Maidophobia

It's taken a while but I think I've finally hit on the reason why there's always been a covert Anti Maid Syndrome on the part of the ladies; whether they be full-time housewives or working women. Whereas men generally don't really care one way or the other as long as the house is cleaned up, somehow many of the women find it quite a bother to have domestic help underfoot in their house, preferring to ferociously micromanage it all on their own. Just count the number of finicky females you know who trail behind their hapless maids painstakingly pointing out even the most minuscule of housekeeping mistakes.

Frequently bedeviled by the oh-so-supportive mass media these days, modern day women apparently believe they can, and should want to do it all.

Really. As if they have something to prove to the rest of the world. Which they don't. However such a heavy burden of having to do it all generally leaves them feeling overwhelmed by all their responsibilities.

Even my sister-in-law Sassy Sue has always had a beef with having domestic help around for some inexplicable reason. I'm entirely the opposite; even better if I could afford an entire coterie of servants worthy of Downton Abbey from the butler all the way down to the scullery maid.

Or maybe a hot houseboy like this.  

In our increasingly equitable world where a misplaced social conscience practically disallows the hiring of domestics, turns out I might be part of a oft-condemned minority which is why I still get pointed conversations like this every once in a while.

Paul : I don't mind being a stay-at-home dad. But I'd need a maid of course. 
Girl : But why? 
Paul : For the domestic work of course. 
Girl : But can't you cook and clean? 
Paul : I can. But why should I when I can get the maid to do it? 

Leaving them agog as usual.

I mean I can certainly cook - a quick stirfry or parboil - but I'd leave the tedious preparatory work to the maid along with the even more exacting cleaning up afterward. Chopping up onions and garlic certainly isn't what I signed up for.

Really, why should there be this desperate need to rationalize having a maid? It's time we stopped having such incomprehensibly egalitarian guilt over hiring people to take over menial jobs that we just don't want to do. Toilet cleaning, mopping and sweeping etc. Sure I can certainly make do in a pinch but there's no need for me to do so.

And if you think domestic workers like Maid Mumbles are getting the short shrift, you'd be severely underestimating them.

Cabined Cribbed Confined

She sits in her room all day long.

All night long as well come to think of it. With the curtains shut tight to block out any ray of sunshine. Snuggled deep inside the recesses of her She-Shed so to speak, the door to her room is securely locked; hardly opening except for the few microseconds she takes to rush to the loo. Even her meals are taken in the murky, musty confines of her bastille - at least I suspect that to be the case since she doesn't even sneak out for a bite.

Either she's secretly coming up with a nefarious plan to take over the world - or she clandestinely delivered her own love child. Then again she could just be counting the sparkly dots on the ceiling boards. Don't know which one I'm more worried about.

Since her door remains perpetually locked for reasons unbeknownst, I guess no one will ever know.

Paul : Ah, you're out of prison.
Paisley : Yes, I am. I see you got a haircut.
Paul : Actually I've already had three haircuts since you were incarcerated. Even had a permed afro once.
Paisley : Really!
Paul : Well you wouldn't know for sure, would you? 

Though I'll admit that I can never understand folks who set themselves up for self imprisonment. Do they really enjoy solitary confinement? Know it's quite hypocritical for me to say so but don't they ever see the need for some fresh air? Some blessed sunshine?

Paul : Are you still alive in there? 
Paisley : *grunt*
Paul : What? Are you crushed by a cabinet? 
Paisley : I'm alive. 
Paul : Just give fair warning if you're about to expire yeah. Don't wanna clean up the decaying corpse after. 

Cabined. Cribbed. Confined.

Indeed. The proverbial girl locked up in the tower. That's one of the tenants here in Netherfield, Pretty Paisley.

And then Pretty Paisley creeps out of her dark, dank cell and whines 'OMG I am so bored. There's nothing to do here.' Then starts to wonder why there's nowhere to go, nothing to see, nothing to do.

Hell yeah, when you've been hiding in the cave all day doing a Gollum! Now how do I answer such a question without a firm backhand?

The Nag

Parents are known to nag. That's almost a given.

Back then, it seemed as if everything we did - or more precisely didn't do - would be followed by an entire period of agonizing nagging from either one of our critical parents. However with growing age and maturity, I'll admit there's a perverse sense of nostalgia attached to that former highly annoying parental propensity.

Though I seriously doubt the other tenants at Netherfield would agree.

With our annual Mid-Autumn soiree coming up, there are several essential tasks to sort out from the caterers to the decorations. Contrary to what others might think, we don't exactly source out the entire social event to the party planners here - since there are sadly few on this side of the Big Puddle. Besides, the decorators here have deplorable taste and I wouldn't even trust them to style the storeroom belowstairs.

So we usually do it all on our own. Very Martha Stewart Arts and Crafts 101 with simple everydau items at hand like the ubiquitous craft paper and scissors.

Not to mention a little bit of help which is unfortunately not all that forthcoming. Years of experience have taught me - quite painfully I might add - that the tenants don't place as much importance on the event details as I do. Whether the party decorations match or if the ordered dishes are enough to cater for all our guests doesn't seem to bother them quite as much.

Paul : Dammit I told Felix that the tablecloth should be in a shade of olive. OLIVE!
Paisley : Does it matter terribly?
Paul : Hush! You already botched up the invitations!

Yes, I'm a wildly controlling, micro-managing bitch. Something I've generally learned to live with which is why I only delegate the simplest of tasks to them.

