About Nude Not Naked

The nurse looked away. “Leave the room, please,” he said. The nurse turned and walked away from us. She pulled the curtains that separated the consultation room from the nurse’s room. I could hear her chatter with the other nurses. Inaudible noises from beyond the four walls.

“Why didn’t you pick up my calls?” he asked. He took the strap and tied it just beyond my elbow. I looked away as he tapped my arm. I always looked away. While I was the sort of person who really needed to know everything, I was also quite afraid of really graphic scenes. Like drawing blood. And bloody hell, there were three tubes to fill today. “Take a deep breathe,” he said, “It’ll be over very soon. No pain, I promise.”

First tube, second tube and then the third. He was right. It was quite painless after the initial prick. He swabbed it when it was over, placed a cotton across it and folded my hand. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze and kissed it. His facial hair gently grazed across my fingers.

“Don’t you know that I love you?”



*
I could hear his laughter as soft as it was. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Fragile,” I repeated myself. He was keying some data on his laptop when the nurse helped me onto the bed. “I feel fragile.” My fingers were fiddling over my huge belly. The white ceiling and a patch of screen with flashing data were above me. He came through the white curtains and sat to my right. I looked over and saw him sat there, like all the months before this. But the feeling was different.

“You don’t have to feel fragile,” he said. He took the ultrasound scanner and ran it across my stomach. The moment he touched my stomach, I heard my baby’s heart beat. 157 beats per minute, like how a healthy baby should. “You needn’t feel fragile at all.”

I have never felt so vulnerable in my life. I detest visiting doctors and try my best to avoid them. Avoid doctors like a plague, I thought to myself. Going to a doctor on monthly basis felt foreign and took a lot of getting used to. He was a stranger who became a lesser stranger as the months and weeks passed.

“You don’t have to feel fragile,” he said. He reached over, grabbed a tissue and wiped my stomach. “You don’t have to feel fragile because I am right here and I will make sure that you will be alright.”



*
“Ewwww,” Eve said. We were baking muffins on the last Saturday before we became mothers. I developed a habit of baking muffins to pass the last two weeks quickly. It was far more exciting than sitting on your ass waiting to birth a baby.

I am no Martha Stewart. I baked from readymade Pilsbury recipes. Before baking trays of muffins, I indulged in sewing. I managed to sew a proper blanket for my baby and was mighty proud of it. It was straight where it was supposed to be straight and right angled at the appropriate corners. After the blanket, I sew a few skirts. The working prototype was a skirt for PY’s daughter. I sew a purple skirt for PY and eventually a cheerful skirt for myself before the sewing machine died, hence the muffins which now sits in my fridge.

“Ewwww,” Eve repeated again. Her face was all bunched up in a grimace. “Dr. V, sexy? Ewwww.” She popped a muffin in her mouth. See, muffins were (and still are) pleasant looking little delightful gifts. I must have baked enough to feed a small nation. “Why Dr. V?”

“Don’t know,” came my reply. “Maybe because he has a moustache that reminds me of my dad,” I said in the most nonchalant manner. I popped a chocolate muffin into my mouth. We poured the next batch of muffin mixture into the tray of 12. “I love his composure,” I said after giving it some thought.

That was true. I loved his composure and the way he talked. He was not a great talker, which I found very appealing. I never liked men who talked like great salesmen of the year. The way he looked intently into my eyes and the way he carried himself was attractive to me. “He’s so ah pek,” Eve said. Dr. V was ah pek (trans: uncle) to Eve but to me, he was perfect.



*
“So what’s the big drama today?” he said as he chuckled. “Nothing that big today,” I said with a smile. I sat on the chair next to him. I must have been like every other patient he had met that day – pregnant and feeling bloaty. “I just wanted to show you my strawberry mark,” I said.

He looked puzzled, so I stood up and turned my back to him. I lifted my right foot and showed him my second toe. “There,” I said, pointing to the red dot, the size of my little finger nail. He gave a chuckle.

“See? It looks like a strawberry mark, isn’t it?” I asked, pointing at the red little specks resembling a tiny wild strawberry in the forest of Sweden during Mid Summer.

Dr. V laughed and waved his hand, inviting me to sit on the patient’s chair. He looked absolutely delightful like my muffins, with his mop of grey hair, geeky glasses and moustache. He keyed some data into his patient database. Then looking at me, he said, “It is nothing. It is just a virus and it will go away. Don’t worry.” He gave me a pat on my right hand.



*
There are currently three men in my life – The Bachelor and my two obstetricians. It is amazing how the two doctors pop up in my conversations with The Bachelor. It happened at the most unlikely places and times, such as while we were trying to reignite the sparks between the sheets.

“Will you ask Dr. L about this during your next visit?” he said, fiddling with the condom. He hates the condom and I hate it too. It however was not the cause for my pregnancy. We were happy together and wanted to have a baby. Condoms or the lack of it was not the reason for Sunshine who is now sleeping in his cot next to me.

“I will ask my sexy Dr. V,” I said, snuggling closer to The Bachelor. I had those dreamy doe eyes whenever I mentioned Dr. V. He is so yummy, I thought to myself. Dr. L was good but Dr. V is just MMMMMM with a capital M!

I guess the intimacy with one’s obstetrician/gynaecologist is to be expected. He is, after all, the next legitimate man to take a close look at your Fifi and not get slapped for it. Next to your life partner, a obstetrician or gynaecologist is also the closest man to you. He is like your best friend, the one you can intimately share details of your sex life with. He is like your gay friend with the exception that he is not gay. (He could be, if you chose to visit a gay obstetrician.)

I cannot help it. Dr. V was the one who held my hand (very literally) throughout the nine month pregnancy journey. He made sure that I was safe and that my wellbeing was taken care. He saw very private parts of myself such as my toes and my Fifi. And he listened and chuckled at very private stories and jokes.

Many pregnancy books inform you that pregnancy brings about all sorts of hormones and that a pregnant woman usually has greater sex drive. Books also mention that a pregnant woman fantasies more when she is relaxed. The books were right because I had many sexual dreams that felt very real. Some were dreams of The Bachelor but some were with my obstetrician such as those that I wrote above.

Eve did not experience such closeness with her gynaecologist. It is not surprising for someone whom I named “The Butcher”. The above stories were little fantasy escapes for a woman with a bloaty stomach and swollen feet. I needed them, I guess. Those dreams gave me a sense of wellbeing, of being cared and loved – that I was still attractive and lovely despite my 38 inch waist and very unattractive hair. They were my little adventures with Grey Whiskers.

(written on 20th February 2009)

In ancient Greek the word for butterfly is "Psyche", which translated means "soul". This was also the name for Eros' human lover and the two figures are often depicted surrounded by butterflies.



***
The first time I saw the butterfly, it was sitting on the grey marble wall. It had an outline of black and dots of reddish orange. It flapped a few times, wrestling the afternoon wind. Then it gently floated across the garden onto a plump green leaf of a palm. It was at that very moment that I thought of the title for this entry, “Seeing Butterflies”.

