Nanjing Road East

If there's one thing the Chinese prize above all, it's family - perhaps let me rephrase, the enduring continuity of the family lineage with progeny to continue the next generation. Ye Olde Confucian way. Is it any wonder that the the symbolism of 100 children at play figures large on paintings, embroideries and other Chinese paraphernalia? The recent one-child policy might have quashed their enthusiasm a little but that doesn't stop them from trying.

So what happens if that singleton refuses to date?

A mercantile people for more than a millennia, the Chinese have always loved a good bargain with an endless need to barter for goods deep in their blood so what could they have possibly done with a single, marriageable child in their household? Why not bring out their precious goods to sell on the streets?

Or maybe a public park at the meeting place of Nanjing Road East and West?

I mean, the bashful kids obviously aren't going to sell themselves! Who better to peddle them off than the people who know them best ; their own parents?

Woman : I've got a boy.
Man : Good?
Woman : Yes. Educated and earning a good salary/
Man : I've got a girl.
Woman : How old is she?
Man : Marriageable I assure you.
Woman : Perfect.

Flesh market indeed!

Much to the horror of their children I'm sure. Though perhaps some of them are truly lovelorn and don't mind their parents giving them a helping hand in the dating milieu.

Forget about Tindr and other dating apps out there. Not since the olden days of Chinese matchmakers in Mulan would you have seen such as a sight as the People's Square Park in Shanghai with gossip gangs of elderly parents communing in the park with handheld laminated notices - or placed more discreetly on umbrellas - detailing pertinent information about their marriageable children from the usual date of birth to their more likeable personality traits.

No such eligible boys at the market - otherwise I would have packed him in the luggage. 

Walking about staring at all the notices, I'll admit to a certain ego boost when I got asked about my eligibility by a few portly matrons. Never let it be said that dressing up well benefits no one, certainly helped raise my points on the marriage mart here. Unsurprisingly few real candidates are present in the park. Very few pictures are posted on the advertisements which gives me a very peculiar idea about their looks, or lack of. Charming Calvin said they might be all be shy but I seriously wonder.

Selling points for the boys were their degrees, housing opportunities and career prospects while the girls had their age and personality on their side. Really old-fashioned China indeed and certainly not a place for the raging feminists.

Unsurprisingly the local Shanghai men are famously saleable, not only for their advantageous addresses but also their unwholesome reputation for being easily henpecked. But beware those girls over 30 as this reporter would tell you.

Oof. I'll admit those gruffly exacting parents pull no punches when they are giving their unvarnished opinions.

Ye Shanghai

It came as quite a surprise to realize, during our efforts to procure a travel visa, that the last time we actually were in China had been almost a decade ago. Has it actually been that long?

However it did take a while before deciding on where to go next with our shortlist of requirements; wanted someplace not too far and easily navigable enough, somewhere not too cold nor too hot... etc. Since we had such fond memories of our last trip to Suzhou and Shanghai way, way back, a return was definitely in the cards to see how much had changed. After his long ago assignment there, Charming Calvin still had some small misgivings about whether the brash mainland Chinese had actually learned to cultivate some manners.

Me, I figured I could be quite as horribly rag-mannered as the rest of them. Perhaps the last time I might have been astonished by their unapologetic brusqueness but this time, I was a little more prepared. You shove me, this time I'll just shove you back, maybe with some peppery insults to boot. Not exactly the ringing endorsement our mild-mannered fellow needed which earned a censorious side eye from him.

Though much has certainly changed in the ever-growing metropolis of Shanghai from the awe-inspiring futuristic skyline to the way digital technology has taken over almost every aspect of their lives with newfangled apps for everything, that blundering brashness of the people with the severe lack of personal boundaries still remains. After an hour or two of being carelessly bumped around in teeming crowds ( Shanghai seriously gives a whole new meaning to crowds ) from the metro stations to the malls, it becomes almost a habit to do pretty much the same with little or no apology.

Perhaps it's with age and maturity that I look at it but I find their behaviour almost... charming though the more fastidious Calvin had far less complimentary words for it. While they do still speak in louder, harsher tones than we are used to, I did find them all extremely helpful. Just think of that grumpy old uncle in the neighbourhood with a heart of gold.

And I suspect most of the proud Shanghainese - no doubt gossiping in their singsong dialect - would vehemently insist that the rougher rabble in their midst were actually newly arrived country cousins.

Everything bright, brash and blinding in the city of Shanghai. 

Probably those were the unfortunate ones cramming together with us as we were all herded in boisterous groups down the main shopping thoroughfare Nanjing Road to the Bund. Only a handful could be clearly seen to be non local; the majority of the rambunctious horde seemed purely to be their very own Chinese countrymen coming to see the future of their prideful nation. After all, where else to get a better juxtaposition of the new and the old in the city with the more venerable grand old colonial ladies on one side of the Bund and the flashier, neon-coloured skyscrapers on the Pudong side; divided only by the Huangpu River.

And that's only if you can get above the mass of flashing camera bulbs as they all snap pictures simultaneously en masse.

Comes as no surprise that it's the Chinese who coined the phrase 人山人海! 

Hows of Hospitality II : The Gay Uncles

Munching on endless mandarin oranges, feasting on seasonal delicacies and tossing firecrackers would be how most of us would spend the entire fifteen days of the Chinese New Year; but let us all not forget that the most important part of the time-honoured celebration would be the reunion of family members from near and far. Yes, whether or not we actually enjoy their continued presence in our lives - though I'm stodgily old-fashioned enough to believe that could be the time to foster closer familial ties if possible.

