People with broken English could still engage in international business. Nothing can stop the art of trading, not even war. Businessmen will use imaginative ways to secure their deals. Language is no barrier, which leads me to opine the tariff wars will also not stop trade between countries. Those who worry about trade repercussions after Brexit need to be reassured. They will find a way to do business. Ingenuity and creativity are hallmarks of our imagination. Perhaps Pa was worried I might fail the important exams that would determine the direction of my life. So, I did about six weeks of work-experience. Another scam thought out by big business? Work-experience means work for free. Imagine if we were paid to learn about what the job entailed? We may have actually liked the experience. I imagine the aborigines on the park do not have to work. They are paid, regardless. If I were to have experienced fail proof, perpetually guaranteed free money, paid without having to work, maybe I would have liked it too. I am thankful that’s one experience I never got to enjoy. Fortunately for me, I have never been on the dole. Maybe I’m a closet workaholic – I can’t remember when I last took a sickie. Paid sick leave? This is a great system but it is not for me. I imagine it is one privilege I will not want to enjoy. Who wants to be sick, right? As the traffic stalled, I imagined parking my car by the side of Pulteney Grammar on South Terrace and joining the group on their picnic. I have often wondered if they would welcome me with opened arms and offer me the beer they are enjoying. Do they have tidbits as well? What kind of snacks do they bring there? I have seen how some tribes bite off the head of a snake before stuffing it into their cloth bag or slurp a living muddy worm into their mouths like a sought after delicacy. There are so many things I have not tried here. Will they offer me a seat on a piece of cardboard and let me mingle amidst the jingles of Christmas carols? I imagine they would be as stunned as a kangaroo caught in a 1000 LED spotlight to see a Chinese bloke walking up to them. Or, maybe they would hurl vocal abuse at me and shoo me off like a green-eyed blowfly. Would it be proper to discuss with them the ravages of war, the senseless killings, the conflicts of organised religion, the divisive nature of the man-made and mad concept of borders and countries? What about the hot topic of climate change as the Aussie continent continues to bake? Take a look at the aborigines. They adopted the minimalist approach eons before we heard about the eco-friendly benefits of owning few possessions. No possessions and therefore no greed. When the Brits arrived on this land, a group of natives were there to greet them. They had no concept that the new arrivals would massacre them. Those new arrivals were no different from the Spanish conquistadors who massacred their South American hosts by the millions, thanks to the belief of a superior God, a superior religion. It would have been easy justification for the Christian armies to annihilate the heathens, the unbelievers. They readily imagined they would go to heaven having helped cleansed the world of their perceived scum. Imagine above us, only sky. No heaven or hell. Many say I am a dreamer, it didn’t dawn on me it is folly to dream until many old schoolmates sang it like a chorus.

“Wake up, old man!”

“Stop dreaming, bro.”

Or when flippantly dismissing me, “Go back to your dream, mate.”

I gave up defending myself. Do they not realise the power of dreams? In REM phase of my sleep, I am more super than Superman. For years I told my best friend in school, Ah Ban, how powerful my dreams made me. He used to get all the pretty chicks whereas I could only smirk and watch. The super confident Ah Ban never doubted his ability to charm girls, he was appropriately nicknamed “SuperBan”. But, in my dreams, I am more powerful than SuperBan. Stronger, faster and much more attractive, magnetic even. It is no coincidence that my status in WhatsApp is “In REM sleep.” I have always said it’s a misnomer to call someone who has big dreams a dreamer. Some friends laugh at me, they connect a dreamer with a loser. Dreaming is not an inactivity. It requires a creative mind. An adventurous one. It takes guts to dream. It takes imagination. For me, it is not a sedentary, motionless nonsense. Imagine. It is a hive of mental activity which sometimes produces a remarkable thought, life changing invention or an inspiring awesome story.

Last night I felt privileged to have watched a documentary about John and Ono, “Above Us Only Sky”. Back in 1971, they co-wrote the song “Imagine”. With the backdrop of the indiscriminate massacre of millions during the Vietnam War and the devastating indiscriminate massacre of millions in Hiroshima and Nagasaki embedded in their psyche, the couple imagined what our world would be like, with just the sky above and nothing to divide and tear us apart. No country, no religion, nothing to kill or die for. I did not get acquainted with the lyrics until last year when I sang the song at a karaoke session with my neighbours. Maybe their words have resided in my brain ever since. Subliminally. Sublime.