Paul : I'll hire the caterer, set out the invitations and handle the decorations. 
Paisley : Alright. 
Paul : You are Felix are in charge of the chandelier. Just decorate the chandelier. 
Paisley : Okay. 
Felix : No problem. 
Paul : Get it done before the party. 

Well at least that's what they say. Exactly two days later after I've already interviewed the caterers, picked my favourite and gone through several menus, I look up and see the barren chandelier with nary a shiny bauble in sight. Perhaps a friendly reminder?

Paul : Don't forget the chandelier yeah. 
Felix : Don't worry.

This of course goes on for several days as I keep myself busy with the party preparations. Two days before the party when I've spent several days going through pinterest boards and youtube videos to find DIY decor for paper flowers and lanterns - and experimenting with several intriguing choices, I walk by again and notice that there's nothing all that different about the chandelier.

Paul : It's two days more, yeah. Don't forget to do up the chandelier. 
Paisley : So done. Don't worry. 

Really? Is it any wonder that parents start nagging? What choice do I have with the dates coming so close?

Autumn Is Coming

Admittedly it has been a while since we've had our regular soirees here in Netherfield. With the ongoing renovations over at the new demesne Hartfield to watch over and the building materials needed such as furniture and electrical items spilling over, Netherfield hasn't exactly been the proper place to host guests of any sort. Moving boxes fill up part of the house with the new - wallpaper, lamps and chandeliers - and the old - clothes and knick knacks - all mixing together in a disordered jumble.

Moreover it seems to be impossible to have an entire weekend where all three of us tenants are around. With the price of oil on a perpetual freefall, Fabulous Felix seems to be jetting around trying to solve all the ensuing problems - while at the same time balancing the demands of a new relationship.

What about the third, you say? Well, Pretty Paisley has been around even less than he has. Even when she is physically present on the estate, she seems to pull the oddest working hours in town, creeping home way past midnight with her sassy slingbacks in hand.

Yes, I do have my suspicions despite all her fervent denials.

Paisley : Did someone say a party? What shall I wear?
Felix : Ooh drinks.
Paul : Isn't anyone considering the caterers and the cleaners? 

So pulling together a party hasn't been topmost on my mind, till just the other day when Charming Calvin made a mention of it. Ever since he's back, there has been little chance for him to meet all my friends in one gathering which had him wondering. Obviously the bucolic country air - and the sheer monotony of it all - has suddenly turned him into a social butterfly.

Calvin : It has been a while since you've had a social. 
Paul : Haven't had the time. Nor the inclination. 
Calvin : Well I'm around this time at least. 
Paul : You sure you'll even lend a hand? 
Calvin : I'll try. 
Paul : I doubt that. 
Calvin : At least it won't be worse than the miserable potluck the other day.
Paul : Ouch. 
Calvin : At the very least, please cater. We aren't that common. 

That's the Borgias for you by the way.

Since my far-too-obliging caterers were all too deliriously happy to help - and surprisingly eager to give a sizeable discount, how could I possibly say no? Took only moments for us to work out a proper menu for the chosen clique that's coming by. Providentially the time coincides quite well with the coming autumn so all we had to do was come up with a fall foliage theme to match, all bright vibrant yellows, oranges and reds.

With the season upon us, quite a number of our acquaintances are back in the city leaving the countryside quite bare. By some fortuitous chance, both Fabulous Felix and Pretty Paisley find themselves in the vicinity for this short span of time - so what few friends left behind, we have brought together for our coming soiree to wine and dine together.

Norms Away From Netherfield

Netherfield has been our abode for several years now and though the tenants have changed, the rules of the house have remained the same. Basically house rule no.1 - 'Don't Burn Down the House'. Other than that, most anything goes with the wildly easygoing denizens of Netherfield, namely me, Fabulous Felix and now Pretty Paisley. 

Previously Kool Kat tended to be a bit more maniacal when it came to household rules but after a few weeks of dealing with the rest of the more accomodating tenants here, even she started to mellow down. Also Felix tended not to listen by erecting a Shield of Obliviousness so she soon realized that her persistent naggings would be for naught. 

So Netherfield has always remained a bastion of no rules. 

Which is a far cry from the Draconian Domicile for Dogmatic Duennas several miles down the road.

Coincidentally a place where Sober Sophia and the rest of her teaching crew have decided to set up their budding household. Though we all gave her sufficient warning about the infinite perils of sharing an abode with your work colleagues - and your superiors, Sophia - ever the optimist - trusted in the sisterhood of women.

The ladies at the Domicile for Dogmatic Duennas

Within the short span of a week, the lecturing ladies have come to realize that their differing personalities and habits have ignited a growing friction - which has only become worse with them also spending all their hours of work together. With vastly disparate standards of cleanliness, even their fledgling roster of household chores had become an object of contention. 

Whereupon the ladies all decided to have a Meeting of minds.

To solve their ongoing household woes, they all decided to come up with rules. Or as they term it, norms. Make that Norms with a capital N since it was all duly notarized and signed by the witnesses to the meeting. 

Paul : That's a helluva lot of Norms. I think we had less rules back in school.
Sophia : We want it to be thorough.
Paul : And most of it's pretty common sense actually. 
Sophia : Oh? 
Paul : Like keeping the noise down in the morning. That's common courtesy, no? 