We can choose our own family these days but that doesn't mean we should give up entirely on the ones we were given. If you've never actually made the conscious effort to know your close relatives, how can you possibly just turn your back thinking they won't be kindred spirits?

But fear not, this isn't going to turn into a raging diatribe on conservative family values.

Let us hope the three gay uncles had a fabulous new year party all on their own!

It has more to do with the three gay uncles I mentioned a while back. Not even my own uncles but the ones belonging to Diffident David. Perhaps not all gay but elderly bachelor uncles they all are. Since the older generation has gone, it should come as no surprise that the bachelor uncles all have their own reunion dinner separate from the rest of their family.

Coming from a terribly inclusive family, I find it utterly shocking to say the least. Can't imagine what my late grandfather would have said if this had happened in our household! Turn in his grave he would!

Paul : Don't you feel for them? Isn't there a shred of empathy somewhere? 
David : Why? 
Paul : They are gay. 
David : They aren't gay. 
Paul : Nonetheless, they are single and alone. There is basically no one else for their reunion dinner. 
David : So? 
Paul : Aren't you asking them over? 

Sadly, you'd have thought the appalling lack of hospitality I mentioned only extends to random acquaintances but apparently it extends to extended family as well. Hoping that he'd changed his mind during the new year turned out to be futile since they weren't invited over for the reunion at all.

Maybe next year?

Three Gay Uncles

Not so very long ago, the term confirmed bachelor was a delicate euphemism in polite conversation that hinted at a gentleman's sexual inclinations; no doubt followed by a loaded silence with a few discerning nods and even disappointed sighs by those in the know.

These days however, it's not that uncommon to find a confirmed bachelor in our midst. Though some might whisper about his inclinations, there would still be a shred of doubt since endless possibilities abound. Anything from a severe lack of dating opportunities to the prospect of a broken heart, and even asexuality could be a factor.

But what if there wasn't only one, not even two ... but three confirmed bachelors in one house? One, perhaps not. We all have that solitary relative who has remained firmly unattached. Two, hmm. But if there were three single unmarried men in one house?

And what if all three bachelor uncles were related closely to Diffident David?

Certainly lends an intriguing slant to the tale, no?

Paul : And you still think your mother doesn't know? 
David : No, she doesn't. 
Paul : With three gay uncles under one roof? 
David : They aren't gay. 
Paul : Have they dated any women? Are they dating any women? 
David : Not that I know of. 
Paul : Hmmm. So how would you know? 
David : They aren't. 

That's what everyone says before the closet door is flung open.

According to David, they are all eminently marriageable with decent wages, residences of their own and all three seem to be of sound mind and body. Surely there couldn't have been some severe calamity that rendered all three men in the family utterly incapable of coaxing even the most demurring female to accompany them all the way to the altar?

I'm not saying the three uncles have regular gay orgies on the weekends ( ooh la la! ) where gay incest is always on the table - a scandalous idea that horrified our prudish David - but even going by the simple laws of probability, it's quite possible one of the three could be gay.

With three unmarried men in the house, it's quite obvious the other relatives would have briefly entertained the possibility of homosexuality. Let's not kid ourselves, with the advent of television and media even the most isolated mountain villages have heard about gay pride and such.

Yes, even David's mother.

The appalling thought of which horrified our Diffident David into stupefied silence. Something to think about I guess.

The Hows of Hospitality

With my grandmother's passing just a few weeks back, it did have us all thinking back on the fun times we all had when we were younger in the kopitiam; from hopping over specific wooden floorboards to avoid waking up the elders to the crazy shenanigans we got up to whilst working in a coffeeshop. You really never know what's going to happen when practically anyone can walk into the shop.

One thing I did realize after all this time is the fact that our dining table generally had an unfamiliar face every time we sat down for meals. Though we used to think they were some random relatives that my grandparents used to call over - or even old customers of the shop who dropped by, they mostly turned out to be long-lost friends and even total strangers sometimes that were invited over. As shy young children, it did embarass us to have such relative foreigners at the dining table, frequently staring unashamedly at us and blatantly commenting on how we looked. Certainly wasn't ideal for an impressionable child of any age. 

Turns out calling randoms to the table is a family trait since my own parents did the same, much to our consternation. 

Come join us for a meal!

But as I grow older, I realized those were some of the most important life lessons we had, though we didn't know we were being ably taught even then. What we learnt was the importance of friendship and hospitality. Till now, my table - and by extension my home - is always open to friends and family no matter the time of day. 不客气!

Although if you come banging on the wee hours of the morning, you might get a grumpier response than usual... but still my door will be open.

So much to my horror I found out recently how simple hospitality seems to be an archaic tradition. Certainly not something that's taught in most other households. 

Paul : So you're heading over there for a while? 

Miz Grundy : Yes. 

Paul : Staying over with your friend? 

Miz Grundy : No. 

Paul : You fell out with her? 

Miz Grundy : No. 

Paul : What gives?

Miz Grundy : She didn't offer her place to me. 

Paul : She's not squatting under a staircase? 
Miz Grundy : No. It's a double storey and she lives alone. 
Paul : How accommodating. Yeah, she's not a friend. 

It's as simple as that so let's just leave all the lame excuses that followed. A friend comes over to your place and you can barely offer a night's stay, much less a hearty meal? How ungenerous for a supposed friend. Hell, actually that's so much worse than a complete stranger. 

By her feeble responses, I assume Miz Grundy wouldn't have offered the same so I figure that's one 'friendship' that isn't going to last.

Dead & Breakfast

No doubt it wasn't a typical funeral. Just like the one we had for my grandfather twenty years ago, there just wasn't the similar hushed solemnity that goes on in other homes. Neither was there a lot of hysterical outpouring of grief not seen since pitiful widows threw themselves onto funeral pyres.