I must conclude with Albert Einstein’s wise words in 1924. “Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited, whereas imagination embraces the entire world, stimulating progress, giving birth to evolution.”
Knowledge is limited. It will take us to somewhere some of us already know. But imagination will take us everywhere, even to the unknown. For many, we are also limited by our weak imagination. Sometimes it takes a wildly positive mind to create a dream and then a never-say-die attitude to make it come true. In my case, I did not possess an imagination strong and wild enough to dream that I can produce a book. It took a kind and generous friend, Wilson Gan, to imagine and create it for me. It is hard for me to imagine John Lennon has been gone for 39 years. So much has been lost for posterity. Let us keep dreaming and maybe the world can be a better place for urghhlings. War is over… if we want it. That is people power. Imagine that.

A Book Launch Or Book Lunch?

Nothing can knock me off the perch right now. I feel on top of the world. The only person who can possibly bring me crashing down would be The Mrs – she is that important to me. She holds sway over my domain. A twitch from her or extra loud footsteps from upstairs will be enough to make me sit straight. Did I mess up “her” kitchen? Did I produce excessive flatulence under the doona? Again?! That is her power over me. But, this week has been glorious for me. The Mrs knows I am floating amongst the clouds. Every cloud seems to have a silver lining. There can be no dark clouds over the horizon – this feels like the pinnacle of my life as a blogger, albeit in truth it is just a little peak. You see, it never crossed my mind that I could write and so prolifically since I started blogging in April this year. When I was a practising accountant, I knew I could write management reports well. Short, concise and illuminating to management, they would quickly understand the issues I highlighted in my reports. I did not beat around the bush. As the watchdog of the business, I viewed my job as watching over the integrity of the organisation. Every word had to carry weight, none was superfluous or unnecessary. But to write stories about people and places? And not be boring? That cannot be my cup of tea. That is in the realms of creativity. No, after all, they drummed into me enough times, accountants are supposed to be boring – only looking at the past – cannot be relevant and definitely cannot be interesting.

My book, titled Urghhlings, was launched three days ago, in fact. A book! Written by me! All 304 pages. Now that I think back to my school days, I recall I enjoyed writing poems for a short while and I got good marks for English. But, write a book? Never! It was not even a secret wish, the idea that I could write a book had not entered my mind. I never harboured a dream to write a book – it was in the realms of the impossible. Yet, there it is. In mint condition. Sitting in the office of my friend’s printing company. Wilson said he would print my book and he has. All for free. All for charity. When he first broached the subject, I thought little of it. But, I played along with the idea, just for fun. We talked about it in the group chat, all proceeds to go to the Class of 1975 alumni which we call LaSaints58, those born in 1958 from La Salle and St. Xavier’s Institution, Penang. Nice, money raised will go to those who otherwise would not be able to attend the next reunion. Unrealistic, but nevertheless, it was a seed planted in my mind. Blogging has been a joy for me; the opportunity to put down in words the events, ideas and thoughts that had sparked interests amongst my friends during the course of the last few months. I have always loved history, and suddenly I am a historian in my small group, recording snippets of conversations and observations. On average, a blog takes me about two and a half hours to write. Early blogs were short, I had the notion that people’s attention span is short. I limited a blog to about six hundred words. But, latter ones have lengthened to over 1500 words. Suddenly, I hear criticisms of my blogs as “operatic” with too many “sub-plots”, meaning they are becoming too long for those older folks who question the coherence of my stories. My book contains 116 blogs, mostly in date sequence, apart from “Mum about Mum 3” which I wanted to include with the first two chapters about my mum. I also added “Stan The Man” which is a blog I withdrew from my WordPress account following advice from certain quarters. I was asked if I would rather be kind or be right. A real gem, that advice.

Writing to me, is a lot easier than the behind the scenes work. I found proofreading to be tedious and yucky. I cannot read my own work too often, I realised. I am very lucky I have Sehchee, a very kind sister who lives in London. She has been a tower of strength for me, ever so reliable to fix the grammatical errors and improve on the structure of my writing. Once I had started to entertain the idea that my blogs can be compiled into a book, I needed an illustrator to replace the photographs I had used, as they may be subject to copyright. Anne Koh is a successful artist from Malaysia/Singapore. I am indebted to her for her willingness to help; her capacity to produce drawings for me at short notice is simply remarkable. The Mrs also helped a lot with her inspiration and honest opinions about my stories. The book would not be possible of course, without my good friend, Wilson Gan. It is his wild assertion that my stories are good enough to be made into a book that gave me the support and encouragement to “go for it”. Without his immense generosity and support, I would not have the courage to even dream of producing our book. In fact, I am right to call it our book, for without Wilson, there would have been no book at all.