Butterflies usually symbolized a change in life. Perhaps it is a left turn off the course of what you usually call ‘normal’ or a step towards the right direction. Whatever it is, butterflies and a change in your life is often welcomed, especially if the changes are good or desired.



***
‘Look the right,’ she said. She took a step forward and stared intently. ‘Your nose is still the same size,’ she concluded, as if she expected my nose to balloon.



***
I have not written since my last entry in August. That is a change, wouldn’t you think? There were some changes in my private life and I felt that I needed some space in order to grow and change. I think many readers have realised that I will only write about things that I wish to share. And when I do not have anything to share, I just don’t.

I wrote many times but published none. There were times when I feared that I would lose all my readers, which took me more than 2 years to build. But then I realised that I had changed and those figures do not matter much to me anymore.

I had reached a point in my life where I feel peace. My soul is at rest and I am happy just where I was. That was a huge change, one that took some effort and time to acclimatize.

Do you know that it takes courage to be happy?



***
‘Hey you, I’m dropping by,’ YC bleated like a sheep on the phone. And when I arrived to pick her up, it took her some seconds to recognize the car. Just like a butterfly’s metamorphosis, even my wheels went through a change last year. ‘You got yourself a new car?’ she asked as she plopped herself into the passenger seat.

We decided to have some nibbles in a Korean restaurant nearby. ‘Check out those tits,’ I teased. Mine were overflowing through the pink blouse. ‘My tits more than twice your size wei.’

I don’t think she finds it funny at all.



***
We bought a house and renovation began in September. We tore down the floors and replaced them with granite on the ground floor and Merbau wood on the remaining two floors. The kitchen went in sometime in October and November was spent chasing after the plumber, who had never seen the washing machine plumbed next to a sink in the utilities.

We were supposed to move in 3 days before Christmas, which was postponed to 2 days before and then the day before. We finally slept in our bed for the first time on the 28th of December last year. I took a sabbatical and for the following 30 days, we spent it in the house blissful and happily waking up whenever we felt like.

Days that were spent zipping around the city, working in the office, chasing after clients, meeting friends, having meals and shopping were soon replaced with searching furniture pieces, strangling the plumber and arranging our very first lion dance during the Lunar New Year. These were punctuated only by visits to the doctor’s.

Nights were filled with cuddles and kisses, sometimes in bed but often time on the plush sofa, which was our very first purchase for the home. We fell asleep in front of the TV, preferably to CSI or some movie than Discovery Turbo (if you know what I mean).



***
‘Are you sure that it is a boy?’ she asked, staring at my nose again. ‘Your nose is nice and sharp. Boys usually mean fat, ugly noses.’

In reality, I had the very same conversation with a couple of friends. It is either the nose or the belly. Sharp belly equals a boy and a fat, round belly means buying everything in pink. I cannot agree with the nose statement because my nose is still as cute as a button despite seeing my baby’s nuts on the ultra scans twice.

However there is something about the sharp or round belly. You see, Eve has a rounded belly and guess what? She’s having a girl. I have a sharp, pointy belly and it is undeniably a pair of nuts during each monthly scan. A trip to the doctor confirmed that Eve and I must have been doing the horizontal tango on the same day.

It was a beautiful Sunday morning…



***
‘Honey, I think we need to talk,’ I said from one side of the door.

‘What is it?’ he said from the other side. He was packing our stuff for the Singapore F1 Night Race. That is one of the more endearing qualities he possessed. He packed my clothes, shoes and make-up into bags at each trip. (He said he had replaced the Indonesian maid but I digress).

‘I think we’re pregnant,’ I said. Needless to say, I felt miserable in Singapore as any fabulous girl would feel if she found out that she was expecting a crying package in nine months or so. Nothing says ‘miserable’ like the act of dragging a slurring, drunk 41 year-old man whom I lovingly called ‘ancient’ home.

Let’s up that statement a little. Nothing says ‘miserable’ like the act of dragging a slurring drunk 41 year old man on the same day you found out that you had to lay off those 4 inch platforms for some months because there was a bun in the oven.

He made up for it on Sunday night though. He took me on a crazy trishaw ride and all that I could see was a river reflecting lights off buildings and roads. I had not laughed or screamed so hard for a very long time.



***
I like this change. I really do. I yearned for it for the longest time. Many people were caught by surprise. Even you must have thought that I was a colourful party creature with a winsome smile, flirtatious eyes and conversations that entrapped many men. I guess those were true (or at least I would like to think that I do at my ripe old age) but only to a certain extend. If you really know me deep inside, you will know that I am more than that.

Or less than that, as YC discovered the very first time she met me. She found me quite plain and I took it as a compliment. Some compliments are better in smaller doses.



***
It was amazing to watch the butterfly. It sat prettily on the leaf, dainty and graceful, even as the wind tossed the leaf a few inches up and down. Changes are like that, I guess - tossing you and moving you along life’s many routes. You have to hold on tight if you want to survive the trip. Just remember to put on your best smile and highest heels and float gently like the butterfly.

The garden was wet after an hour of watering. Then the rain came to water the new garden a little more. It is always the same story. It rains whenever I drench the garden in water but it never seem to pour when I forget.



***
Today is his birthday and we are apart for the first time. It was not always this way. We were together for our last two birthdays and he was a very good friend during those years. Now we share a house, the house mortgage that we thankfully can afford, two cars and a soon to arrive maid. However nothing beats the excitement of sharing a baby together.

It is those butterflies at work again. He is in Indonesia and I will soon join him. The last two years were full of changes. Changes are good when you grow and renew your soul. I look forward to a little time for myself. I am excited about a new life and I am not sure if I will make a good mother. All I know is that I will try my best.

When we are apart, he calls me each night. That he has done for more than two years and is also yet another endearing quality. He sends me a message when he wakes up and again when he sleeps. If I could be in Indonesia, I would have flown in an instance. I am no longer allowed to fly until the baby is born. Thenafter, I think we shall be traveling quite a lot between Malaysia and Indonesia and then again, twice more to Europe each year.

This will be the longest time we are apart, a whole 3 weeks. He will of course come back soon and travel back and forth until the baby is matured enough to travel to Europe to meet the family. Then we will all be in Indonesia – baby and I there on alternate months until his contract (and the economic gloom) runs its course. Quite a long metamorphosis, I guess.



***
I saw two purple butterflies. Purple pygmy butterflies, they must have been. They were the smallest that I have ever seen.

Dedicated to every down and trodden Malaysian.

"Just because I'm losing
Doesn't mean I'm lost
Doesn't mean I'll stop
Doesn't mean I would cross."
~ Coldplay, 'Lost'.

‘Do you know who my father is?’ he barked on the mobile. Earlier that day, my brother and I visited his office, a tiny dot on the face of the Earth. Prior to our appointment with Daddy’s Boy, we were at Michael Chong’s for some legal advice.

‘Do you know who my father is?’ he asked. ‘My father knows Mahathir, ok! Do you know who you are getting involved with?’