Sophia : Surprisingly not that common. 
Paul : Switching off the lights after use? 
Sophia : Also not that common. 
Paul : Wow. 
Sophia : Yeah. 
Paul : The rules are signed in blood I assume. 
Sophia : Yes. You haven't even seen our household accounts yet. 
Paul : Judging by the house rules, I assume it's counted down to the smallest cent, filed out in triplicate with independent auditors coming to check regularly? 
Sophia : Yes. 

Sounds more like a penitentiary than a domicile! And just today there was a small argument amongst the ladies over their laundry. I am starting to foresee a heinous murder-suicide somewhere in the near future at the Draconian Domicile for Dogmatic Duennas.

Back to December

That new tenant. Perhaps one of the most common tropes ever on every possible television show you've ever seen. An easy way to bring in some fresh colour to something that's grown a tad predictable after some time.

Though certainly not my intention, the new tenant certainly has brought some drama into our lives. In her short time here in Netherfield, Pretty Paisley has done a meetcute, dated that perfect stranger and ended it melodramatically with a bit of a teetering cliffhanger - all in barely three episodes. Such thrilling theatrics! God knows there's hardly enough time to even heat up the popcorn!

Paul : Whose dogs are these?
Paisley : His.
Paul : You stole them?
Paisley : And programmed his scent so that they would track him.

Haven't actually met the stranger, don't really know much about the whys and whens - but near the end, I found my sympathies lying squarely on the poor fellow's side. Well I could hardly blame him. Full of whims and fancies like any budding ingenue, our volatile Paisley certainly gave her bewildered beau the complete runaround during the breakup. 

Paul : So you think he cheated.

Paisley : Yes. 

Paul : So you ended things with him?

Paisley : Yes. 

Paul : That's over then. 

Paisley : I still went over to his house to check up on him.

Paul : After you told him to leave you alone? 

Paisley : I messaged before going.

Paul : You told the guy you wanted it quits and yet you message for a drop by? 

Paisley : Why not? I saw that he was at home on Facebook. 

Paul : You initiated the breakup and now you're stalking him! What the hell.
Paisley : How else do I know what's happening?
Paul : You already dumped him. Leave him alone. 

Surprised he didn't suffer from frequent migraines caused by her wildly contrary behaviour. Almost impossible to predict where the fickle winds would carry her actions next. Last we heard, the terrified fellow apparently packed up and fled to a faraway hermitage - utterly inaccessible by any electronic means.

Ever since high school, I have witnessed the most peculiar breakups with the female partner frequently exhibiting increasingly bizarre behaviour after! No doubt we'll soon hear of Paisley donning overly large sunglasses, a fetching trenchcoat and matching fedora to pursue her hapless ex to his hidden retreat.

Does she want him back? Does she not want him back? Seriously don't think Paisley knows the answer to that herself. 

Like I've said repeatedly, break up cleanly. Leave no ambiguities about the hopefully valid reasons for breaking up. Hand whatever belongs to him back. Then for God's sake, delete his name from your phone - and from everywhere else if at all possible. Don't call. Don't text. Don't tweet. Don't follow him.

Just don't.

All About the Bonsai

Perhaps it all started when I was but a child dreaming up fantastic little tales of heroism and bravery in the small plot of land in front of my house. Under the forgiving shade of the blooming guava tree, I dug out simple country paths and lanes for the rudimentary twig houses I built. Dried guava leaves and torn palm fronds were woven into makeshift thatch roofs for the miniature figures that peopled the hopeful village at the crossroads. For everything else, there was always tape and paper around.

After all despite my large, clumsy hands, I've always been great at paper crafts.

So it's obvious that the miniature world has always held a fascination for me, what with designing DIY wooden houses to crafting mini paper lanterns and ... yes, even to keeping bonsai trees. But with my green thumb always in doubt, the paralyzing fear of maintaining those terrifyingly fragile zen gardens always kept me away. Didn't want to subject the poor bonsai tree to my dubious arboriculture skills lest I be deemed the local bonsai murderer.

However that certainly never stopped me from admiring those perfectly manicured and pruned miniature trees, occasionally even decorated with tiny temple shrines or the lonely wandering figurine.

Wow, that's one ginormous bonsai tree. 

So when I saw a friendly neighbour offering some of his potted bonsai trees for sale online, I just couldn't help myself. Not knowing how much to offer in exchange, I just came up with a particularly low price since I wanted a really, really tiny plant to start with. Several inches high perhaps?

Neighbour : Got a lot ah. What type? How much you want?
Paul : Just one should do. Something small for the office. 
Neighbour : Sure got one! How much you want?
Paul : Maybe about a hundred or so? 
Neighbour : Definitely. You wait here, I get for you. 
Paul : A small one yeah?
Neighbour : Small, small yeah. 

I assume he understood what I meant. Well that teaches me not to overestimate the skills of locals in determining size and length - and to severely underestimate the general price of items in the future. Turns out his version of small wasn't the dainty size of my palm as I had expected - but closer to the size of an overfed toddler.

Paul : OMG. 
Neighbour : You like ka? I got more. 
Paul : That's quite enough, I think. Didn't expect it to be this big!
Neighbour : You pay more, I give you more lo! 

Well perhaps the sole figurine would be seriously dwarfed by my alarmingly large bonsai tree - even with me immediately attacking it with pruning shears - but that wouldn't stop me from starting a little village beneath the shade! Maybe a small family of retired geishas setting up a ramen shop!