I have learned a lot about how to produce a book. The time and effort spent in preparing the draft has been exhausting. After the drafts, came more proofreading. Some chapters were missed, some illustrations were inexplicably left out whilst other less important photos had to be culled. Wilson’s staff headed by Nicole were extremely patient with me. It was quite late after many alterations had been done, taglines added and layouts of photos and illustrations improved when I decided that the font style and size used was not ideal. When the deadline was almost around the corner, I asked Wilson to change the font to 11 pt Baskerville. Easier said than done. It turned out to be a nightmare, as it resulted in missing spaces after every comma and other issues. It meant that Nicole would have had to go through the whole draft looking for missing spaces and fixing them. Being guilt-ridden, I could not allow her to spend hours doing that. So, I did what we all do these days when we need to find out how to fix a problem. Google! I type in: How to search and replace in Adobe Indesign, a desktop publishing software.

1. Control F to find

2. Then enter comma in Find What

3. Enter comma space in Change To

4. Click Change All

Amazing, in just five keystrokes, all the errors were fixed. Soon after that, Wilson decided that the title of the front cover of the book would be stamped in gold. He selected a high quality paper, Mohawk Inxwell – “It’s your first book, must give excellent results to give the best impact”. Three hours later, the first dummy run was completed. Wilson took them home that night to check on the pagination, 304 pages excluding the front and back covers. The following day, the actual printing of the book finally took place. Once collated and folded, sewing of the covers and the pages was the final process. Five days later, Wilson proudly sent me a photo of our final product. The Urghhling book is born. Since then, the Penang Hospice Society is the body that has been selected to receive all proceeds from the sale of this book.

“Aren’t you going to have a book launch?” I was asked. We did not hire a venue. There were no balloons, no ribbons, no decorations, no champagne. No one was invited, neither was it opened to the public. I did not serve Hors D’oeuvres nor were there any Chinese spring rolls. There was no impressive extemporaneous speech by me and no one did any reading of the book. I should have done a book signing straight after the speeches, but I did not turn up either. And since no one turned up, we saved on door prizes and other freebies which would have delighted many friends. There was no celebratory music, no Pomp and Circumstance by Elgar. No need for any of that, actually. I am so happy to have been gifted this bonus and the support from everyone has been amazing. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for encouraging me to carry on writing.

It was a book launch, nevertheless. The digital banner circulating on Whatsapp simply said:

Urghhlings – Limited Edition

Reserve your copy now

Before it’s too blardy late!

True to the spirit of our brotherhood, many orders started flowing in. Many relatives and friends have also rushed to support me by buying the book. A friend, LV, ordered eleven books, mostly intended for public libraries and school libraries. But, we required an ISBN, which was easily purchased from Thorpe Bowker. The online ISBN agency provided a convenient service to buy the international standard book number which is a numeric commercial book identifier, without which public libraries will not think of accepting books. It costs $44 each or $88 for ten. Will I be able to use all ten ISBN’s?!

A book launch? I mis-heard. It was Keith, who had asked “will you book lunch?” when I next return to Penang. He wants a free lunch to celebrate the birth of Urghhlings. Many were born in 1958, I could have added.

Find A Niche, It’s Nice

It did not dawn on me until I earned my commerce degree from UNSW that life would present us more benefits if we found ourselves a niche. A piece of paper was all I got from the graduation ceremony. It did not really set me apart from the rest of the few hundred other graduates even though I was only one of ten who got the extra five letters after our degree – (Merit). Back in the early 1980’s, being Asian did not accord me a niche either. It may well be different now to be Asian in Australia. Of the four finalists in Young Genius of Australia 2019, one is of Chinese descent and another is Sri Lankan. The two ancestries only make up roughly 2.6% of the population yet they consistently are over represented in any field of excellence. A Chinese or Indian in an Australian school today would be accorded much respect in the school ground. They tend to excel in any school curriculum, especially mathematics, science and music. To glorify my existence, I inform myself I am one of the pioneers who helped pave an easier route for the next generation Asians in Australia. When I was in year 12, my reputation preceded me on the playgrounds in Unley High. They called me Bruce from the way I presented myself during recess – knees slightly bent like a tiger ready to pounce, fists clenched baring white bruised knuckles and a twitchy nose just like Bruce Lee in Fist Of Fury. I found my niche without realising it. Asians were only respected for their kung fu. “ You do karate? Judo? Jiujitsu?” My reply was always a smirk without a comment. Mysterious and serious. I walked the grounds, unchallenged and unscathed whereas other new kids on the block were taunted and deemed tainted. Not me, many considered me a young tiger. Certainly not edentulous. During the 1980’s in Australia, Asians were not yet synonymous with limitless capacity to accept work and prodigious output in the workforce. I would have been an early contributor in spreading that reputation, as a pioneer. We gained respect from our peers with our uncomplaining industry and consistent productivity. Regular promotions and the resultant pay rises became common in the Asian community of young professionals.