These were the words of a full grown man businessman, who co-developed a Malaysian franchise. We are not talking about some kampung business selling prawn crackers. No offence to the successful business women in Kelantan, who by the way (I’m assuming), worked hard for their money and relied on nobody but their backbones. We are talking about a legitimate business with ’11 years of technology’ behind the brand name. Those were also the words uttered by Daddy’s Boy (though I personally prefer to call him ‘Purse Carrier’ in my private time).



*
Without going into details (less they sue me because they evidently spend more energy, time and money on making sure the little they’ve gotten from impressionable and hopeful young entrepreneurs stays within their bank account) it is suffice to say that I am all for building a high standard franchise brand.

There are lots of issues that I have very many questions to ask and they have a lot to answer for. But what irritates me most about the franchise was the willingness to use Mahathir’s name. Poor ex-premier’s name being used by some businessmen for personal gains. (I've no issues if the said business man had used Mahathir's name to promote some kind of charity event).

Can you imagine that my brother and I had to seek for FREE LEGAL ADVICE to ensure that the franchisor cannot suck any more money from my little brother? Contrasting our story is Daddy’s Boy, who not so subtly asked us to be careful because his father is a friend’s of Mahathir.

(I’d like to think that even our ex prime minister has some standard to maintain-lah. It is unlikely that Daddy's Boy or the good Daddy himself share Sunday Roast with Mahathir. This post has nothing to do with our previous Prime Minister. He happens to be a by-stander in this Merdeka post, whose name was borrowed and leeched off till kingdom come.)



*
We are putting up flags and banners to celebrate Merdeka. Fifty one years on and we (still) have many grown men telling common people who their daddies are. What big crying shame!

Won’t you take a minute to think where our nation is heading to, if legitimate businesses NEED to borrow big shot names to justify their business and survival? What happened to running your business based on just principles and healthy competition? What happened to right and wrong? What happened to defending the poor and needy? What happened to responsibility and accountability? What ever happened to consumer’s rights?

My brother is not pursuing the matter. He just wants to get the whole issue behind his back. His energy is drained and his enthusiasm is crushed momentarily. I however, have much energy to pursue this and to highlight the fact that each and every Malaysian’s consumer rights should and must be protected from the big shots and even bigger names. Businesses must be accountable and responsible for the product that they are peddling.

My brother was one of three franchisees opened at the same time. Out of the three, two of them chose to end their businesses within very short time. From my last two sentences, please form your own judgement on the quality of the franchise brand.

Now the excuse offered was, ‘Businesses have up and down’ and ‘sometimes you win, sometimes you lose’. That is a fact that I will not deny. However do you not agree with me when I say that most people buy a franchise brand for its in depth knowledge and experience in a certain type of business? Basically when you buy a franchise, you are buying a systematic approach towards a particular business. The success rate should be higher than opening a business on your own.

A franchisor has to maintain a certain standard of quality. Blaming many franchisees for lacking tenacity and perseverance is sloppy and unprofessional. At the end of the day, a franchisor is responsible for weeding out grass from corn. A franchisor should have a system of identifying suitable franchisee partners to work with and pursue a relationship with people who will be able to withstand and stay competitive within the game.

My modestly short list of criticism includes:

• You do not hand out a franchise agreement to every Tom, Dick and Harry who hands you the cash for the start-up (which by the way equals approximately a Honda City in cash at minimum). (Failure rate of 2/3 does not look good to prospective franchisees.) You should set up several interviews to discern the best from the lot and work with those who are committed to your vision. For example, Kumon protects its brand name by insisting that all franchisees work within the franchise on a full time basis. This ensures commitment and dedication (which guarantees a certain quality for the brand name).


• You have to identify profitable areas and look for franchisees in those locations. You should have done your market survey and know which locations work and which don’t. You do not allow a franchisee to open wherever he thinks fits him. After all, you are called "PARENT company" for a reason. You should know better.
  
  On a micro scale, you do not allow a franchisee to open in an unfavourable spot in the shopping mall because in almost all businesses, it is always about location, location, location!


• You must have sufficient time to train your future manager and staff. First impression means everything, so you should never allow your franchisee to open his doors before he is fully equipped, trained and staffed. How is it possible for you to allow a franchisee to open your franchise brand when a simple thing called ‘staffing’ is not prepared, trained and resolved?


• You should listen to the grievances of your franchisees with an open mind and see to their needs through your support system. You must make time for your franchisees and not claim that you are attending one meeting after another and have no time for your clients. You should solve grievances within a target time shorter than your very best of ‘3 to 5 weeks time’. That is almost as miserable as TMnet's current duel with MiniBoyFriend, who is trying to terminate his internet service since February 2008.
  
  The best part is you have spent your resources defending your little bit of money instead of solving the issue. In your busy schedule of getting more franchisees to sign up, you do not even know what is the issue at hand. We do not want all our money back. We want what is right for Malaysia as a acceptable and standard practice. We want justice and consumer rights for the average Malaysian. We do not want some big company threatening us with legal action this and that. We are just small folks.
  
  Take a hint from AirAsia who responded positively to Kenny Sia's criticism. They could have sued him for defamation but instead were gracious and generous enough to take a little criticism and show sincere actions to improve their products and services. Well done, AirAsia. I will vote for Tony Fernandes as Prime Minister any time of the day!


• I do not appreciate being told/advised by the franchisor’s employees that I should use a softer approach ‘because he (the boss) will become hard if you are hard on him’. I have the right to question if a mistake was made. The last time I have heard, it was my brother who paid you a sum of money. In my book, that makes him your customer and not your slave/court jester.
  
  And unlike some employees who might need to curry flavour some bosses, customers do not need to butter the boss. And don’t you even dare start with the ‘my father knows Mahathir’ miserable line of an immensely pathetic excuse.

*
This ‘who’s my daddy?’ would have been an urban legend in many countries but it is alive and well in ours. Welcome to Boleh-Land. We send astronauts into space and build the tallest towers. We use the internet and have hifi, wifi, 3G and whatsonots everywhere. We are the land of everything also must can – from the longest dumpling to the fastest worm in Malaysia. We are still working on a Gold in the Olympics but that’s okay. Lee did us proud anyway. We sent some guys up to Everest and to the north pole. And yet, grown men borrow their daddies names and that of every important person they know with the aim of bullying and intimidating the common Malaysian man.

Everyone had their very own come back lines when they heard the 'Who's your daddy?' line. These lines painfully highlights the differences between the well-connected upper class with political connections and the common everyday everywhere people like you and me.


Him: Do you know who my father is?
Me: Who the hell is your father?
Him: My father knows Mahathir.
Me: Eerm… What am I supposed to say? Congratulations? I'm glad that your dad knows Mahathir. My dad knows Mahathir too. We used to have his photos on our walls.


Him: Do you know who my father is? He knows Mahathir.
A very white Mat Salleh: Do YOU know who MY father is? He knows Ah Beng, the pirated DVD seller on Tuesday’s pasar malam. Can get really cheap DVDs one…


Him: Do you know who my father is? He knows Mahathir.
A 64 year old retired English teacher: So what if your father knows Mahathir? Does that make you right?