There wasn't even a hint of black. 

Maybe some white but even that was eclipsed by the brilliant reds and pinks that constituted our funereal colours. Merriment and mirth aplenty as well since there had been time enough to say goodbye to a beloved grandmother. Not to mention the dining table was laden with food enough to feed the entire village. Pretty sure she would have been pleased to see us all come together for one last hurrah to send her on that final journey. 

Which seems like a fitting tribute for my grandmother if you ask me. 

Though of course she would have dismissed the entire religious ceremony with the customs and chants that accompanied the funeral bits. The incessant gossiping, much to the disapproval of the others, would probably have interested her since most of the time we were ruminating over the inexplicable actions of her youngest, and by far the most problematic, grandson, Richie Runt. 

Cousin : Jail in three years?
Paul : Maybe five?
Cousin : A wager? 

Spoiled ever since he was a wee mewling babe, there didn't seem much the rest of us younger folk could do with his overly doting mom and the ever-enabling aunts ignoring all contradictory cries that he wasn't the docile angel he seemed to be. From playing truant in school to frequenting gambling halls after, it didn't take much foresight to predict what would become of the enfant terrible. 

Though it did give us much fodder for our cousinly conversations!

Which brings us to his current predicament. Not content with fleecing the frantic faithful with his necromantic prowess, it seems he had also taken up another side job with one of my other cousins. 

Ever the eternal optimist, Macho Mike ignored all the previous hoary tales about Richie Runt & The Missing Cash Register and took him under his wing. It didn't take very long before he'd confirmed that most of the tales of the boy's faithlessness, indolence and deceit were all too true. Apparently he was quite as awful an employee as he was a student in the past. 

Paul : You just didn't want to bail him out of jail, right? 

Mike : That's true. Now it's someone else's turn. 

Perhaps Lispy Lori needs another volunteer for her non-profit organisation?  

In The Wake of Gossip

Since listening to the conks, clicks and clangs of a faith none of us really believed in wasn't exactly wildly absorbing, my irreligious cousins and I had plenty of time to catch up in between the public pretense of abject spiritual contemplation.

And the seriously soporific repetitive chants.

With all the monks and priestesses from different Buddhist sects roaming about the kopitiam at all hours, it was hard not to poke fun at our very own spiritual shaman, the inimitable Richie Runt who last I heard had apparently taken up ghostbusting the Asian way as a side job. Though I have my curious beliefs in the netherworld, I do also have serious doubts about the abilities of our alleged amateur exorcist, even the esteemed ascetic he calls a master.

Though I wouldn't doubt the lucrativeness of said career path, especially since even the lowliest abbots invited for the funeral came ornamented with shiny Rolexes and gleaming iPad Pros. All of us stared in disbelief and I can easily imagine the choice words my late grandmother would have for the extremely well-appointed clergy.

But since Richie Runt always has his greedy lil eye on the quick buck, I can't imagine a more suitable appointment for him! Fleecing the faithful flock has to be a time-honoured profession, no?

Paul : Even I'm already thinking of taking up this career. 
Lori : It's definitely better than what he's already doing. 
Paul : Oh Richie finally has a steady job?
Lori : Well not exactly. He runs around collecting illegal lottery tickets. 
Paul : Damn this gets better and better. 

When you figure he's gonna zig, he can really zag.

For those who are wondering, we do have legal channels for lottery tickets in the country. Several in fact where you can dream up numbers and place a bet on them. However there are certain ... darker means to achieve similar, if not more profitable, returns with the illegal lottery operations hence their growing popularity.

And of course the neverending crackdowns by the boys in blue.

Umm... waitaminute, you mean it's not legal?

A distinct future scenario we definitely warned Richie Runt about though I'm sure he wilfully turned a deaf ear to our well-meaning brotherly advice. Well, I figured with such a huge family, there's bound to be one irresponsible black sheep at the very least! Never knew he'd turn out to be a conman too!

Something I'm sure my extremely law-abiding grandpa would be turning in his grave.

Death In The Family

I half suspect my grandmother only wanted to live long enough to see her hundredth year since she breathed her last just shy of the last hour of the new year's.

Since I'd just barely touched down back home after seeing her prior to the new year's, I half considered not returning for the final engagement. Much to my mother's consternation since such a shocking social solecism would be an anathema to her. Though my parents claimed I didn't have to,  I basically turned back to the airport to take the return flight, bowing to social convention - and yes, also to the unspoken censure in my mother's remarks.

Me not stupid.

I'm glad I did though.

Very little weep, whimper or wail when she finally passed beyond since we all had our chances to say goodbye the past few months before. When the news of her impending passing became known to us, we had all taken turns to pay her a final visit so everything that we wanted said had already been said.

So we threw a celebratory send-off for her, just as she would have wanted it. Not only had she despised overblown grieving during funerals, my extremely irreligionist grandmother also heartily disliked complicated religious ceremonies. Easy enough to see where she's coming from since she grew up in China during those turbulent times when such archaic pseudo-spiritual practices were being phased out.

Thank goodness she never left any wildly asinine superstitions for us.

Unfortunately no, the monks weren't all that hot. Didn't even imagine defrocking any of them. 

Apparently a memo not everyone received - since this time we were all greeted by a heartily pious Buddhist monk leading the ceremonies at the wake. She didn't like monks either. Unlike the far more entertaining Taoist monks from my grandfather's funeral with their engaging pantomimes, this turned out to be a far more sedate affair with a lot of repetitive chants and croons to the accompanying soporific rhythm of a wooden fish.

Not to mention a convenient prayer book with subtitles for those barbaric illiterates entirely unversed in obscure Buddhist sutras.

