A Series of Unfortunate Events

Guess it's appropriate that I timed this post for today since I'm here to talk about the origin of superstition - and what better time than to speak of it during spooky Halloween.

I know... I know... With the shockingly rapid development of science and its many eager advocates ready to debunk the entire tome of ancient superstitions, it's easy to decry such unsubstantiated beliefs as so much hogwash. The unlucky number 13. The black cat. The rabbit's foot.

Yet such simple superstitions began centuries ago as a way for our unworldly ancestors to explain mysterious circumstances or events with the little knowledge that they had. Trip over a black cat. Stumble onto a bad encounter. Simply no other way to explain such ill fortune, is there?

Which brings us to Charming Calvin's revolting mirror - or what I shall henceforth term the Borgia Mirror on account of his venerable mother. And her inexplicable fear of mirrors. Suffice to say, Madame Borgia expended all her considerable efforts to rid Pemberley of said mirror, even resorting to such shameful tactics as a cowardly swoon!

Finally she even took it upon herself to have the ill-fated mirror surreptitiously carted out in the dead of night and summarily disposed off. Rumour would have it that Madame Borgia personally lit the sacrificial pyre herself while muttering words of unholy scripture under her breath. All much to the disgust of her disapproving son.

A week after the mirror was reduced to relatively benign ashes, Calvin's team mysteriously lost a significant contract.

Two weeks later, he had his weekend trip inadvertently cancelled.

Then just yesterday he woke up with a horrible sprain on the neck.

Shit! Now my neck too?!

Coincidence? Charming Calvin obviously thinks not - and attributes the string of misfortunes to the infelicitous absence of the mirror.

Calvin : I think that mirror actually brought me luck. Without it, I seem to be afflicted with all sorts of unaccountable misfortune.
Paul : It could be coincidence.
Calvin : It's definitely the mirror. Pretty sure it must have deflected evil away!
Paul : Doesn't seem to have worked on me.
Calvin : Maybe it's not that powerful.
Paul : So you will get another?
Calvin : Certainly I will. An even larger, more imposing one to break the Pemberley Jinx. 

Guess we haven't heard the end of the Borgia Mirror yet.

Through the Looking Glass

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son,
the jaws that bite and claws that scratch
Beware the jubjub bird
and shun the frumious bandersnatch."

Fear what lies beyond the looking glass for things never look quite the same.

No doubt a frightfully frightening little Victorian novel that played quite a large part in Madame Borgia's tormented girlhood. Always wondering if something otherworldly and sinister remained waiting on the other side. Or perhaps the fear that her eternal soul be forever caught in the twisted imperfect reflections. Whatever the reason - ever since then, mirrors, no matter how small or insignificant, even the slightest shard of glass, brings a barely concealed shudder from the redoubtable Madame Borgia.

Eisoptrophobia.

Something Charming Calvin conveniently forgot about his sainted mother. Since during the original renovation of Pemberley, a relatively sizeable mirror was placed right in front of the main entrance. Large as life to her, bold and bright with a border of dazzling white. Didn't take but a brief dramatic minute for a horrified Madame Borgia to stare aghast at her lifelong nemesis, let out a faint unrestrained shriek before falling heedless to the unforgiving tiles at the sight of it.

Hartshorn and rose water was needed to revive her. Citing fabricated feng shui reasons for the immediate removal of the offending object, her dutiful son Charming Calvin had no choice but to comply with her shamelessly distraught requests - lest she fall into an agitated swoon again.

The son finds the way to defeat his mother. 

It was then that I began to hear whispered tales of Madame Borgia furtively plastering up mirrors around the family compound to hide them all from view. Even mirrored reflections in still pools of water were deemed unholy to her eyes. Rumours of latent vampirism and black magic rumbled amongst the fearful servants.

Unbeknownst to most, the object of her scorn - now known to all as Calvin's Disobliging Mirror - remained quietly ensconced in a darkened corner of Pemberley away from the prying eyes of all, especially the all-knowing ones of Madame Borgia. I started thinking of having it subsequently restored to the powder room.

But to no avail.

Calvin : In her near deranged search throughout the apartments, my mother finally found the mirror. 
Paul : Wasn't it already placed face down on the floor in the store room with a multitude of religious talismans at guard?
Calvin : That didn't stop her from finding it.
Paul : Shades of Alice. Told you she would have sensed the supernatural aura. 
Calvin : While I was away, she had it immediately dragged out to the recycling centre for disposal. 
Paul : Never suffer a mirror to live. 
Calvin : I shall purchase an even larger one, one so large that she wouldn't be able to move it.

Obviously her son doesn't share her fear of mirrors.

And now I have found her secret weakness. 

Breakfasts at Pemberley

Over here across the Big Puddle, it's quite impossible to have certain meals at different times of the day. Almost obsessively British in their respect for certain mealtimes with their respective menus, the eccentric locals dedicate particular dishes to fixed hours of the day.

For instance, don't even dream of having piquant laksa in the sultry evenings unless you painstakingly make it with your own hands. Or even thirst-quenching cendol at the break of dawn.