Him: Do you know who my father is?
My brother: *in rather meek tone* Who is your father?
Him: My father knows Mahathir. So don’t play around with me.
My brother: Sir, I am not playing around, sir. I am quite serious about the business.
(After hanging up, my brother looked to me and said: Die lah, die lah. They (are) preparing C4 now.
To which I replied: You think it's easy to get a hand on the C4 now?)

What is your best come back line? What would you say if someone intimidates you with his father's name? Let's celebrate Merdeka this year with some deliciously wicked come back lines to the bullies. Submit your smartest and cheekiest come back to 'Who's Your Daddy?' in this post's comment section.



*
If we were more prepared, we would have recorded the whole conversation and posted it on YouTube. It was a huge surprise to hear those words. It was the topic of conversation for days and many jokes were spawned from the "Who's Your Daddy?". We are living in 2008 in the land of the free and here is an overseas educated and good looking man (and likely father to some kids) using his daddy's name and Mahathir's name like a baby using a bib while feeding from the milk bottle. But alas, we did not record it, so he is not going to be a superstar anytime soon. (I really wished that we did though because his reaction would be priceless and worth every single Ringgit paid.)

My family is not pursuing the matter anymore. The issue is resolved and closed as far as the family is concerned. Well we have lost, isn't it? We do not know Mahathir and he claims that his father does. The company has a huge legal eagle machinery to condemn us to financial ruins. So Daddy's Boy wins and we have lost. The franchisor is yet to reimburse some money which they had promised and we are not hopeful. I told my brother that this is a bitter lesson that he must learn. Life is not all wonderful and businessmen can be as cunning as they can be honest.

I am writing this so my young readers will be informed and educated. Read the terms and conditions of your franchise agreement properly. Read the fine print. Hire a lawyer to protect your rights BEFORE you sign the agreement. A franchise brand is like all other businesses. It isn't infallible. Choose your business partners wisely. Protect, yes protect your rights as a consumer and do not be afraid to ask questions. Be brave to seek for what you think is right and is rightfully yours - as a member of civil society, a consumer, a citizen of a free country called Malaysia.

But above all, think of Malaysia. Love our country. Show some pride in your conduct. Shape your future. You can be better than the ordinary. All of us are born equal. This isn't the 1800s. We are no more living in a feudal system where some lord has the right to push us around - where the folks have to bow to those with connections and right family names. In Malaysia, we are each accountable for our actions. We cannot blame our parents and grandparents for our choices. We cannot blame our forefathers or politicians for their choices in the past. We make our choices today and shape our very future.

It is time for our nation to grow up and walk on our own two feet. Fifty one years on, we are more than ready to grow stronger shoulders so we can carry our own weight and walk the long and narrow. We no longer use our father’s name. We have ours.


*

"You might be a big fish
In a little pond
Doesn't mean you've won
Cause along may come
A bigger one."
~ Coldplay, ‘Lost’.

***
Related Link:

• Kenny Sia's Tony Fernandes Read My Blog


• 49th Merdeka Post - We're 49 Yrs Old Now and What Have We Achieved?


• 50th Merdeka Post - To The One Who Searched for Malay Pig


• 51st Merdeka Post - Who's Your Daddy?

You know that time has passed you by when you wake up in the middle of the night with, “What the fuck! September 2008 is just round the corner. Technically I have known YC for two years”.

You may ask, “Why YC as a point of reference?” and I would answer, “Because she is about the only common person that both you and I know”.

Yes, it is two years since I met the little missy somewhere in the desert of nowhere and approximately a year since I last seen her. The last that she called was about two months ago on a Thursday afternoon. “Want to go to Rawa?” she asked. I wished I could. I was down with the flu and was more of a dead dog than babe in bikini.

I have known YC for two years. Twenty four months, if you wish for more “drama”, so to speak. I have written in ANNN for a year extra. That makes it three whole years. Three whole years of stories of me, me and more ME.

It’s funny how time flies when you do not want it to.



*
Are you one of those people who enjoy quantifying their lives? I happen to be one of them people. I like to think, equate, count, reflect and decide if I had a good life. Or a horrific life, on a bad day.

I am also one of those manic people who need to achieve something – to make meaning of my life. That sort of thing. I need to feel that I have done something to improve myself and on a larger scale, society and world. Therefore it comes as no surprise if a pop quiz in Glamour magazine once said that I would either be:

• A psychiatrist


• A teacher.


• A writer.

I found the above list quite revealing. They were all professions that I have considered in the past and they remain the professions that I am considering after all these years. Strange, huh?



*
I used to write daily. Those were the times when I think I was trying to figure myself. I wrote long and short and I wrote lots. I wrote the truth and then there were some mistakes. Hint: all those entries about other characters in the blogsphere such as Daphne or XX. (How stupid.)

Then I figured that perhaps I should give my readers a break and begun writing on alternate days. I wrote only what I felt comfortable writing and I wrote only the truth. I could have written a tall tale - that I had a magnificent lifestyle. Or that I was physically taller. But I thought I should not lie about such trivial matters. If I should write a creative blog and told a lie, I much prefer telling a huge, fat ass lie.

Yup. I am a greedy bugger.



*
I realised that caffeine do not agree with me from dinnertime onwards. I should never ever have coffee with VSOP if I want to sleep by 11 p.m. It is never a good idea, I have discovered. Because here I am at 1 a.m. writing this to you. Not that I do not want to write to you. I always felt the urge to write to you but I always found some other things to do and errands to run. Errands such as to determine the design for my kitchen.

I am smart enough to hire a designer to design my kitchen layout plus produce the cabinets. Then I am manic enough to override his decisions by electing myself as the chief designer. Mind you, he is the second firm I have approached. I am much happier with this chap because he arrives for appointments on time, is pleasant and answers my questions with confidence.



*
There are hardly anything that I can do. Much less errands to run at one in the morning. So here I am, contemplating my life. Thinking and trying to establish if indeed I have a good life. No, let me rephrase that.

To determine if indeed I am HAVING a good life.

I can’t decide. I know that I am having a good life. I mean, I have enough work clothes to rotate two months without washing a single item. My parents love me and I still get extra lovin’ from people around me - known and unknown. I have a good set of friends around me (MBF R, LL and of course, my ever faithful breakfast buddy, PY). Even E and BestGuyFriend made their presence known in recent weeks, which is really nice.

I have lots to be thankful and even more to celebrate. I am satisfied with the progress on my professional life. It has given me many opportunities that many do not receive. Personally I am doing well. Life is hectic but I feel satisfied internally. I even enjoy the after work crawl home! Taking my place in the traffic jam makes me feel alive and important.

That I have a place in society.

That I am doing something important.

That I am making changes and who I am matter to the world.



*
Oh yes, it is 1:18 a.m. and all I can think of is how to contribute to society and if my life is significant. I am sure that you think of such important matters too, when you can’t sleep at night.