Figuring that only one particular religious discipline wasn't enough to wrest nirvana for my late grandmother, subsequently the family elders also invited an entirely different sect of Tibetan Buddhism who came over with their very own monks, decorations and accoutrements.

Om Mani Padme Hum indeed!

Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer

Now wouldn't that have made it way more interesting.

Unfortunately that dreaded reindeer turned out to be nothing less than a suspicious lil malignant spot that has been bothering my grandmother for several years - and had finally managed to figuratively run her over, just a day after the new year which would make her more than a hundred.

Starting to think she mustered the last bits of strength just to doggedly drag herself across the finishing line to be a centenarian.

Two decades back, my grandmother had already warned me about the downsides of longevity and though I barely listened with half a ear, I perfectly understood what she meant about having everyone you loved pass before you. Back then with her perfect bill of health, I did tell her it would take a really long, long while for death to finally come for her. Guess that was a sort of premonition since it did take several long, long months for her to finally succumb to her cancer.

Long, long months it was since most of the final medical decisions about her ensuing treatment fell to her children and grandchildren, quite a number of whom have already graduated to become practicing physicians. So when there's basically a congregation of doctors from different fields discussing a specific case, especially one close to their hearts, I think you can well imagine the ensuing commotion.

Surprisingly though we had all the doctors in the family agreeing to halt the more troublesome invasive procedures in favour of the more palliative due to her advanced age - which her contumacious children automatically objected to, apparently preferring a more drastic course of chemotherapy. It obviously didn't take a day or two to decide - hard to argue overly much when everyone has her best interests at heart - so while the discussion was going on, my grandmother herself had resigned herself to whatever decision was made.

And took up the game of mahjong to while away her time.

This time though they didn't hide the diagnosis from her since it must have been pretty obvious from the way everyone rushed back suddenly from all corners of the globe. It was during the mahjong game that I realized that it really was time for her to go. Though there was no marked alteration in the way she reacted or spoke, there was no denying how very, very tired she looked.

It had been a hundred years and it was evidently time for her to finally rest. Almost everyone in the family had returned to see her. So what better time to say goodbye?

The One Where Everyone's Gay : The Raya Edition

Dinner with the parents is always fraught with danger.

Even more so when the parents are devout God-fearing Muslims and you just invited a gaggle of flaming gay men over for nasi kerabu dinner.

Rather than the hilarious opening act of a heady CW sitcom, this actually took place last weekend for the recent Raya celebrations. Ever the eternal optimist, Kitty Kat ignored the religious condemnation concern and bravely welcomed the deviant lot of us to her open house. Already apprised of her parents' increasingly orthodox leanings, we all promised to be on our best #masc #butch behaviour.

Of course our ever welcoming hostess told us to ignore all that and just be ourselves but hey, we obviously aim to pass. Feather boas, high-pitched squeals and limp wrists all packed away into the proverbial closets. Practicing our high fives and fist bumps several days beforehand, Fabulous Felix and I were already all ready to bro it out.

At the most we would have gotten a diverted chortle from her husband.

Gay? We're not gay. Who's gay? 

Turns out there was hardly any mention of it during dinner where we wined and dined on the most delicious raya spread ever, with hardly any burning pitchforks or conscientious sermons! I was hoping for at least one impassioned  'Return to the godly path, my son' but nothing was said apart from repeated entreaties to enjoy ourselves.

Or at least that was what we thought till much later in the evening when we'd all made our way home. And we were all ready to clap ourselves on the backs for being able to successfully pass for straight! Apparently Kat's mother had already known that at least one of us was the dreaded homosexual which is how Kitty Kat and Sober Sam soon found themselves cornered with dozens of urgently curious queries.

Mother : So which one was the gay one, my dear? 
Kat : All of them. 
Mother : Oh my God, I was feeding all the gays? 
Sam : Did you intend to starve out the gays? 
Father : But they didn't look like gays!
Kat : What kinda look is that? 
Father : The gay look!
Kat : Anyway not all of them are out yet. At least one still in the closet but he hangs around with the other boys so surely everyone knows. 
Father : But you guys hang around them too! People probably think you're gay!
Sam : But we have a child now!
Father : The lengths you guys go to keep it a secret.

Absolutely hilarious. I couldn't have written it better!

Wouldn't surprise me if the indignant father spent the entire weekend eyeing Sober Sam askance.

It did however explain why the parents spent the most part of the evening hiding from the heathen lot since as we all know, homosexuality is highly contagious. Fortunately for gay tolerance, the parents did however acknowledge that we were all nice boys - even better since we cleaned up after ourselves - so there's a high chance we would have favourable prayers said in our names!

The Spiritual Sheep

It's certainly not fun being the black sheep in the family.

Not that I would know since I'm one of those horrifically accomplished older cousins ( always a benefit being born earlier! ) frequently pointed out as an example to my younger cousins, much to their everlasting dismay. Wouldn't be surprised if I'm quite heartily despised by the lot!

Of course I dislike such odious comparisons as well since it's also downright embarassing. That said, being the putative paragon in the family does however have its little benefits since most of the family gossip ends up coming my way. 

Aunt : Oh no, you're so good. I'm sure you can do no wrong. 
Paul : You must have me confused with Harriet.
Aunt :  You really won't believe what my son has been up to!

Paul : Ooh tell me more. 

With very little persuasion on my part, the story of the black sheep of our family, Richie Runt, came spilling out. Last we all heard of him, Richie had been happily masquerading as a dubious snake oil promoter whilst hiding his true ambition to be an enterpreneurial street tough. Facts a lil hard to swallow since he's a little bit of a runt - think Macho Mike could crush him with a thumb - but odder events have happened, I'm sure. 

