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.

The Day I Starred in Porn

Let's not deny that the various drugs used regularly in general anaesthesia could also be used for other more ... thoroughly recreational purpose - which is why most of the seemingly harmless ampoules in my hand are labeled dangerous drugs where daily usage is closely watched and strictly monitored. Though the infamous accidental death of the Prince of Pop might have given the poor sedative hypnotic agent Propofol quite a bad name, that doesn't change the fact that it does have some surprisingly risque effects.

Namely for the patient.

While under sedation with the drug, medical reports have documented cases of sexually charged euphoria with shockingly vivid erotic dreams unlike those caused by other more modest sedative agents. Though I myself have not undergone such a procedure, I have encountered innumerable patients who awaken with pleasurable moans and sighs so I would have to agree with that particular hypothesis.

Something to that effect I'm sure.

Confirmed without a doubt today when I found myself the target of such a susceptible patient. Turns out the pretty college co-ed remembers me from my regular gadabouts around town though I can't recall her at all. Sure, she might be uncommonly beautiful but still, she's just a girl. Could have been any Toni, Dora or Harriet to me. Perhaps if it had been her strapping brother, I might have been a tad more flattered.

Perhaps it was her vague recollection that ignited some of her more charged feminine emotions - for her subsequent awakening turned out to be quite the event.

Paul : OMG. 
Nurse : I think she's moaning. 
Paul : I can hear that too. 
Nurse : And she's sighing too. 
Paul : Asking her to keep it down won't help, would it? 
Nurse : I think she just cried your name. 
Paul : No!
Nurse : There. Again. That's clearly your name. 
Paul : I'll pretend not to have heard that. 
Nurse : You must have been pretty good.
Paul : Obviously I do try. 

Such sweet irony that I took the starring role in someone's licentious fantasies - only to find myself literally unmoved apart from a faint flush of my cheeks. If it had been a virile twenty year-old of the male sex, who knows what might have happened.

Seriously. Now that I have you tied up, I don't know what else to do with you. Do I braid your hair? Apply some make-up for you? Is that what you like? 

Fortunately my name only left her breathless lips that one time with no clear recollection after she came out of her dreamy reverie - though that was more than enough for my irreverent nurses who spent the entire morning trying to take the piss out of me by repeatedly sighing my name within earshot.

So moral of the story : kids, don't do drugs. At least not without a licensed anaesthetist around.

Just Wave Hello

"There is hardly any personal defect which an agreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one to."

Apparently a quote attributed to the infamous observer of manners, Miss Jane Austen herself. Though in these modern days, I wonder whether that still holds true.

Hate to sound like a crotchety old fogey - which I certainly am - but in my days, my far too conservative though evidently wise elders put a high value on good manners. When it came to having civil company around, we were expected to present ourselves in the living room with our best behaviour, make some cordial chit chat and generally refrain from being a monstrous nuisance.

Undoubtedly no annoying fidgeting.

And that goes for the occasional public appearance as well.

Since otherwise it would be the birch. Or a smack. Whichever was closest for my parents. Say what you will - and yes, I may be biased - but I don't think we had that many whiny brats in public spaces back then.

Getting to know you

So why did I suddenly bring that up? Because I had a getting-to-know-you conversation just the other day which I found simply... exhausting.

Paul : Hi, you're new here?
Newbie : Yes. 
Paul : Where do you work?
Newbie : Here. 
Paul : How are you enjoying the place? Got used to the roads yet? 
Newbie : Yes. 
Paul :  Have you been to this restaurant?
Newbie : No. 
Paul : Do you like the food? 
Newbie : Yes. 

I should have just come out with a welcome-to-the-neighbourhood survey form to tick and cross.

It was less an introductory conversation and more an information mining expedition. In colloquial Malay I frequently dub it as 'mencungkil emas' - which basically means digging for gold - since every word he uttered seemed to be precious treasure uncovered. Come on, a monosyllabic reply does not a conversation make. If I'm asking all the questions, I might as well bring along some ropes, a taser and an interrogation lamp.

If I had done the same surly treatment as a kid, my parents would have gladly walloped me from being just plain rude. Don't think I would blame them.

Beyond the simple handshake, there is more to knowing a person. Yes, it does take time - and it also takes exchanged words since my psychic powers are still very much nascent.

David : Maybe he's shy!
Paul : Being shy doesn't mean throwing manners away. 
David : Maybe he just doesn't know what to say!
Paul : He could just ask the same questions we did. It's just general questions. I wasn't asking what intimate sexual positions he enjoys. 
David : Oh. 
Paul : He probably doesn't even know your name. Or your job. Or where you live. Or where you come from. Basically he knows nothing about us - and I already know about his sister's favourite pet. 

Seriously. What did their parents teach them about social interaction? Is saying hello so difficult for people these days?

Vive la Famille

Surely the ambitious motto of my aspiring family patriarch - though I'm sure the much exploited grandchildren don't think much of his grand designs. But when it comes to an aspiring famille hoping to leave a lasting legacy during the baffling upheavals of the French Revolution, can you blame the determined fellow?

Which is basically the theme of our latest game. Legacy: The Testament of Duke de Crecy lets us step into the shoes of an upwardly mobile French noble in 1729 and compete for lasting honour by establishing a powerful dynasty with marriage ties to many different wealthy and powerful families.