Why is it that as great as my life is, I do not dare to call it ‘great’? Is it because I am afraid that it will fade away the moment I do? Is it because I am humble? (Definitely am not a humble person, which you can gather from my writing). Why can’t I just say, “Yes, Otto. Well done. You have a GREAT life!”? Could it be because I constantly search for something greater? And bigger? And more meaningful?

Why the search anyway? If life is great, why look for more? Now that is an interesting question to ask yourself the next time you can’t sleep because you were smart enough to have coffee nearing your sleeping time.



*
‘You are a blanket bandit,’ he said.

I was driving home after dinner this evening when he related how I have stolen the blanket last night and the few nights before last. Like usual I start building a nest every night before I sleep. I am making a habit of pulling the blanket right up to my neck, to keep myself warm. All those nights sleeping naked had left me with the undesirable trip to the doctor’s - TWICE this year alone! Since then I always wore something to sleep in an attempt to keep myself warm at night.

Miraculously I always wound up sleeping on top of the blanket in the course of the night. He slept naked too but never received a trip to the doctor’s. But he soon will, at the rate that I am pulling off the blanket, which leaves both me and his bare butt in the cold.

‘The next time this happens, I will pull the blanket back, Blanket Bandit,’ he said, gently tapping my nose.

Me, a blanket bandit. Now that makes a catchy title, don’t you think?



*
It’s 1:35 a.m. and I am still pondering on the quality of my life. All my friends remarked that I think too much for my own good. But I think that thinking about life makes life eventful and special. I savour each minute of my waking hours and I celebrate life itself. Everything seems clear and real to me. Even dreams are sweeter.

I am the first to admit that I can be a little strict with myself. Harsh, if you wish. But you see, that is the only way to succeed. Show me a disciplined person and I will show you a successful person. If you are happy, it did not happen by chance. You made it happen. You chose it. Every step and every decision you took, take and will take takes you a step closer towards happiness. Or away.



*
It is 1:42 a.m. on the 5th of August 2008. The Blanket Bandit mightily declares that her life is great. Maybe that’s because she is going to steal the blanket again tonight.

‘Miss Tan, you’ve got to help me,’ I bleated into the phone. The heavy traffic noise muffled her replies, thus compounding my frustrations. ‘The guy’s brother keeps calling me at every hour!’



*
Two Tuesdays ago some smart 19 year old was fetching his chick from work. I guess he was too excited at the prospect of being a slave driver to his pretty girlfriend that he pushed the gas pedal instead of the usual brake pedal. We were all stuck in heavy traffic and everything was at a standstill. The cars in front of me were all on brake. I was on brake when this 19 year old accidentally pressed ‘GO!’.

PY got out of the car and approached the boy. He was tall and lanky. If he was nervous, he surely did not show it. He was cool and composed, stepping out of his Mercedes. Not your average college kid who knocked his daddy’s car for the first time, if you know what I mean. He took out his MyKad when PY asked him for verification. He even corrected PY when she took down the car registration number. (See, what I mean about being cool and composed?). Such is the innocence of a 19 year old in puppy love with his anxious looking girlfriend at the passenger seat.

‘Thank you,’ I said to the boy as I walked back to my car. What the fuck am I doing, I asked myself. The guy knocked my car and I am bloody thanking him for it.



*
I received a call from MNG, informing me that they were having a pre-sales event. So after the short roadside stint, we packed up and headed to MNG. I sat on a chair, thinking about the incident while PY was busy trying on some clothes on 50% discount. I figured that a police report should be made to ensure that both parties were clear on the facts. I found his MyKad producing stint troubling. You see, I would have protested like hell, if anyone asked for my MyKad but the 19 year old flipped his MyKad out like he would flip out his Platinum Card at his girlfriend's every request.

The accident occurred at 2:18 p.m. but by 4 p.m. his brother took over the communications, which started out quite normal and turned abnormal as the minutes and hours passed.

I finished the police report at 6 p.m. and he called. ‘Come out for coffee lah,’ he said. ‘My treat, ok. You bring your girlfriends and I treat you three ladies to coffee. This is very small matter only’.

He called again at every hour and at 9 p.m. he said, ‘Where are you staying? Come out for some tea or something?’ I politely declined his generous offer for coffee, tea, dinner or even friendship or companionship or all four at once. Come on, I might have been crazy enough to pick Wouter and two of his companions from a 7-11 on Saturday night but I was not crazy enough to go for a coffee session with the brother of the guy who ever so lightly bumped into my car, costing a repair of RM2000.00.

Thank goodness I habitually silenced my mobile at night because he kept calling till past 1 a.m. which then led me to call my Honda sales representative for dear help the following morning.



*
‘Miss Tan, you’ve got to help me,’ I bleated into the phone. The heavy traffic noise muffled her replies, thus compounding my frustrations. ‘The guy’s brother keeps calling me at every hour!’

‘Aiyah, maybe he wants to go out with a pretty girl?’ she said. ‘Never mind, I ask Mr. Muthu to help you with the insurance claim and fix your car, ok? Just inform the guy that your insurance company is taking over.’

I was relieved when I saw Muthu. He had this grin on his face when I greeted him. ‘Mr. Muthu, you are going to return my car to her pretty former glory?’ I asked. He smiled, walked to the workshop, then came out with a piece of chalk and a digital camera. He took a good look at the back end of my car and proceeded to draw many crosses on the rear bumper.

‘Wah Muthu,’ I said, looking at the many crosses, then looking at him. ‘That’s a lot of X…’. My bumper looked like a LV Monogram bag, with the exception that the repeated design was ‘X’ instead of ‘LV’. He explained that he had to indicate the areas that needed fixing, so insurance claims could be made on my behalf. ‘Change the whole bumper. Spray and knock,’ he concluded.



*
I passed my documents to him, so he could process the claims. ‘Eh, can photocopy extra set for me or not?’ I asked. ‘I have to see the sergeant this afternoon’.

‘Why you need to see the sergeant?’ Muthu asked. His eyes were looking intently into mine. Darkest shade of black, I thought. Muthu had such dark eyes and a head full of hair that was dutifully combed back. He looked like a version of Ken Doll (Barbie’s boyfriend) - just perhaps he was a little darker and not as proportionately tall. But he had a cheerful and friendly face and he responded efficiently to my queries. (These were my definition of good customer service).

‘Dunno. The sergeant said I needed to see him a few days later with copies of my driving licence, insurance documents and MyKad.’

‘But you don’t need to see him again. There is no such procedure,’ he said. Heads popped out of office cubicles and even the cashier girl placed her face flat against the glass separating her from the world. ‘WHAT?!’ boomed right through the whole showroom. Customers turned to look to Muthu and I. Silence crawled into every space in the big and airy showroom.

‘What? I don’t have to bloody visit him again? I hate doing all this official paperwork mumbo jumbo thing and he nearly costed me an afternoon!’

‘Maybe he thought you were pretty,’ Muthu said, then he grinned his sheepish grin.

I did not visit the sergeant later that afternoon. The sergeant did not call either, so I guess it was not an important 2nd visit after all. I had tea with my father and was home by 7 p.m.