Not forgetting the fact that Richie frequently zigs when we expect a zag. 

Which is exactly what our boy did. Though my pragmatic grandparents might be the least superstitious folk around, that doesn't necessarily ring true for Richie's maternal side who dabble in chicken-slaughtering, idol-shaking shamanism. Didn't take long for him to realize that particularly esoteric career path might be more suited to his specific set of skills rather than amateur small town gangsterism. 

Unsurprisingly it didn't take long for him to conveniently level up on his arcane accomplishments; proficient enough that Richie was quick enough to come to my grandmother's rescue when she heard scratching noises in her bedroom at night. Rather than accept the general family belief that we had monstrous rodents roaming the old coffeeshop walls, he insisted that it had to be restless spirits.  

Grandma, this is all I need to write on the walls!

Obviously my sensible grandmother was unimpressed with such blatant chicanery.

Even less so when Richie took it upon himself to perform a quick exorcism. Have to say with his appropriately sullen expression perpetually shrouded by his Goth black hoodie, our emo boy did look the part. Forget about laying out plans and stratagems for days! Several deftly written sigils on the aged wooden walls followed by a whispered line of sacred mantra was all it took to banish them all!

Efficient indeed! I started wondering whether I should hire our new family Shaman to help the Borgias guard their ancient hell portal instead!

Social Grace

As a child, the infrequent social gathering, so beloved by my surprisingly sociable parents, has always been a source of much anxiety for me. Incipient bashfulness aside, there are always the endless rules and regulations of proper manners set down by the overanxious parents, seemingly obsessed with constructing the impeccable facade of a perfect family for all to gape over.

Or at least that's what I begrudgingly noted as a child.

Appropriate clothes to wear, polite manners in the company of others etc. - basically Cliff's Notes for the aspiring debutante in a select finishing school. Pretentious little precepts of proper behaviour that my inner rebel found absolutely infuriating - though like the perfect little boy I was, I kept my mouth primly shut following the popular maxim of 'Children should be seen not heard.'

And tried my best to bend the rules whenever possible.

It's only with the benefit of age and hindsight that I find what I learned absolutely educational and extremely advantageous in certain social situations. Though it has also become quite clear that the influential Emily Post Rulebook so well loved by my rigorous parents didn't actually make the rounds amongst the other less conversant members during their PTA meetings.

Such as the indifferent preceptors of a certain Silent Sibyl.

Persuaded by another friend to join one of our usual jovial dinner gatherings, this stonefaced sphinx reluctantly mumbled her unintelligible greetings, nodded almost imperceptibly to no one in particular and then brazenly turned her back to the others for a private conversation with her friend. Henceforth not another word from Sibyl apart from bluntly monosyllabic replies when questioned by the others on the table.

Paul : Gracious, where do you find such lowly impudence!

Just. Plain. Rude.

So much for keeping the conversation light and gracious with your dinner partners on your left and right. Getting information from a hardened spy under torture would have been easier.

Perhaps if she were an ignorant child, I would have been far more forgiving. But the ill-bred wench didn't even have youthful naivete to lend her grace. Really there was little expectation on my part for a gregarious barrel of laughs drowning us all in uproarious hilarity but I would have expected at least a modicum of civil conversation to drip from her precious lips.

As the night wore on with her plainly ignoring everyone else on the table - she might as well have stood facing the wall in a timeout - I started to think Sibyl might well have been brought up by vulgar philistines in the lowliest of barns. The others could plainly see my growing consternation and were all ready to hold me back in case I rashly backhanded the crass lil creature off her dining chair. Even her friend who valiantly tried her best to direct her attention back to the rest of us was starting to feel acutely uneasy with the shocking conversational faux pas.

Friend : Maybe she's shy.
Paul : Maybe she's rude.
Friend : Be nice. 
Paul : Perhaps you should tell her that instead.  

Needless to say, I was less than charmed by her insolence.

Manners maketh man. Or woman as this case may be. Apparently Sibyl still has lots to make up for.

Step Back In Time

Paul : Hello.
Lady : Good morning, young sir. And how are you doing today? 
Paul : I'm doing quite well. How about you? 
Lady : Not very well, I'm afraid. You see, my dear beloved husband finally went back to the Lord just last night and I'm preparing for his wake. 
Paul : Oh dear. 
Lady : Yes, he caught a terrible fever down in the mining camps and returned home looking quite peaked. Not much the doctor could do unfortunately, not even with all the new remedies and balms that just came by coach from Melbourne. 

Sounds almost like an English primer from school, doesn't it?

Though what is far more remarkable would be the fact that the lady in question finds herself appropriately dressed in severe Victorian mourning clothes with a delicate lacy black veil over her ashen face. After having been vouched earlier for having an irreproachably respectable character by a suitable chaperon, I was admitted to the heretofore sacrosanct ladies' parlour for a brief conversation. Any longer and it would certainly have given rise to gossip in this small town. From what I gleaned from her words, it was no surprise that her husband succumbed to whatever mysterious ailment struck him; given the meagre - and oh so doubtful - medicinal supplies then available in the mid 19th century.

And yes, it was the 19th century.

Or at least everyone there would have you believe it so.

Lest you think I've inadvertently fallen into a bafflingly spooky M. Night Shyamalan thriller, I didn't really buy into their far fetched stories either. After all this was Sovereign Hill in Ballarat, a living museum set on a goldfields town dedicated to life in the 1850s - and frankly one of my favourite places in Victoria. Thoroughly enjoyed myself there the last time I visited and wondered whether I would feel the same two decades later.