When The Mrs and I opened our first shop in Adelaide, we were the only Asian retailers that were not restaurateurs or Asian grocers. Everywhere we went, every event we attended, we were sure to be the only Chinese. We were best described as the odd couple in the automotive retail scene. At a drag race as a sponsor, we were heckled by a gang of bikies and told to go back where we came from. I almost told them they were in the wrong drag race – they were too pretty with their tattoos of naked women – but I knew my niche cannot be in this field, it would be wiser for me to eat humble pie and leave as soon as practicable. At the annual trade shows, no matter in which city, we were the odd-looking couple too. Most of the auto shop owners were “petrol-heads”, car fanatics and race car enthusiasts who would not grow up and ended as auto shop owners instead. They were beer drinkers – coarse, rough, loud and looked like mechanics with greasy hands and dirt-filled fingernails. We were red wine drinkers – refined, gentle, soft-spoken and looked like nerds. Wherever we went, we were the only Chinese. It soon became clear to me that I could not be a niche player in the automotive spare parts business.

In the late 1980’s, I befriended a nice Aussie cobber of German descent. He called me the yellow peril – in those days – an affectionate and harmless term for a Chinaman. He took me fishing one morning in the middle of winter in his tinny – a small boat with an aluminium hull. The sea was so choppy his yellow friend went home green from being sea-sick. Years later, he settled in Arno Bay and with a batch of newfound friends, founded an aquaculture business in Arno Bay. Their goal was to spawn the southern bluefin tuna off the coast of Port Lincoln and then grow the fingerlings in massive tanks on the land. Their other more immediate success was propagating kingfish and the green-lipped abalone. Success without sufficient capital would only lead to one certainty – cannibalism by a like-minded but wealthy neighbour in Port Lincoln. They were being offered peanuts for their exciting enterprise that could signal the world’s first success in farming tuna. Any sushi lover will understand how expensive tuna is. In January this year, sushi chain owner Kiyoshi Kimura paid over AUD$3 million for a 612-pound bluefin tuna. My Aussie cobber rang me for help – asked if I knew of any Asian consortium that might buy them out at a reasonable price instead. Instantly, I found my niche. I visited Port Lincoln in 2000, stayed in a haunted local hotel there and made a lot of noise about my Chinese-led consortium that was eyeing irresistible takeover targets in South Australian aquaculture. The pristine waters of Spencer Gulf – one of the cleanest bodies of water in Australia – were about to see “a cascade of Asian money rolling in”, I boldly claimed. Less than four weeks later, my Aussie cobber rang to thank me. They sold their company to their wealthy neighbour at a price they were all happy with. That was nice, to have found my niche in a white man’s land.

Five years earlier, I actually found my niche without realising it. The Mrs and I had put our family home in Highbury on the market. It was our family home for nine years – our twin boys were merely three years old – at their sweetest and most adorable age, and their elder brother had yet to play the violin when we first moved in. In other words, it housed a lot of precious memories for us. When the real estate agent told us the asking price was too high after the eighth opening, I sacked him. “They don’t like your chocolate brown bathroom.” The Mrs and I stripped the paint and gave the walls a fresh straw coloured paint. It took us three nights in that week after the first opening. ” They don’t like your wallpaper, it’s much too 1970’s.” The Mrs and I stripped them off, we were buggered by the next house inspection. Stripping the wallpaper from the whole house and giving it a new coat of paint before the weekend inspection would be beyond us today. We only had the evenings to work on it as I could not take time off my day job. But we did it! “Ah, I’m sorry to report they don’t like your gold and brown Egyptian floor tiles in the toilet and laundry room.” “Yes, I understand I’m asking you to take a big haircut here, dropping the price from $175,000 to $140,000, but given the weak market conditions and your outdated decor, we have to accept the reality.” the agent philosophised. And so, I sacked him, after four weeks. I figured I could sell our precious house myself at that price. We had three openings after that. The Mrs bought some oriental artefacts and displayed them strategically and lifted the “qi” of our house with nice big pots of variegated plants. We brewed fresh coffee and set the Hitachi radio on ABC Classic FM. I donned my favourite tie which matched my woollen suit tailor-made in Penang. It didn’t matter that February was the hottest month in Adelaide – I packed away the whole family in the garage and told them all to be quiet. The ambience had to be right, the feel of the house had to be perfect. We could not project a house filled with Chinese people – what would the white man think if they saw all of us? A horror house of Vietnamese refugees? It was nice, I found my niche. I sold our precious house after the third opening, for $171,000. The buyer came back for a second inspection prior to signing her beautiful signature on the contract. “I didn’t get to see how big your garage is” she said. “Sure, but don’t mind them, they are my sweet family” I said as I opened the garage door.