*
‘I need to get to work,’ I said after signing the insurance claim documents.

‘You are working?’ Muthu asked. He said the word ‘work’ as if it was some alien micro organism attached to my right shoulder.

‘Obviously! Who will pay for my car, if I am not working?’ I asked, shrugging my shoulders. I got up and zipped up my blood red Rosewood bag.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Back to work, like everybody else?’ I said. I stressed on the word “work”. Muthu grinned again. ‘Where do you think I am going?’

‘Dunno. I figured a girl like you never need to work,’ Muthu said, then stamping the document that I just authorized. The conversation ended, just the same way it started.

Just as I pushed through the glass door, Muthu said ‘Come back next week. I’ll inform you of the repair date’.

‘Silly Milo,’ I said to the fat orange cat. He was busy poking his nose into the corner of the potted flower. Every so often, Milo waits at a wall, waiting for a lizard to drop to the ground. And when it did, Milo would lunge at it.

‘See, all you have is the lizard’s tail,’ I said as I lifted the potted flower. The lizard was nowhere to be found. All that was left of it was its tail, still twitching and jumping about. ‘ A lizard’s tail as a decoy.’



*
Don’t worry. I have written in this blog many times since the last entry. I wrote them in the middle of the night, when nothing is alive and everything is asleep. I wrote them in my head, word by word, weaving tiny little sentences into a big story to call my very own. Some nights I even managed to come up with a witty title for my entries. Seriously.

There was a night when all I heard was tiny water droplets drip dropping from the faulty tap in the bathroom. All I could think then was to describe everything my eyes saw and everything my heart felt. You see, I have experienced some strange things. So strange that I have changed and even stranger still, the experiences caused me to stop writing altogether.



*
Did you know that I can see sounds? Yup. I promise you that it is true. I can SEE sounds. I hear sounds, of course. But I also see them. Some people have square sounds and some others have round sounds. Sometimes I bump into people with triangle sounds too but they are quite rare.

These days I not only see sounds. I feel a person’s emotions floating on his head like a cloud. But it isn’t necessarily a cloud. Some people have rainbows and butterflies instead of clouds. Others are like a scene out of The Sound of Music, green hills complete with bunnies and all. Angry people have angry clouds that look like looming dark clouds with occasional fiery dragon breaths.

I used to be one of those people with angry clouds. I always imagined myself a dark endless cloud that mushrooms more and more into the air. It was a frightening affair, with secrets and unknown dreams. Sometimes there were thunderstorms above my head and when it was not, it was a tornado tearing at the centre of my soul, eating everything bright and beautiful.

I sowed seeds of anxiety and pain through Nude, Not Naked, writing everything in a pitch-black cloud that was punctuated only by terrifying screams of my own nightmares. Everything was beautiful but I felt as if I stood at the edge of a thunderstorm and at any moment, someone or something would take everything I loved away. Everyday felt like I was standing at the eye of an emotional storm.

In my dreams, I always ran. I ran from the unknown to the unknown. I ran from doomsday monsters and evil spirits that trailed after me during the day. I watched people I loved die before my eyes. I stood at rapture. Dreams were literally swirls of my emotions and subconscious thoughts.




*
For the longest time, I had not written. How can I write when all I have above my head are blossoming flowers, flying fairies and sunshine? I tried searching for the evil dark clouds but they are nowhere to be found. Not under shadows of things, the deep recess of cupboards or corners of rooms. It occurred so slowly and so subtly that I am blatantly caught by surprise.

If I were to write a sentence or two, they would spew giddy happiness and everlasting joy. Bloody hell, I am like the princess from Enchantment. Every word is a blissful melody and every emotion is of pure contentment and delight. I am actually feeling at peace with myself and with the world. Everything is fine and I am all right.

Damn it. I am robbed of my misery and words do not seem to carry the same anger or resentment they once did. I do not know how to write anymore.



*
‘I am ok,’ MiniBoyFriend R said. ‘I am fine on my own. It’s okay if I have this thing,’ he said as he pointed to his mobile. ‘And it is fine if I don’t.’ Obviously the mobile was an illustration. He was talking about material things and the detachment that he felt though he owned those items. He felt nothing when he had them and he felt nothing if he lost them. Nothing on earth added or took away anything away from MiniBoyFriend R. He just was and just is.

I hold onto everything very tightly. Every memory, every dream, every word, every action and every thought – I play them in my head a million times. When I am happy, I savour the experience a thousand times and when I am sad, my heart dies a thousand million times. Every emotion is clearer and every colour is brighter. And though I feel so much sadness, my heart also felt so much hope and love.

And if I were to detach myself from pain and danger like a lizard detaching his tail, maybe all I am escaping from is life. And what is life is if you cannot feel a thing. You might as well be a lettuce or cabbage on a field. I rather feel all the pain and all the dark clouds, if it means I can feel all the sunshine and fluffy bunny's tail.

You must celebrate with me. I will write again soon enough. I was not ready to share my intimate thoughts many months ago but now I think I am. I have changed, of course. But that is life, I guess. Some days you are a nuclear waste land of vast emptiness and other days you are just pure fertile soil, bountiful fruits and fresh water. Detachment and reattachment from life, playing itself in a loop of birth and destruction.



*
If I asked you to choose a body position to represent your heart, what would it be? How would you arrange your body? Where would your head lay? Where would your hands be? Are you legs touching the ground or flying into the sky? Would you be soft and laid on the ground? Would you be in high motion, one leg up and ready for action?

In recent weeks, I instinctively moved myself into a position. I do not think it is yoga since I do not know any yoga poses. However my body tells me to get into this position for a few minutes each morning and so I do exactly what my body tells me to do. Each morning I would wake up and take my position. Palms by my side and opened, I would face the sun with my eyes closed. I would soak and imagine absorbing all the positive energy from the sun into the core of my body. Then I would raise my arms above my head, stretching myself like an arrow flying into the sky whilst my feet are firmly planted on the ground.

If I were to choose a body position to represent my heart at the moment, this would be it. Feet firmly planted on the ground, hands stretched outwards and upwards, like an arrow shooting into infinity.

Working till lunchtime, then meeting up with the girls. Driving up and down through all the shops, big and small. Window-shopping and dreaming of all the furniture for a place you would call your very own. Exchanging notes, prices and latest conquests with some girlfriends in a tiny cafe.

Oozing with charm, you negotiate the prices for your beloved treasures. What glee you feel deep in your heart, for you will lay your head to rest in your own home in a few more heartbeats...




*
The Conquests

The dazzle of hundreds of crystals laced with aluminium thread, shaped in a snowball. Hung low on the coffee table, which I have not found.


Pure white glass blown dainty chandelier. The only feminine and whimsical piece in the whole house. Very Alice in Wonderland.


Stainless steel light in a beehive shape, sitting on the center kitchen island.


The biggest and most comfortable sofa that my pockets could afford, in white with down feathers filling.


Dining table in eclipsed shaped tampered glass top and stainless steel circular leg. I am looking to pair the table with funkier chairs (or at least happier).