With much relish, I can wholeheartedly confirm that I love the place quite as much as I did the last time I was here. Perhaps even more, now that I have the time to explore every nook and cranny of the lil town without being rushed by my friends who had little interest in such make-believe historical proceedings.

Having that extra coin in my pocket helps a bit too since I can finally afford a pie or three rather than the packed sandwich I brought along that last time.

Thankfully the charms of Sovereign Hill seemed to extend to all ages so it didn't take much to persuade Rambling Raoul and Chatty Carmen to go. Ever so kiasu Chinese in search of that treasured nugget of gold, our hellbent Raoul spent half the afternoon earnestly panning for gold in the little creek with yelled instructions from his sister.

I however walked down every alley in Sovereign Hill, chatted to as many costumed townfolk as I could and just enjoyed the life in the 1850s. Wonder if they need an extra hand over there!

The Loco-Motion

Though plenty of folks, especially here in Borneo, rave endlessly over the spectacular wonders Down Under, I've always found myself a tad underwhelmed. Had my trip there way, way back during my university break years and to me, it's just another extensive Pacific Island - not all that different from the one I'm currently on - with just a little more development, far more Caucasians and lots of scorching desert.

Close enough it should come as no surprise that we have lots of amicable two-way travel between Borneo and Australia; with more than a few proper migrations!

After what amounted to a tedious three month stint over there, I never actually thought of repeating the visit. Hit most of the big cities there from Melbourne to Sydney, checked out the sights from the Great Ocean Road to the Blue Mountains, caught the penguins and the koalas. Didn't really see much point of making a return... till Sassy Sue and the kids finally made their move over there to what's apparently being termed the world's most liveable city.

I beg to differ of course.

Though this hot Aussie bloke could certainly convince me otherwise!

But it's hard to say no to family so I planned the trip to coincide with niece and nephew's Easter break.

Like every doddering elderly person, I gotta say this. It really is amazing how quickly kids grow up. Almost in the blink of an eye, Chatty Carmen has turned into a veritable young lady; though not in ribbons and lace as one would expect. Far more sober than I would have imagined, Carmen's more likely to be found in utilitarian sweatshirts and jeans than flouncy skirts and dresses. However her budding creative side has found life and expression in her artwork which I adore.

Which Carmen loves as well - despite repeatedly denouncing her supposedly astringent art teacher.

Several years junior, Rambling Raoul remains pretty much the same. Such a sweetheart that I'm sure he's the delight of all his classmates and teachers. Though I do wish he would attend to his school lessons just a little more - but then that's the kiasu Asian in all of us.

Dragged them all down to the city for a quick walk down Swanston eventhough I was feeling quite woozy from my usual wretched after-plane effects. Soldiered on I did!

Don't think I can say I've fallen madly in love with Melbourne like so many have but I did find myself reluctantly charmed by the Melbourne style architecture favoured by the inner city suburbs with the delicate lace ironwork applied to the balconies and balustrades. Obviously I was far too involved before with staring at my tourist map to look up at the pretty terrace houses all over Melbourne.

Then again they probably did undergo some gentrification.

One Step Forward

And two steps back.

Well at least that's the eerie feeling I get sometimes when it comes to the byzantine Borgias. Just when you complacently think you've got them all figured out, these perplexing provincials abruptly snatch the Oriental rug from beneath you... just because they can.

Although cordial invitations to their family events have been regularly delivered to Netherfield for my perusal, it didn't actually occur to me that I was part of a select coterie of acquaintances. Foolish move on my part of course. Even Charming Calvin would have thought so. So when I replied in the affirmative for a weekend dinner with his family, I naturally assumed that the convivial occasion would be open to all.

Madame : Pray tell who is this paltry creature that you have brought before us. 

Since Diffident David happened to be in our esteemed company, we naturally included him in the invitation since I couldn't see how I could get out of the event without bringing him along. After all, David had been dragged along to one of the previous Borgia family soirees so he wasn't a complete unknown to her. Surely I wasn't expected to peremptorily eject the hapless fellow from the moving carriage.

Though I could clearly see Madame Borgia did. Rather than have him spoil the sanctity of her soiree, perhaps better to have him viciously crushed under the very wheels of my carriage. However once milady came to the appalling realization that a relative stranger had been added to the party, she immediately rescinded the proffered invite! Quelle horreur!

Calvin : Now she would prefer it if we had dinner separately. 
Paul : Separate the two of us? 
Calvin : No, I'm to join your party. They will have their own dinner without us. 
Paul : What a sacrifice!
Calvin : Seems like it is. 
Paul : So it was alright for me to join your family dinner but bring a guest and all's undone?
Calvin : Yes. 

Goodness what has happened to social etiquette! Apparently the Borgias have seen fit to overturn such antiquarian notions of polite society protocol rather than sully their weekly family dinner with an undesirable alien.

David : Perhaps they weren't feeling terribly social this week.
Paul : That's where you're wrong. Obviously they were unfeeling this week. 

Though I was quietly horrified by their shockingly boorish behaviour, still I was somewhat mollified by the fact that at the very least Madame Borgia still counts me as family. Sort of anyway, perhaps that revolting far-flung relative you simply can't get rid of.

Paul : I'm quite flattered that she thought of inviting me. 
Calvin : She probably thinks you're gonna barge in anyhow so she might as well just invite you.
Paul : That's also quite true.

Apparently she knows me well, at least up to a certain point. Such a wanton display of egregious behaviour in my severely judgmental presence would be the equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a mad, raging bull. Madame Borgia immediately realized that her abrupt revocation of the invite would have me flinging my hands up in outrage - which is how she later made a sadly fumbling attempt to mollify us with a paltry overture.