Oh the possibilities are endless!

Cupcakes for the Moon

The Mid-Autumn Festival came just a tad earlier this year, or at least the party did. To coincide with my mother coming by for one of her irregular visits, the annual Mid-Autumn party in Netherfield had to be brought forward a week or so.

One day if I do finally retire, I just might offer myself as a volunteer party planner! Soirees at Netherfield have become such a routine that it took less than half a day to plan the menu with the new caterers and to order up the expected dishes for the guests. Twenty seemed like a good enough number, not too many that it would overwhelm yet not too few to seem almost deserted. Decorations were easy enough when I finally decided on a pink lantern theme. With my penchant for papercrafts, it took me a few days to assemble enough paper lanterns to bedeck the entire living room, with plenty left to spare for the other rooms.

Then came the hard part.

Paul : You're the patissier?
Patissier : Oh yes. 

With everyone I know fearing for their expanding waists - and subsequently eschewing the traditional cholesterol-laden mooncakes, I figured having smaller-sized cupcakes would be quite the sweet treat. Anyway having pretty pastel-coloured fondant decoration on the cupcakes would be an easier match for the theme of the party. Minutes was all it took for me to decide on the menu for the dinner table but trying to decide on what to place on the cupcakes certainly took some brainstorming.

Paul : Yes, I want cupcakes. 
Patissier : I should hope so! I don't do mooncakes!
Paul : Maybe a moon on top? 
Patissier : That's all? Quite sad, no? 
Paul : Maybe the moon goddess? 
Patissier : Anything else?
Paul : I guess the rabbit pounding the mortar and pestle?
Patissier : That takes care of two, what about the rest? 
Paul : A lantern maybe? 
Patissier : Three cupcakes. 
Paul : So I have to think of the other twenty as well?
Patissier : I only bake 'em. 

Having the cupcakes resemble the traditional mooncakes except smaller would be impractical since they already have them in a myriad of shapes and sizes.

So what designs to make out of fondant? With other festivals, we seem to have a rich plethora of vivid images to draw upon; from garland-bedecked trees and white-bearded philanthropists for Christmas to scarlet banners and booming firecrackers for Chinese New Year. But when it comes to the Mid-Autumn Festival, I could barely come up with anything - well except for the moon goddess, the rabbit and the lantern.

Thoughts that would plague me for the day... would a ceramic teapot made out of fondant look out of place on the cupcake?

Of course getting cupcakes for the party didn't stop me from getting double-egg yolk lotus paste mooncakes only for myself. After all I'm still very much a traditionalist.

Finding Hartfield

Since there's a significant lease tagged to the house keys, Netherfield was always meant to be a temporary domicile till a new one was secured. Never expected for us to remain so long - has it really been almost three years? - or for any of us to grow so much attached to this bit of land with lush tropical backwoods to spare.

But it isn't forever.

Despite being a farflung outpost on this side of the Big Puddle, the fair city has never run short of housing projects. In fact there seems to be far more developments than there are honest citizens in this city, so much so I have no idea how they would ever manage to make a sale. But wealthy merchants there are aplenty here so they need never fear.

Quick stroll one afternoon through one of the neverending housing fairs here was all it took for me to pick out a place. Location was right, size was right, price seemed alright...  Never been one to haggle for long over a sale so I signed for the house before the loudly overenthusiastic salesman could even finish his usual spiel.

Yes, this looks like Hartfield. Or at least it shall be. 

Which is how I found Hartfield, a relatively new area of town repurposed from the swampy wetlands that makes up most of the city. Boasting of a new road to the city which would make it roughly the same travelling distance to the city centre as Netherfield!

Now that all happened a year back, which is about the time it took to get the place ready. Keys haven't been handed over yet but I've already taken several pictures of the area with more than a few idea on how to decorate the place. Slightly large in size than Netherfield yet much more modern in outlook, Hartfield just needs a few tweaks here and there to make it largely liveable. Have plans to extend most of the ground floor, enlarging the dining and living areas. Perhaps even a grand kitchen with a bartop ( or a banquette ) breakfast area.

Sometimes makes me wonder about my choice of career when I find far more joy and fulfilment trying to rearrange the upstairs bathroom - with a view to having a clawfooted bathtub by the window - than in my normal everyday work. But then perhaps it's usual to enjoy designing and building your own space.

Will of course try my best to avoid falling into the Chinese towkay design pitfall of flashy, shiny ornaments.

Candy Cane Christmas

Taking the time to write some lines here in the triumphant aftermath of our annual Christmas fete in Netherfield. Striped candy canes line the halls, wine glasses tipped on every irregular table and the perfectly wrapped presents under the tree have been tossed all over by guests on the hunt. Don't you just love Christmas parties!

This year with our regular party caterer taking a brief hiatus for the season, I was left with little choice but to scout for a nearby teahouse to deliver food - all of a shockingly non-halal porcine nature.

Fortunately for me, my non-kosher guests didn't seem to mind. In fact I think they actually relished the sinful taste of some ham and bacon. 

And nothing says Christmas quite like a roast pig all dressed up in festive red and white. 

New guests on the invite list this year, one of whom came with some delicious notoriety seeing as Mad Madison was erroneously painted as the highly despicable ex-girlfriend of someone we once knew. At least that was the sum of the stories we were told - which I tend to listen with half an ear since malicious gossip tends to tear down reputations bit by bit with each salacious retelling. Always two sides of the story in any breakup, no matter how outwardly cordial. 