Years back as a kid playing endless reruns of largely competitive games such as Risk and Monopoly with my brother, I already surrendered myself to the notion that such games obviously weren't suited to my taste. Barbaric hordes tearing across borders to plunder and pillage simply isn't my idea of fun.

Evidently I tend to lean towards thematic cooperative games with lots... and lots of witty narrative. So a game such as Legacy where gambling on the fickle vagaries of the marriage market ( like my all-time favourite Georgette Heyer regencies ) forms the basis of the game sounds made for me. Just imagine Crusader Kings with the endless Machiavellian manipulations of the hapless family members but without the blood-soaked warmongering on a mini board game.

Which is what I immediately set out to do as the future Count Philippe of Malacca. Though resources were few for his family wasn't all that well-to-do, he managed to gain the hand of the far more politically astute courtesan Arianne. Fortunately despite the unpredictable medical facilities of those times, a string of successful pregnancies ensued with a handful of promising though oddly identical offspring - Patric, Paul and Paige.

Philippe : Well congratulations, you survived the birth without complication.
Arianne : You were hoping otherwise?
Philippe : Did you expect bouquets? There's no love lost between us after all.
Arianne : You would have carried on the affair with the handsome footman from Provence?
Philippe : Certainement! Well I might have publicly mourned for a week. And fucked him thoroughly in private.
Arianne : Before searching for a new bride the week after?
Philippe : You know me too well.  

Feeling that times would be getting better despite noble heads getting summarily lopped off at the bloody guillotine, Philippe purchased a grand title for himself along with a gracious country chateau. After all where else could he throw his grand fetes to beguile high society. Along the way his socialite wife eagerly arranged advantageous marriages for his children. Even a match where poor Paige was sacrificed to a petty court blackmailer - who nonetheless, through whatever nefarious means, brought in several influential friends to the social circle - which paved the way for her more fortunate brother Paul, then the city mayor of Paris, to be engaged to a lovely Castillian princess.

Things looked up with the third generation as one grandson attained the status of a Duke while another granddaughter married a finance minister's son. The rest Philippe bartered off for whatever benefits they brought to the family - though one handsome suitor caught his eye... well just because.

Certain patriarchal entitlements Philippe surely didn't see fit to share with the rest of his family.

Philippe : The son of a mere baron for our beloved granddaughter Patience! My dear, you are certainly addled. I see at least one hunchback duke and two cross-eyed ministers who would be more advantageous.
Arianne : Take a good look at the boy before you judge.
Philippe : Vraiment! I finally see his undeniable charms. Certainly gifted. Now that's a virile stallion I would be glad to introduce into my stables.
Arianne : At least wait till after the wedding, my dear.
Philippe : Certainement!

Perpetually trying to gain more prestige along the way as the family picks up advantageous alliances. With a penchant for marrying intellectuals and scholars, soon enough the family gained the attention of Madame de Pompadour who became the family patroness.

Which is more than I can say for my lesser-connected rival families, one of whom had a motley crew of butchers, maids and stableboys in their hodge-podge lineage. Even a wandering Cossack! How shockingly bourgeouis!

Everyone's an Eeyore

For those who are wondering, Eeyore's the tragically despondent donkey usually found at the edge of the Thousand Acre Wood ruminating about the daily miseries of life.

These days reading the online media with everyone sounding unhappy I am starting to wonder whether I am surrounded by hundreds of them. Charming Calvin included. Compared to them, I'm practically the bouncing interminably optimistic Tigger. Almost annoyingly so sometimes.

Unsure who exactly is to blame for all the unhappiness, whether it's our modern age of jaded despondency where being happy seems almost ludicrously unhip, or whether it's our wildly encouraging mass media that has given everyone unrealistic expectations of life in general. Seems like everyone's forever wanting and wishing, dreaming and hoping for lottery wins and diamond rings to be happy in life. And when that doesn't come true - which unfortunately is far more common than such limited occurrences, they find themselves hopelessly in the slough of despond.

So what if there's a pea in my bed!

Which I simply can't fathom. I'm healthy, I'm alive, I have food and shelter - generally that makes me happy. After all fireworks and birthdays don't come every day! Most of the friends whining about their endless sorrows already have so many blessings that I find it hard to believe that they could possibly be at all piteously miserable.

Consider this a reiteration. Perhaps it's my unconventional upbringing - due to the fact that I spent quite a large portion of my growing teenage years wandering in empty hospital hallways - or from my work - where I deal with life's numerous miseries, but I find myself inordinately cheered by the little things. It doesn't have to be the big things.

Just that surprisingly well-brewed cup of coffee in the morning from the nurses.

Or perhaps the unexpected cancellation of a morning case leaving the day free for my many pursuits.

Or finding that exceedingly luscious fruit from that long forsaken mango tree in the backyard of Netherfield.

Or getting that uncommon lovey-dovey message from Charming Calvin.

The little things make me happy, certainly eclipsing whatever small disappointments of the day there may be. Life is short so we should cherish all the lovely things that happen all the more. Don't worry so much about the bed having the occasional disconcerting pea but be happy that there's a wonderful down mattress instead.

And if you're lucky, even a handsome prince beside.