Sunny yellow bedroom curtains to match my existing dark mahogany MacIntosh inspired bed and dresser.


Living and Dining room curtain against a milky white wall.


Sample of roman blinds for the windows in the kitchen area.



*
Such is happiness in life.

The season has come and gone. Flowers died and now they are alive again. Snow came and then it melted. How different everything seems when time comes calling.

Everything changes. Nothing stays the same. What was there a month ago is now long gone.



Past
Snow boarding in Himos during Easter
(check out the snow!)



Present
The sea that was frozen a month ago. Now ducks and swans swim merrily in it.


Exhilaration at 160km/h on the Ducati.


Visited the zoo on a sunny Sunday.


I was not the only one enjoying the sun.



(Near) Future
I am returning home to turn this 2D plan into a 3D house.

Ground floor

1st floor



*
I can't complain about how my life is unfolding. There are many things to look forward to. I am very excited about the house and especially the furniture shopping (hehehe). I am a little pissed off that I missed Gudang's sales in March but I am sure there will be another one just round the corner. Also need to find some handsome looking lightings.

Do you know where I can find reasonablly priced Nordic inspired furniture pieces (that is not from Ikea)? After years of clubbing and pubbing around, I somehow have settled into a more serene lifestyle, which is reflected in a change of furniture taste.

‘So it is not ok for a forty plus woman to dance around like a crazy person?’ I asked again. I asked the question a second time because it was important to get the facts right.

Tim nodded his head. He did not bother justifying himself. The gospel according to Tim says that old men (old by definition here means anyone above 40) can prance around and do stupid things together, It is acceptable because ‘everyone thinks that it is just another bunch of lads doing stupid weekend stuff again’. However women above forty are not measured on the same ruler. Somehow this 42 year old divorced father of three teenage girls and boyfriend to one 35 year old woman thinks it is NOT okay for older women to go mad on a weekend.

‘They just look pathetic,’ he said. No apologies for the statement. ‘A woman over 40 should look dignified. Not slobbering around the pub like a drunken fool.’

‘But it is okay for men above 40 to do so,’ I paused, hoping that he would disagree. If it is not okay for women to do it, then it should not be okay for men to do it too, right?

Apparently, the answer is wrong. As a matter of fact, he agreed whole heartedly that men of whatever age can get drunk, get loud, piss around the garden and have noisy boys nights. But girls, oh girls just do not do such stupid things.

‘Grown up girls just don’t do such things,’ he said.

Scandinavians on the whole are a very forward thinking bunch. Men and women enjoyed similar rights for the longest time. Suffrage movement in Sweden and Finland led its women to the right to vote in 1862 and 1906 respectively. Their men are well house trained, can cook and generally treat their women folk no different from how they would treat another man. (That means no special girlie privileges like opening doors just because you are a girl. You get some and so you lose some, I guess).

I sat at the dining table, imagining some Feminist members crucifying Tim. Yup, Sweden has their very own feminist political party and I am sure those girls would love to hang Tim or do something nasty to him. I was not angry or anything. I was just surprised that men (who are taught from birth to treat women as equals) have double standards. If sexism exists in Scandinavia, you can beat your beans (if you are Jack) on the double standard existing and thriving in a country such as Malaysia. (No offence to Malaysians in a whole but we must admit that we are 100 years behind Sweden in this area – quite literally).

So what makes it okay for men to do it? ‘Well men never grow up,’ Tim said. Men grow old but they never grow up. Put a few men together and you can see them gelling together, merrily enjoying themselves. They can joke, have fun, burp, drink beer, fart and laugh. In Finland, you even get to see your friend’s balls while you burp, drink beer, fart and run naked around a bush during Mid Summers. Such is the camaraderie of men.

Women, according to Tim, were expected to behave themselves and carry themselves well.

‘Carry themselves with dignity,’ I said.

‘Yes, yes. That is the word. Dignity. With dignity,’ said Tim. ‘You just feel sad when you see an older woman dribbling beer all over or is too loud.’ He took a sip of whiskey, then coffee. But why should a woman show restraint and carry herself well all the time? Why can’t a 40 year old woman behave as carefree and reckless as she was when she was a single 20 year old university student? Tim was sharing some ideas why it felt weird looking at a drunk woman.

‘I think it has to do with your image of a mother,’ I said. Psychology is lovely. With psychology, you can blame your mother for every fuck up in your life. Most mothers are anchors in their young children’s lives and they are responsible, caring, attentive, well behaved, restraint etc. A mother’s actions influence her child’s future behaviour.

‘Yes, that must be it. Our mothers always carried themselves well. A drunk 40 year old woman just looks sad,’ Tim said.

I was having dinner with three eligible men, who were all married and then divorced. They were successful and were reasonably good looking for their age (think George Clooney). Tim had 3 teenage daughters and Tapio had one. The Bachelor was a sperminator to some British bird, so technically he has passed on his genetic material. They were all casually meeting younger women. As they grow older, the women became younger and the age gap became larger. They swore that younger women made better partners.

‘Here lies a problem, boys,’ I said. ‘Men intrinsically seek out young women because they make good companions. Tim, now you said that younger women are more spontaneous and happy, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Then why do you feel that it isn’t proper for an older woman to just be that – spontaneous and happy-fied? Don't you think it is unfair?'

I was in the shower when I thought about my blog. I usually think of you guys when I am up and about doing things. But sometimes I do think of you when I am in the shower, with the hot water running down my naked body. I was thinking of all the people I knew resulting from my blog, About Nude Not Naked.

It all started with the grand dame of shopping, YC. I think I met her more than a year ago. Oh yes, when I think about it now, I am sure we met in 2006. I remember texting her three seconds after I turned my back and walked away from Adidas Boy on 30th October 2006. I remember pressing the phone keypad at the corner of Mango boutique, Mid Valley, restraining tears from falling, writing something to YC.

‘You know, you two will clash when you meet,’ someone remarked. The friend of a friend of a friend of YC’s was certain that two huge egos should never meet. I brushed the idea away and met YC a few times.

YC has the most beautiful eyes, almost cartoon-like. She should be a little taller than I, waif thin, with a face that would sit pretty in any hairstyles. The next thing I noticed after her physical features were two pieces of jewellery that she adorned. She had a green jade bangle and a crystal pendant in the shape of a pacifier. I thought they were such contradiction to her persona, which I think tells you a thing or two about the young lady. She came across as intelligent, vocal and a thousand years wiser than I ever was at her age.

And no, we never had any of the arguments that the friend of a friend of a friend of YC’s predicted earlier. I dotted on her like a little sister and to a certain extend, she dotted on me like a little sister too (since she is the more streetwise of us two). The highlights of our blog-friendship included:

• The ‘He is married’ episode - a guy friend of hers and I were secretly talking to each other with our eyes (commonly known as the art of flirting) when YC dropped the ‘he is married’ bomb. (He has the most winsome smile). That was a very embarrassing moment, needless to say. Crash and burn, baby.