Since no one would even consider partaking of those dishes out of their appropriate mealtimes. I've been repeatedly assured by the society grand dames that laksa was specifically created only for the mornings, so having a bowl anytime after two in the afternoon would be an unforgivable social faux pas.

Imagine the raised eyebrows at such a peculiarity. In fact anything wildly irregular being served out of their place would probably forever disrupt the social order as they know it! Wouldn't surprise me if the locals had such an arcane edict about their peculiar customs noted down for posterity in their Rulebook of Dining.

You mean I can't have this for tea?

Archaic rules our Charming Calvin obviously has no qualms about breaking - albeit a safe distance away in his Pemberley estate. He's a wild man, that one. Certain that none of his judgemental peers here would ever hear of his inappropriate behaviour, Calvin has turned almost capricious in his carte du jour.

Paul : French Toast as dinner?
Calvin : Oh yes we offer all day breakfasts here.
Paul : How shockingly unconventional! What next? Tea and scones for dinner? 
Calvin : Maybe!
Paul : Followed by bacon and eggs for supper? Gracious! What would your people think!

What would his mother think would be more likely. No doubt any radical behaviour on his part would be entirely blamed on me.

Anti Maid Syndrome

What would I do without a maid!

Seriously I don't even want to know the answer to the perplexing conundrum! Fortunately, for now and at least for the foreseeable future, I should be able to afford not to answer that particular question of whether I can live without domestic help. Apart from brief periods in my life, I've always had some sort of part-time maid in my house. Even here in Netherfield I have the inimitable yet oddly unintelligible Maid Mumbles to help out with the various domestic chores needed to keep the place vaguely serviceable.

And really, why would you even try to do without?

Domestic help. Such lovely, indispensable creatures. Maintains the manor in perfect order, all spic and span. Ready for a fry-up if the need arises. Ever-present with a cup of hot tea when you feel down.

Fuck egalitarianism. If I could afford an entire coterie of servants to staff my establishment, I probably would have. Just for starters, perhaps the housekeeper, the housemaid, the cook, the kitchen maid, the scullery maid, the chauffeur, the butler, the valet, the doorman - and that's only the bare minimum.


And why would you deny this strapping fellow his job?
So why does my sister-in-law Sassy Sue dislike having maids? Though most of us have broached the subject of hiring a maid to her, even the very suggestion seems insulting to Sue as a full-time housewife. Of course that's far from our initial intention since we just want to have her household burdens reduced with someone around to lend a hand.

Her adamant refusal seems peculiar though so let me just run through the stock reasons for not having a maid...

1) Financial constraints
Though having an entire army of maids would probably break the bank at the moment, I think my financially astute brother should be able to afford one at the very least.

2) Independence
There are some who prefer to do the cleaning, cooking, and cleanup on their own, citing independence and resourcefulness as a reason. Perhaps proving they are capable of handling the burden without help. And having a maid perpetually around in the background would really crimp their style. Yes, sure I might be able to manage without their services if need be but really, why bother if we can afford it?

3) Social conscience
A bit odd for a reason but I'll accept the validity of it. Though I gotta say the maids are getting their due for their hard work. Not like they are indentured slaves without choice. No doubt it's the best career option available to them at the moment so why not hire them?

Plenty of other more obscure reasons I'm sure. Pretty sure Sue has her personal reasons not to have a maid though, wonder what they are!

God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman

At least that's what I'm hoping.

Though at the rate he's going with the year-end work projects, the renovation at Pemberley and lately, his pre-Christmas gym routines, I don't think Charming Calvin is finding much time to rest at all. For the usually indolent fellow, that's an overwhelming snowstorm of activity.


December is turning out to be a busy month for everyone including me since the beginning of the holidays seem to usher in a slew of elective ( nonsensical? ) surgeries from nose jobs to double eyelids. Endlessly exhausting but not as tiring as trying to figure out what everyone on my list would like for Christmas. :)

Still I do manage to micromanage my schedule - cool as cucumber - compared to a more frantic Calvin who has been cramming every second of his day with mindless activity. This unmerry gentleman hasn't been taking any rest lately. Been telling him to take it easy - let nothing you dismay as it may - but Calvin's far too carried away with devilish talk of curtain railings, paint chips and door jambs to listen to such sweet tidings of comfort and joy.


That Santa better get cracking!
The curse of Pemberley I call it.

Calvin : I want everything done perfectly after Christmas!
Paul : Painting? Wallpapering? Lighting? Furniture? Kitchen cabinets?
Calvin : Yes! Immediately!
Paul : With a snap of Santa's magical fingers? Even the enchanted elves would need more time than that.
Poor Santa is on a deadline this year. With Calvin's frenetic rush to get things done, I am starting to wonder if he actually intends to make ready his home for the arrival of blessed Christ our Saviour!

Amen to that.

Miles away in the relative seclusion of Netherfield, I have been trying my best to lend a hand but alas I might as well be that faraway star of wonder, star of light, for all the help I've given. Still I do try, westward leading, still proceeding, trying to guide him to the perfect IKEA lamp light.

Maybe gift-wrap a chandelier for Calvin this Christmas?