Madison : Quick! Tell me what the bastard said!
Paul : Do you care?
Madison : Not really. 

Glad to know that the raging rumours aren't entirely true since I find our lady in red, Mad Madison absolutely delightful - far from the grasping temptress I had been led to believe. Someone I would no doubt be proud to call friend one day. 

Madison : So what have you heard from him? 

Paul : Your ex? 

Madison : Some horrible things no doubt?

Paul : Isn't that what exes are meant to do? 

Madison : True. 

As soon as I start getting to know her better of course. 

Something another guest - our Diffident David - is unlikely to do since he seems mortally terrified of women. Poor fellow crouching furtively in a darkened corner of the party room nursing his drink hoping no girls would come close with probing questions - a bit hard to do when I kept dragging him into the limelight. No doubt if Madison or any of my comely nurses had approached him with a suggestive come-on, David would have jumped out of his skin. 

Unusual for a budding homosexual! Maybe David needs to grope some boobies to be convinced that girls don't actually have cooties. 

Mid Autumn Fasting

Soon as the Hell Gates come to a deafening close in early September, it heralds the coming of the Eighth Lunar Month on the Chinese Calendar - and subsequently our preparations for the annual Mid-Autumn Gathering at Netherfield. Just planning a party might sound deceptively easy - but soon enough you'll find yourself knee deep in preparations with detailed dinner menus to prepare, various caterers to choose, multicoloured lanterns to pick from...

Dammit did I forget to order candles? 

And of course, delicious savoury mooncakes to indulge in. Generally eaten in celebration of the Mid-Autumn Festival which falls on the fifteenth day of the eighth month. Legend has it that the mooncakes were embedded with secret letters, not to mention coded with messages on the patterns on the pastry surface, to start a rebellion in China under the rule of the Mongols. Though I assume few of the malcontents had the time to read since most would have gobbled up the sweet treats.

Something most apprehensive gay boys these days avoid with a vengeance, considering the thousands of frightful cholesterol-laden calories concentrated into one sinfully decadent golden-hued slice. So much so that most partake of only one meagre piece for the entire festive period, choosing to hand the rest out to their less watchful friends.

Like myself.

Which I find a pity since I adore the tempting treats. Certainly not the newfangled snow skin mooncakes with alarmingly outlandish flavours such as kaffir lime or musang king durian; just my classic baked lotus paste with double salted egg yolk will do well enough for a traditionalist like me.

Contemplated getting several gift boxes as I usually do this time of year - none for the finicky health-conscious in-laws of course - but I decided not to keep that many for the coming soiree. With almost all my anxious weight-watching friends, and that includes my nurses, seemingly on a fad diet for the past few weeks, it seems as if there might be some trouble finishing the lot.

Nurse : Ooh but we love mooncakes. 
Paul : Don't think I'll get that many this year. Who's going to finish them?
Nurse : Of course we will.
Paul : What about your diet?
Nurse : Forget the diet. It's a once a year thing.
Paul : You just swallowed one teensy baby carrot for lunch. 
Nurse : Which makes the mooncake so much more worth it.
Paul : If I get a whole lot, you'd bloody well make sure you finish them all. I'll stuff the lot in your mouth so help me God.

Though something tells me I'm going to end up dining on mooncakes for several nights after the party. 

When the Kat's Away

With the erratic weather we're having marking the changing of the monsoon winds, Netherfield is heralding a change of its own as one of the tenants takes their leave at the end of the month. Finally taking her vows as a bride, Kool Kat is returning to the other side of the Big Puddle to be with her husband. Since there doesn't seem to be any reason to get another - and the rent is pretty much covered, I doubt Netherfield will be hosting somebody new.

Not to mention I have my eye on a certain other property close by, something far more permanent than a lease.

Kat : I'll be packed and gone by the end of the month.
Paul : That's pretty fast!
Kat : Wait, what was that sound?
Paul : I think that's Felix popping the champagne. He's been eyeing your room all summer long.

Rather than the steady measured pace of her arrival, Kat seems to be in a wild desperate hurry to leave this time. Literally tossing clothes and supplies into her suitcases in a wild bustle. Almost everything of hers that wasn't nailed down to the floor - even the crummy wall clock she bought for less than five dollars - found its way into several stuffed boxes on our porch in a matter of hours.

If I hadn't been in the rapt audience for her wedding ceremony, I would have thought she was packing for a hasty elopement.

Didn't take but a day for her to clear the room - several tiring hours of non-stop commotion - which left me feeling just a tad non-plussed.

Paul : You heard that Kat's leaving?
Felix : Yeah I heard her packing.
Paul : She's even taking the dustbin. 
Felix : Wow. 
Paul : Packing should be done by the end of the week or so. 
Felix : And that rocks! I get the bigger room woo hoo!

Something tells me Fabulous Felix won't be overly torn up by her sudden departure. Never one for sentimentality obviously.

Time for Tea

Over here in Netherfield, we tend to enjoy our teas.

Hence our increasingly established tea parties timed to coincide with various incidental social occasions or celebrations, such as the recent fete we had to celebrate both Easter - and Vasakhi as a nod to our Punjabi tenant.

Though we initially began with casual dinner parties, soon we found it so much easier to cater for teas instead with portable finger foods, little sandwiches and snacks - certainly makes it so much easier to move around and mingle with the crowd. Far less preparation and even less cleaning up after as well.