• The ‘Mad Dash for Chicken Rice’ – we drove at warp speed down a highway to purchase packets of chicken rice. The chicken rice was worth every kilometre of the way. Actually, YC has a thing for pork satay too whilst I am not a pork person. Come to think of it, YC is very food oriented…


• The ‘Clash of Great Fashion Senses’ episode – we walked into Lola together one night in the most contradictory party clothes. YC, in a black sleeves tight blouse with a cinched waist with gold buckles while I, in a soft pink blouse with a slit running past the cleavage. Talk about differences.

We got along reasonably well, if not for the fact that I am 8 years older than her and a hell of a lot more quiet and a dash more boring. I think she was disappointed to discover that I am such a quiet person in real life. Oh well.

Then there is Nicholas, whom I met in London. We spent three happy months together, mainly sitting in Four Seasons for duck rice or Hong Kong Café in China Town for all its delicious goodies. We spoke regularly on the phone when we were not chatting online. Nicholas is a wonderful young man, who strangely was not attached to anyone when I first met him. I am glad to know that he has found someone since then.

Nicholas often wore a beanie, which hid his short-cropped hair. He wore a pair of black rim pair of glasses (or at least I think they were) and often carried a backpack whenever we went out together. I cannot describe him beyond this since he is a boy. There is nothing much to talk about boy’s sense of fashion, now is there?

Nicholas’ most attractive quality must be his warmth. He comes across as a genuine and caring person. He is a generous spirit with a lot of give to those around him. Spending the weekends and afternoons with him was simply pleasurable. He is a gentleman through and through.

‘Oh don’t worry. You don’t have to wait for me. You shop until I arrive,’ he said on the mobile on an afternoon we were supposed to meet up for tea. Dear Nicholas braved through the summer sales in the commercial labyrinth called TopShop, in search for a hyperventilating Otto on a shopping frenzy. I was happily browsing through racks after racks of clothes, looking at its many lines, which are not available in its other franchise. No other TopShop on earth would do.

Obviously we spoke a lot about our private lives, which are not for your eyes to read. Other than private stuff, we actually did a lot of London tourist things together:

• The Nottinghill Carnival –There were lots of music blasting around the surrounding blocks of apartments, which was nice but we basically saw only horse shit and an ocean of human heads. Did not manage to see anything on the floats despite wearing 4 inch hells that day.


• The ‘Young Oriental Models Upstairs’ episode – It started with me noticing a paper on a door that said ‘Young Oriental Models Upstairs’. We were one street away from China Town, Leicester Square. I was certain that it was a polite advertisement for prostitutes, so Nicholas and I walked across the street to check out the rooms upstairs. ‘Oh so that’s why they are called Red Light District,’ Nicholas said, noting the red light bulb in those rooms. I think I hugged him tightly on his neck and we walked towards Hong Kong Café, giggling and chatting away.


• The King’s Road Adventure – Nicholas and I spent a relaxing afternoon getting lost in the fashion mecca of the 60s. We wandered through small shops and what-so-nots. We tried not to end up in the hospital while we mounted the lions on Trafalgar Square. That was very memorable. I wore a halter-neck blouse and no bra. *beaming with happiness*

He addresses me by my real name with the title ‘jie’ at the end, which means ‘sister’ in Mandarin. No one calls me ‘sister’, not even my brothers, so it is quite refreshing and sweet that Nicholas calls me sister. That is as Chinese as I will ever be.

Not too surprisingly we remained close friends since returning back to Malaysia. We talked often on the phone and we poured quite a few secrets. He remains one of the few people who know details of my daily life stories. I cannot imagine that it has been nearly 2 years since we first met in London. Time surely passed by faster than I am comfortable with. Now he is working in NuffNang, which makes the next interesting story.

You see, I met Timothy too. We met for a short lunch in the Four Seasons in Bayswater. He was on his way back to Malaysia and I just arrived in London that morning. We chatted for a bit and exchanged some ideas. Now I must say that this young man is visionary. Do keep him under your radar because he is someone to watch out for. I was not surprised when he came up with a great idea and launched NuffNang. Timothy came across as a rather passionate person and he had the balls to see his dreams come through. NuffNang celebrated its first anniversary recently.

It is strange that I nearly met up with Kenny. Somehow we could not meet up and we ended up talking on the phone. ‘So you aren’t going to tell me where you are at?’ he asked. I replied ‘no’. (It is so obvious, isn’t it?). He dropped by ANNN several times, commented some and even mentioned ANNN in his blog. But you and I must admit that Kenny and I were as different as night and day. On blog reviews, he would receive a thousand stars for humor and I would be glad if I scored even a pathetic one. So there you go.

Oh I should also mention Ian Liew, who is a thinker, like myself. We spoke a couple of times over the phone. I even sent him the ‘Call me now!’ short text messages, so I could howl on the phone, sharing my minute details of my emotional dramas. It is amazing that Australia-UK phone calls are reasonably priced when compared to Australia-Malaysia. Ian always had perfect timing when he called or chatted online with me – while I was prancing around my bedroom half naked, trying to get ready for a hot weekend night out clubbing.

In retrospect, he called me out of the blue last year. I can’t remember what was the content of our conversation. I had this fading memory of it being a birthday greeting. Can’t remember if it was his or mine. Both of us were preparing to go out clubbing that night, so the conversation was short. I should email that boy again soon and see what he is up to lately.

There are of course many readers who correspond via emails. Some comment on my writing style and grammar mistakes, which I truly appreciate. Others write to share their stories and secrets. Many remarked that I gave words to their private stories. So many of you had similar life experiences. Writing and reading ANNN has healed both your hearts and mine. You have been a witness to my life. I am glad that my stories have found a place in many of your hearts and I hope I have not disappointed any of you.


*
I am flying back to Malaysia in less than 14 days. I am feeling butterflies in my stomach. It is always the same feeling. You will never get used to it. I am anxious to go home. Three months is a long time. Many things change. People change. Roads change. I change.

Coming to Europe gives me the opportunity to step away from the daily grinds in Malaysia. Everything feels lighter when I am away. Every frantic moment melts away. Everything might move at a radical pace but internally I feel a sense of calm and peace. And somehow I can see things better when I am thousands of miles away.

I grow up a little more each time when I return home. It starts with a total transformation on the outside the morning I am home. My haircut and colour would have changed, before I meet my mother for lunch. Clothes and hairstyle has always been a symbolic expression of everything that I felt inside. Each time I return home, I feel like it's a moment of rebirth and I am a whole new person again. I am no longer who I was months before. Friends who meant the world to me before I flew to Europe no longer have a place in my life. Things that were important to me a few months ago now no longer have priority in my schedule. Going home to Malaysia always signal a reshuffle of priorities, reflecting the change of my personal beliefs and desires.

Not many people have the opportunity to grow and change like the way I do. Maybe that is why they are still reflections of themselves from years ago while I have lived the lives of a thousand women. Maybe people are meant to grow and develop. Maybe people are supposed to take another route in their lives. Maybe they are trapped in their circumstance and cannot evolve into the person they only dreamt of each night. Maybe I am supposed to be trapped too.