Madame Borgia : Well, the friend may come for dinner but he shall have to sit with the servants outside. There's just no place at our select table. 
Paul : ...

Sometimes it's better to remain silent lest words we can't rescind fall heedlessly from our lips.

The Stern Uncle

The past week has certainly been quite the ordeal for Charming Calvin - having his unfamiliar niece and nephew thrust upon him for the brief duration followed by his own redoubtable mother then falling prey to the passing scourge of serpentine affliction. Burdened by all these troubles, Calvin has had to man up to deal with them all by himself.

With some little help from the taciturn Benedicta of course.

While Benedicta plays reluctant nurse in the sick room, the children are permitted to roam the family compound under the care of their watchful uncle. As you would have already guessed, Charming Calvin's the sweet, lovable uncle allowing free rein for the kids to do as they well please, spending literal hours glued to their tablets and Wii while slacking the rest of the day off while it's charging.

All the while he's vegetating several feet away gazing with an indulgent eye.

Far different from my more... astringent methods of pre-adolescent childcare.

Paul : You call that a shot? You couldn't hit the side of a barn. 
Niece : I- I am t-trying.
Paul : Try harder! How are you going to guard the portal to hell!
Niece : What portal?
Paul : Don't pretend. Now pick up your bow. 

Staring mindlessly at the telly watching reruns? Wasting their precious time on silly inconsequential games? Lying on the grass for hours doing nothing but inhaling the durian trees?

Certainly not on my watch.

Paul : Bring them out now. 
Calvin : They are sleeping.
Paul : It's just after lunch. 
Calvin : A nap after lunch. 
Paul : Good god. Get them scrubbed and out now!

Taking my cue from the Tiger Mother, it didn't take very long before I set things right for the two kid loafers with hard-hitting gritty personal questions interspersed with mathematical puzzles and language quizzes. Just running short of having workbooks and exercises thrown at them - which I would have if I had any spare.

The Cousins

As many of you would have guessed, I come from a relatively untraditional household.

Well, at least in my own nuclear family since some of my older uncles do subscribe to a terrifyingly conservative, vaguely Confucian doctrine. Think Father Knows Best. Thankfully my father, despite the occasional tyrannical bluster, turned out to be far more liberal than most, which perhaps explains the rebellious anarchists he involuntarily fostered in his home. Till now, setting the rules anywhere whether at home or at work would invariably incite me into figuring how to bend or break them.

Enlightened permissiveness there might be in our household but some traditional values still hold true. Unlike most of my peers these days who can hardly recall half of their blood relatives, we were brought up to consider members of our extended family such as our cousins to be as close as our own siblings.

Blood is thicker than water isn't just an antiquated aphorism in my family.

Which is why till now I have relatively few qualms over taking the strap to their unruly brats if they dare step over the line, cantankerous uncle and all. After all, my own hard-nosed elders wouldn't have hesitated to do the same - and for that, I do wholeheartedly thank them since otherwise I would have probably turned into a monstrous miscreant.

Even amongst my cousins, no matter how far flung they might be, there's always an invariable link - made stronger these days with the ever-present chat messaging apps which keeps us all regularly apprised on each other's mundane daily movements.

So you can imagine my horror when I came to the sad realization that not everyone shares such strong familial sentiments.

Paul : That was a lovely lunch. Who was that pretty young lady beside you? 
Calvin : My cousin.
Paul : Visiting? 
Calvin : No, she lives right here. 
Paul : What? 
Calvin : She also works here. 
Paul : And you have never ever seen her? 
Calvin : No, why should I? 
Paul : So what does she do? 
Calvin : Don't know. 
Paul : You're not at all curious to know? You don't want to know her better? 
Calvin : No.

For someone who places such emphasis on familial ties, you can imagine my horror.

Calvin : I have little interest in knowing her.
Cousin : Neither do I. Just because we are related by blood doesn't mean we have to get along.
Paul : I can't tell if I'm impressed with such refreshingly modern views or appalled. 

Not only is this unnervingly anonymous junior Borgia right in town, she's apparently not the only cousin of his age around. Surprisingly quite a number I have yet to meet - and here I'd been led to think he only had eccentric elders left. Despite having a family presumably far more conservative than my own, there are certain key Confucian tenets they don't seem to hold dear such as the prime importance of familial kinship and consanguinity.

In stark contrast to their seeming familial indifference, my adorably nosy cousins found themselves practically agog with curiosity when they found out about Calvin. Half of them, at least the more boisterous half, couldn't wait to meet and have him interrogated under a swinging lamp.

When it comes to cousinly relationships, I'll have to say this is far from the worst though. I've had friends who didn't even know some first cousins even existed till bluntly pointed out. Fabulous Felix spent half his life without meeting his.

“At some point, the family you create is more important than the one you were born into.

No argument with that but that doesn't mean we should entirely overlook the extended family we were born into either. Just like any other relationship, it takes time and effort to build a connection and some relations are certainly worth getting to know better.

A Spot of Bother

My grandmother has a tumour.

Don't freak out. Relax though. Not only is it a slow-growing tumour barely in its nascency, there's very little chance my nonagenarian, edging to centenarian, grandmother could outlive said malignancy. Since that near inconsequential nugget of growth has done little to bother her, I've just sighed and shrugged over the diagnosis.

Which is the opposite of the extended family's reaction.

Think horror, heartbreak and hysteria - in a rapid succession of dispirited gushes at first, and then all three packed into one great big emotional eruption not seen since Krakatoa threw a ruckus back in 1883. News of my grandmother's spot of bother turned viral almost immediately with the entire family whatsapp group chat practically flooded in less than an hour with overwrought feeds from up and down the length of the Pacific coast.

With invariably more medical information within than the BMJ.