In the late afternoons, the sweltering tropical heat here becomes just a tad more tolerable and the persistent blitzkrieg of mosquitoes that attack by evening have yet to make an appearance. And let's face it, somehow dainty china teacups and cucumber sandwiches lends itself to a touch of formality in such events. After all it's just plain wrong to attend an old-fashioned tea party dressed in ratty cut-offs and flip flops so that gives us all the more reason to dress up.

Paul : Are those your *cough* friends? The ones in ratty tank tops and shorts?
Kat : I thought they were on your list!
Paul : Must be Felix's motley crew. 

However despite the fact that I always note the time for the tea party clearly on the invitation, everyone here seems to find afternoon teas wildly avant garde since they all frequently ask the same exact thing!

Friend : So when should we come for the afternoon tea?
Paul : Well it's an afternoon tea.
Friend : You mean at 7 pm?
Paul : What? You have tea at 7 pm? It's at 4 pm.
Friend : OMG It's already five minutes past that.
Paul : Yeah the guests have arrived.
Friend : Better get dressed!
Paul : No crappy tees.

Seriously. Afternoon tea? Need you even ask the time?

Apparently they all do. Always there is a near frenzied confusion just minutes before teatime as our roster of guests all ring up for the time. Didn't the Brooke family ever schedule tea parties during their tenure here? If he knew this, my shockingly traditional grandfather who insisted on having tea brought up to his room every day at 4 would have been appalled.

Wonder what would happen if I scheduled a brunch. 

Sex For Rent

Apparently I've been severely shortchanged when it comes to tenants for Netherfield.

Financial-wise I could have handled the entire rent all on my own but company-wise it would have bored me silly. With the prodigious vastness of the estate, Netherfield would have seemed almost cavernous if I hadn't acquired tenants to share with. No doubt pottering about all alone in a far from modest dwelling with more than four capacious rooms would have driven me slightly batty.

Or insanely paranoid.

Which is how I ended up with Kool Kat in her seriously spartan apartment opposite mine and Fabulous Felix up in a darkened garret of his own.

But rather than split rent, I should have insisted on a different way of payment via barter. Seems an enterprising fellow back in Klang Valley has come up with the most innovative idea, horny lil bugger offered rooms for free in exchange for sex.

I have a spare room i am willing to exchange for sex. i will prepared to give the room for free to any girl who agrees to the terms. It is great for female students aged 18- 23 only. 
Terms and conditions : 
- will allow sex with me daily 
- speaks english 
- very daring and fun 

Needless to say, anyone who answers the ad - essentially prostituting themselves for room and board - would have to be daring and fun.

Unclear if it's just a sophomoric prank but I'm pretty sure the controversial notice would be taken down by the administrators of the rental service. Love the unequivocal specifications for young females spelled out on the ad. Whoever said my straight brethren had gotten increasingly finicky when it comes to women! Apparently all this fellow needs is a fearless female with very little sexual inhibitions who happens to speak the language.

Pretty sure the rabid feminists would be up in arms even though it doesn't seem like to much to ask for. Think of the daily sexual allowance as free calorie-burning.

And it's not like the terms aren't already clearly spelled out.

Aww man, you mean it's time to pay the rent again? 

Damn, if I had known I would have placed such audacious ads before!

Surely I could specify hunky male students with sculpted arms and a tight ass, available almost daily for uninhibited sexual intercourse! Now that's the kinda rent I wouldn't mind getting. Seriously I don't even need them to speak a word of English, as long as they understood simple instructions via sign language. Not only room but would even consider covering board if the requirements were more than adequately met.

Hmm.. with a world-class university just a stone's throw away, surely there are itinerant students around here in search of a room!

Or perhaps I could work out new terms for Felix in lieu of rent. Didn't he whine over financial difficulties just last week?

New Year Predictions

Oftentimes it doesn't actually come true but who can possibly resist listening to the yearly predictions? Based on the ancient Chinese astrological charts, the renowned masters usually come on stage to deliver their scholarly predictions for the different zodiac animals around this time of year. 

Better luck with work and business this year? Guess they should have added the fact that an unbalanced overemphasis on career would probably mean far less time for the home and family.

Which is why I'm not going home for Chinese New Year.

Never thought it would bum me out but it certainly has cast a disconsolate pall on my everyday activities for the past few days. Draping Netherfield in auspicious red banners and lighting up the decorated lanterns just isn't the same now that I know I'll be spending the festival day itself here - all me, myself and I. Possibly weeping as I peel my one and only mandarin orange. Blame damned unceasing work at the hospital and a serious lack of locum tenens to provide cover for me.

Orange for one anyone? 

Marking the first time in my more than three decades of life that I have not successfully returned for the Spring Festival. Curses!

Paul : Dammit, I can't go home for Chinese New Year! *sob*
Calvin : Well I'll be back home anyway. We can see each other.
Paul : But there will be no reunion dinner for me! My Fuzhou red wine chicken! *sob*
Calvin : Can't provide you that but I can offer you some Hakka delights.
Paul : Is that a kinky sex proposition?
Calvin : No. 
Paul : What is it?
Calvin : Why don't you join my family at the reunion table?
Paul : What?!
Calvin : There would be some of my relatives there of course. But not too many, maybe four or five tables.
Paul : What?!

Certainly never saw that coming.