The next niche I find will be a wall in the pagoda that’s being built in Ottoway. Hopefully, there won’t be a sign that says “Urghhlings excepted” and I could sit close to Pa’s.

Pa’s niche will be in Row 4, column 32. 432, his lucky number.

The Taciturn Man’s Tacit Nod

The weekend breezed past especially quickly. It always does when we have a visitor. Mei is The Mrs’ Miri school friend from Form 1. She arrived last Thursday night and left Monday morning. Four nights in Adelaide, that is a long stay for most Sydney-siders. She had heard from other friends that this city is a small town, a kind word for boring. The roads are wide and the drivers are annoyingly slow. “South Australians drive like everyday is a Sunday. What can you expect from the city of churches?” A friend once asked acidly. Mei was fresh air for The Mrs. As soon as they gave each other a long welcome hug, The Mrs was resuscitated from sinking deeper into depression after having both her hips replaced. “My left hip was done exactly three months ago.” The Mrs informed her friend. “No, it was five days shy of three months.” I corrected her. Mei did not pull me to one side when she firmly advised me that The Mrs is always right when she is telling stories about herself. My silly behaviour that dared question the accuracy of her own stories was intolerable. “You do understand that, right?” She sought my confirmation. I turned taciturn and merely gave her a tacit nod. Her mellifluous voice is wasted on her, I decided. She does not sing and she does not enjoy karaoke sessions. Mei’s genius demonstration on how to be a nice listener was admirable. It was simply unnecessary to argue about inconsequential matters. No one should know better than me to be fully supportive when The Mrs is feeling despondent and dreading the general nastiness of her bed-bound life for the past three months. But, it was Mei who reminded me to be a nicer person when The Mrs obviously was beginning to resent the prolonged pain and prison-like restrictions to free movement. Again, I gave her a tacit nod and consciously refrained from giving out my habitual grunt. It was clear their friendship was never a sham. They lapped up their waking hours together with total alacrity. With Mei by her side, the frowns on The Mrs’ forehead smoothened, the laments and melancholy evaporated from her vocabulary. Adelaide surprised Mei. She had come fully prepared to “tut-tut” at everything we can showcase here. The wineries would not interest her, she does not enjoy the occasional tipple, no matter how little. Scratch out the Barossa Valley and McLaren Valley. Kangaroo Island off Adelaide, although bigger than Singapore, did not prick her ears either. We are the Festival State, but she was not into the arts. The Mrs cranked up Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in the car, but Mei said a little introduction of it was pleasant enough. We have a Chinatown here, but Sydney has a much bigger one and so she declined the offer to take her there. The Adelaide Central Market is a hub for South Australia’s farm produce, the buzz and din attract some 9 million visitors annually. But, Mei had been to Sydney’s Hay Market and Melbourne’s Victoria Market too often in her youth – markets no longer attract her. In the end, what surprised her did not surprise me. She discovered the secrets of Adelaide that bound The Mrs and me to this place when we first visited as a young family in 1985 and promptly settled here permanently the following year. It is the beautiful Jacaranda lined streets, the roses in full bloom on council verges, the stately Federation-style homes, the gum-scented neighbourhoods and the courteous and pleasant locals. I gave her a tacit nod, a silent “Bravo!” to have discovered our secret so quickly.