Too many doctors in the family indeed. Which is how my poor grandmother was immediately hurried through an entirely counterproductive battery of tests, scans and examinations, undoubtedly without her abject consent. Turns out I was the only one who questioned the sheer futility of undergoing such irksome procedures if my grandmother wouldn't give consent for further treatment.

Paul : More tests, really?
Cousin : But we have to get the correct diagnosis.
Paul : So what if you find the diagnosis but the patient refuses further treatment? 

To add further insult to injury, the overly solicitous, well-meaning aunts then decided to mislead my grandma by telling her it's all perfectly routine. All on the erroneous assumption that my grandmother's an addlepated, dimwitted fool - which, if you've been following my blog, she has proven repeatedly that she is decidedly not despite her growing decrepitude.

Hell, I would be pleased to be even half as lucid at her age.

And she would also say hell no, she won't go if they even suggested more surgery.

It shouldn't surprise me so much though since I've had similar experiences with other overanxious families hoping to hide the diagnosis from their loved ones in a peculiar bid to protect them. Seldom ends well though since I find such sentiments absolutely foolish and find myself utterly uncooperative with these provoking requests for a nondisclosure.

Relatives : Could you not inform my mother that she has cancer? 
Paul : She lived through some of the most turbulent times in China, went through two world wars, braved the rough seas to come here with two toddlers, then brought up the entire lot of you. You know what, I think she will survive knowing this. 
Relatives : It would make her depressed.
Paul : It would make her depressed to think that her children don't trust her with such information. 

Perhaps the ethical dilemma changes from patient to patient - with some preferring not to know - but really, how can we withhold such vital information from the patient themselves, especially if they are of sound mind. In my grandmother's case, it's certainly not her first brush with the big C - which the other relatives also tried to keep hush-hush - so I doubt receiving such information would be all that big a blow.

Little Steps to the Borgias

As much as I keep using the much publicized tagline 'It Gets Better' on the impressionable youth, I really can't say it holds true for everyone - even more so when it comes to Charming Calvin.

Till now our poor fellow holds the unenviable award for Worst Coming Out Story - that I ever heard about in real life of course. Pretty sure there are far more harrowing contretemps out there but for the sadly uninitiated, that long ago tale involving Calvin might hold little interest and far less intrigue since there's actually very few dramatic hysterics in comparison.

Nevertheless amongst my small but fortunate circle of friends, Calvin did have the most traumatic gay debut with pawangs and psychiatrists making a thoroughly unwelcome appearance at that party. No doubt that explains Calvin's sadly cynical worldview when it pertains to coming out! Then again what would you expect when it comes to the outwardly quiescent yet inwardly histrionic Borgias?

But even with the Borgias, things are progressing on a far smoother path these days with his family even extending invitations to me for certain family occasions. It Gets Better. Really. On those social evenings I'm usually on my best behaviour, endlessly ebullient to the point of excessive effusiveness just to keep the straining conversation plodding along despite scant help from taciturn Calvin and his frustratingly laconic family.

Who obviously all stare as if I'm the crazy chattering clown hired to entertain the guests - but I've grown quite resigned to my lot.

Who knows, one day I might just edge out the hapless Benedicta to be her favoured court advisor.

After all just the other day Madama Borgia even attempted the shadow of a gracious smile when she saw me crossing the sacred threshold of her demesne. Rather than hastily sketch the sign of a cross ( or whatever his family is wont to do to keep the devil at bay ) to ward me off. A far cry from the first few dinners we had together when she could barely hold back her bitter bile at the sight of the aberrant creature that's me.

Little steps I call it.

Though Calvin obviously scoffs at my laughable attempts to turn them up sweet, he has severely underestimated the chilly determination of his boyfriend. Not only shall I make his sister-in-law Miz Borgia an ally, I shall win over his mother too.

And perhaps find out the monstrous secret under the family home as well.

I shall prevail.

Casa de Borgia

As usual our Madame Borgia isn't happy.

Fortunately at least for this particular instance, I'm not the one in her target range. According to the incredibly efficient servants' rumour mill, it seems the new palace isn't entirely to her liking. Despite hiring the finest astrologers and necromancers to find the location of her new demesne ( not to mention the timing of the move ), Madame Borgia hadn't quite counted on a matter of taste.

Something even the best of feng shui masters can't quite predict from their endless esoteric diagrams. So you can imagine the absolute uproar when she finally alighted from her carriage to find everything in the new palace absolutely insufferable.

Paul : Exactly what does she dislike? The location?
Calvin : She hates that.
Paul : The building?
Calvin : She hates that.
Paul : The doors? The windows? 
Calvin : Hates. 
Paul : Surely not the entire building.
Calvin : She hates the doors. She hates the windows. She hates the rooms. She hates the colours. She hates the garden.
Paul : Wow. 

Turns out it's all hate at the moment. Someone even said she was that close to murderously stabbing all her retainers with her hairpins in a fit of uncontrollable rage.

Paul : Don't see anything wrong with the palace! I like it.
Calvin : You wanna buy it?
Paul : I'm not gonna give you money for it if that's what you mean. 

Doubt you could put it more succinctly. For someone who was absolutely adamant on the move initially, Madame Borgia seems to have made a contrary turnaround. Short of demolishing the entire palace for a new one to be built ( surely never in time for the said auspicious dates! ), there doesn't seem very much else that can be done.

Since her children never could talk her into anything, it was up to me to spin this palace fiasco into something a little more positive. Not that Herculean a task seeing that all Madame Borgia wanted was some constructive advice on her admittedly ambitious interior decorating plans.

I managed to talk her into keeping the shell of the building at the very least. Minus almost everything else.