Trust Charming Calvin to come up with the right thing to say as a serious distraction. Me? The controversial persona non grata making a late appearance at his family reunion with fifty of his indignant relatives sitting in judgement? Not to mention his seething mother, the antagonistic Madame Borgia, balefully scrutinizing me from across the table?

Even I couldn't predict what awaits me there.

Deck The Belles

Time again for the annual Christmas fête in Netherfield. Carried that tradition over from back home - been doing it for three years since. Figured since I won't be here to celebrate with my friends and neighbours, I might as well throw a celebratory bash the week or two before.

Sweating ignominiously during the arduous preparations for dinner simply isn't for us so we've always hired caterers. Gives us more time to play dress up, something me and the other two tenants of Netherfield, Kool Kat and Fabulous Felix, simply adore. Don we now our gay apparel indeed.

Unfortunately that doesn't seem to be the case for everyone else invited.

Paul : OMG.
Kat : I see it too.
Paul : Flip flops? Crocs? 
Kat : Well I never!

Though the invitation card for the Netherfield Tea Party might read smart casual for the dress code, almost none of the guests come appropriately dressed. Most appear to have rolled out of their beds only to pull on the closest rumpled tee and shorts from the laundry basket and a pair of dirtied flip flops.

Paul : Good God. 
Felix : Ratty denim cut-offs? Seriously.
Paul : Maybe that's highly formal for them. 
Felix : What happened to Suit Up!
Paul : Used to think that dressing up for a tea party was inherently obvious. Maybe they mistook the invitation for a beach picnic. 
Felix : Don't you miss the days when we had themed parties?
Paul : And friends who would actually adhere to the theme?

Snotty much?

Hardly jolly but just let me rant a bit here. Look, I'm not deriding their choice of clothes - well, not much - but when there's a dress code clearly implied, shouldn't there be some intuitive need to follow? When did we all collectively start to think that scrubby casual wear can be suitably appropos for every sort of social event?

The halls are decked with boughs of holly, shouldn't you be similarly glammed up too? Suit up and join the chorus!

Oh Christmas Tree

With sighing carols playing everywhere you go, you simply can't miss the beginning of December over here. Shops compete to come up with the glitziest storefronts while towering evergreens laden with shiny baubles start cropping up on almost every street corner.

Damn, you mean it's Christmas already?

And it's time for me to clean off the dust on the boxes from last year and unearth my own tree to set up in Netherfield. Obsessive compulsives like me would know what a pain it is to keep the Christmas baubles every year - and what a bigger pain it is to unpack the box the year after. Inevitably, some helpful but thoroughly bumbling hand would let slip a precious trinket made of Murano hand-blown glass.

And then those same clumsy hands would turn the already horribly entangled, knotted and tortuous twinkly lights into an impossible Gordian knot that would surely frustrate me for hours. Or place all the decorations on a particularly fortunate branch leaving glaringly empty spaces bereft of glad tidings.

So yes, I do silently grinch to myself every year about decorating the tree - but though I frequently bemoan the pronounced lack of help, I still suffer through it all on my own. Obviously finicky micromanaging control freaks like me simply can't stand by while someone else does a poor job of the tree.

Calvin : I can help put up the tree. 
Paul : Sure, no problem. Go ahead. 
Calvin : You sure? You're not just saying that?
Paul : Yes, take some of these and go hang them. Heck, you can take the entire box.
Calvin : Hmm... you're just going to wake up in the middle of the night and move everything around, aren't you?
Paul : You know me too well.

This year though rather than the pink paper cranes I did for Netherfield before, I shall rely on green paper wheels to form a theme. Maybe even a hanging mobile from the chandelier. Perhaps even mini paper wheels to clip on my coat.

Hmm... maybe I do need some handy elves for that.

And that's only for the first of my Christmas trees.

Mother Knows Best

For the past week, Mercurial Marshall has repeatedly marvelled over the fact that I actually took over the running of such a large establishment when I first arrived. Far from hiring a good-sized estate such as Netherfield, our footloose bachelor prefers something simpler in the form of a cosy crofter's cottage.

Of course I wouldn't suggest dealing with such an enormous place all on my own. The combined efforts of my cohabitants, along with the weekly ministrations of our housekeeper Maid Mumbles and the occasional visits from the wandering gardener, is all that's needed to keep this ancient establishment standing.

Yes, you need to invest in the place just a little.

Otherwise Netherfield would start to resemble other ramshackle rented residences where faded doors are coming apart, broken windows lie ajar and the ceiling fixtures lie in tragic disrepair. Quite a common sight when it comes to those who refuse to part with a blessed cent for just a little upkeep.

Paul : Hiring a cleaner? 
Marshall : Doubt I'll need that. Maybe just sweep once a week. 
Paul : And the grass out on the lawn? 
Marshall : Nothing wrong with some wild grass. 
Paul : Maybe you should slap on some new paint. Would definitely brighten up the place.
Marshall : Much too expensive. 
Paul : How about some rugs or carpets? Maybe a new standing lamp for the living room? 
Marshall : Nah, it's okay. I'll just spend more time in the bedroom anyway. 
Paul : I can already imagine what your previous place looked like. 

Takes a lot of sweat, some effort and a bit of investment to turn a house into a home. Ignore the fact that it might be rented - and focus on the fact that you'll be living there for at least a couple of years.

Think I need to invest a little in the house.

Basically you really have to be a house-proud matron.