Mei was meticulously dressed in the four days I saw her. Graceful and lady-like, her movements were noticeably elegant despite her rounded shoulders. A short stint of yoga will easily fix them. She wore the cutest nose scrunch whenever she laughed. Her silky smooth skin attracted much praise from other women who were introduced to her. She had the perfect pink tone on her ultra fair skin. Even at her age, she could be a great ambassador for Maybelline. Her high nose bridge was unusual for her Chinese genes, which may be why her oversize Gucci sunglasses fitted her with aplomb. Big brands somehow suit women like her; her beige Prada handbag seemed to blend in with whichever day dress she wore. The Mrs possesses a high degree of self confidence, packed with the knowledge that she is well read, well informed of current affairs and keeps abreast of minutiae bytes of cooking shortcuts. Mei, however, was the exact opposite. Quick to announce her disdain for gardening, house chores and cooking, she was almost proud to dismiss any notion of her trying out The Mrs’ quick and easy recipes. “It is so easy!” The Mrs encouraged Mei to try her easy Jajangmyeon recipe but without much success. Mei merely scrunched up her nose and smiled and exclaimed,

“It is easier not to know anything!”

“Try it, you will have so much time for yourself!” “And look, you will have slender and smooth hands like mine..” as she offered her wrinkle-free baby-soft fingers for closer scrutiny.

The Mrs loves our four chooks. She told Mei that when she is well again – when her hips are fully operational again – she will be back to catching worms for her pets. They lay the most delicious eggs when fed with such a high protein diet. “Where do you go to catch the worms?” Mei asked, feigning interest.

“From my four compost bins in the backyard.”

“With my bare hands, of course.” The Mrs added, with a matter-of-fact voice. Mei scrunched up her nose again, but this time she was visibly repulsed, and was no longer cute.

Mei taught The Mrs her “know nothing and therefore do nothing” tactic decades ago, but The Mrs being the proud woman that she is, would rather the world know how smart and knowledgeable she is. She did adopt the strategy on a few occasions – which explains why I am better than her at ironing, vacuuming, washing (dishes and clothes), cleaning the aquarium and pond, mopping and frying Penang Char Koay Teow and Sar Hor Fun. In my household, the one who is better at a chore gets to own it for life. I gave Mei a tacit nod to let her know I am fully aware of her clever strategy.

When Mei found out I have been practising Intermittent Fasting (IF) for almost two years, she finally became genuinely interested in something I had to say. After rattling off to her the many health benefits one can get from IF, I hastened to ask why she would be interested. She did not seem like a candidate for our IF club, she already possessed a taut body many ladies would die for. But, there she was, asking sensible questions about the merits of fasting and the main differences of fasting versus dieting. Her husband had lost a lot of weight once from a strict diet but she told him he was shrivelling up like an old man with flabby skin hanging off his arms like those of a turkey’s wattle. He promptly gave up after that. “But, your arms don’t look like a turkey’s neck. Why?” she asked. I gave her a simple answer – fasting is not dieting. It is a lifestyle that leads to a taut, healthy body. Just like that, she was sold on IF and started her first 14-hour fast that same evening. She gave me a tacit nod the next day, as if to say it was really easy. Her husband will be her disciple when they return to Sydney.

For lunch on Saturday, we went to an Italian cafe. I was a dollar short at the cashier’s, and so I went over to my sister and asked if she had any small change. The cashier said loudly with his strong Italiano accent, “It’s ok, doanch worry ’bout it.” My sister could not help herself and quickly relayed to Mei my many stories of getting freebies around the world. “Even on an MAS plane to KL, a stewardess gave him a huge bag of peanuts. A HUGE bag that contained over twenty-five sachets of the best MAS peanuts!” Francis, a brother-in-law who was unnecessarily frank one day, gave me a name that sounded like Jeffrey but he bastardised it to “Jiak-fre”, a play on the hokkien word Jiak (eat) and the English word free. He too had witnessed my many free meals whenever he travelled with me. On their last night, The Mrs and I threw them a farewell party. Mei said her husband would bring some of their golfing friends along. They had all come here to compete in three days of golf. Sure, why not. I have to portray myself as a generous host and it was a good opportunity to dispel the myth about my pseudo name Jiak-fre. Mei’s husband has a handicap of 18, quite a good golfer as I understood it. He showed me photos of him with many of golf’s elite, such as Tiger Woods, Ernie Els, Nicklaus, Montgomery, Vijay Singh, Jason Day, and so on. That made him an elite in the business world – how else would one get so many prized opportunities to play with these legends of the game? I failed to display the myth about me that night. Someone at the table said The Mrs and I are lucky to live so close to such a fantastic Chinese restaurant – The Empress was voted Best Chinese Restaurant 2019. Yes, we are indeed lucky. As if to prove it, we were later served free desserts – a tropical fruit pudding. Nice! Later, I found out Mei’s husband had already taken care of the bill as I returned from the men’s washroom. I gave Mei a tacit nod. She understood. Jiak-fre, again.