Occasionally - at least every once in a while - one of the frequent visitors to Netherfield would add a comment on the guestbook praising us denizens for the excellent housekeeping. Such unanticipated accolades never fail to put a smile on my face. Since far from taking pride in myself, I find myself quite a failure actually. Seriously, wait till you meet my mother.

Just moments after landing here, out she marches from the bedroom with her cleaning pail, that horrid mop and the ubiquitous industrial bleach. Despite my endless admonishments that I hadn't flown her here to be my mistreated charwoman, the woman persists in her thankless endeavours since nothing but the absolute shiniest floors would do for her.

I bet germs scream and flee at the sight of my mother.

How About That Peacock

With the inevitable smoky haze clouding my vision, I could of course bemoan the unfortunate fact that my imbecilic neighbours insist on adding to the murky miasma by setting off their own rubbish bonfires. But apart from the odd prank call to the city council with my litany of complaints, there's not much to be done to cure their patent ignorance.

Though I do covertly douse their fires whenever I can.

Now who do I call to complain about itinerant fowl?

Probably would be one of those curmudgeonly old fellows frequently calling up the complaint lines.

But even that can't compare to the latest nuisance brought about by my immediate neighbour. Obviously they figured Netherfield needed another featherbrained reason for bugging the aggravated councilmen. Not satisfied with burdening us with an entire chicken farm just steps away from my backdoor, the budding gentleman farmer has decided to purchase a peacock.

Yes, a peacock.

And not the delightful kind euphemistically spoken of by Katy Perry. I wouldn't have been quite as rankled by that particular display of bountiful .. peacock.

It's the feathered fowl variety that I'm objecting to. And rather than mildly irritating cockcrowing in the godless hours of the morn, we now get the oddly bloodcurdling cacaw noise from the lone peacock. Particularly chilling for being quite unexpected.

Though exactly what these amateur homesteaders intend to do with a peacock is beyond me. Purely for decorative purposes? Bred for feather harvesting? Trained to herd the marauding fowl? A fresh alternative for the Christmas turkey?

Now where did I leave my hunting gun? 

Selective Mess

Think I've said it before but toss three utterly disparate personalities together in a confined space for the length of a year and you'll expect some amount of... friction. And unlike Fabulous Felix's patented Shield of Obliviousness and his unwitting absentmindedness which helps him deal with any potential household dissension, I can't let it slide all the time.

I need my space to vent. And since direct confrontation, as is my usual wont, would probably make me seem awfully petty - not to mention forever destroy all semblance of household harmony in Netherfield, I have decided to release my pent-up frustration in the most civilized manner possible by writing about it.

Otherwise I'd probably slide remorselessly into a vengeful psychotic break again. Since it's been a while, I might be due.

Let's start by clarifying the prickly situation. Honestly I'm far from the neatest freak around - that dubious title probably belongs to my fastidious mother - but I do like having my things in the correct place / angle / lighting etc. Certainly borders on a fanatical obsession but I try my best not to draw any unfortunate victims into my maniacal web of methodical madness.


Paul : Don't mention what we talked about earlier.
Felix : Mention what?
Paul : Good God. You've forgotten it, haven't you!
Felix : Forgotten what?
Kat : Were you talking about me?
Ostensibly the living space in Netherfield is shared by all three of us - namely Felix, Kat and me - but since Felix frequently escapes into hibernation in his hedonistic den, the place is ordinarily shared by Kool Kat and me. Generally whatever messes made downstairs are cleared up by our friendly neighbourhood cleaning service, our madly misunderstood Maid Mumbles.

But when Maid Mumbles calls in sick, the salons and dining rooms of Netherfield immediately fall into a sad state of decrepitude - with Kat refusing to lend a dainty finger to help. Even worse Kat contributes to the littered chaos by leaving little messes all over the place in hidden alcoves for me to find.

Paul : WTF.
Felix : You found another pile of used tissues again?
Paul : It's like a treasure trail of trash!
Felix : Well, it's her way of communicating.
Paul : By leaving litter for me to pick up behind couches, doors and fridges?
Felix : She knows you like a challenge.
Paul : Why can't she keep the place as clean as her bedroom?
Felix : She's a selective mess.
Paul : You're not helping.

Look, no one's expected to live up to my anal-retentive obsessive compulsive kinda cleanliness! Charming Calvin will attest to the fact that I've never compelled him to reorganize his kitchen utensils according to colour and size, no matter how badly I'm dying to do so. Don't even expect Felix to fluff the sadly crushed ornamental pillows on the couch just the way I like 'em.

But here's the catch! Kool Kat's even more of a stickler for neatness than I am. In fact her personal boudoir is decidedly above reproach - all spick, span and spotless with nothing out of place, even her frightened sheets have been cowed into remaining wrinkle-free!

Yet Kat's terrifying tsunami of trash leaves the rest of the house in disordered smithereens. So why the preferential treatment? Is it possible that Kat holds some deep-seated prejudice against the living area due to the fact that she doesn't have an acute sense of belonging? Does she mistakenly presume that I've incorporated stray leaves, tossed notes and used tissues into the interior decor of Netherfield?

And my childish rant is over.

No, I'm not going to confront Kool Kat about her preferential treatment. Zen I will be, tolerate it I shall. No doubt I have my fair share of incomprehensible idiosyncrasies eating away at her nerves as well! Till then I shall hope my maid clears away the trash before I stumble over them.