An overworked physician from Malaysia who imbibes caffeine ( though slowing down some ), drives dangerously ( same as prev. ) and writes bedtime stories about guys into other guys to indulge in wicked unfulfilled fantasies...
Yeah, no need to fall off the chair. Kinda weird, I know. Surprising for a cynical fellow like me. But I guess the music does creep up on you. Nothing like easy listening melodies and intimate lyrics - coupled with constant replay on the airwaves - to make you fall.
Though I love her sappy sentimental lyrics, I confess I still haven't fallen for the whole come-rescue-me-sweet-prince fairytale she still has going on. Love story with the handsome knight riding in with the white horse? Sounds terribly sweet but don't tough country chicks like Taylor blast their honourable heads off with a six-shooter?
I know. Frilly lace and pretty bows, I can get but I've never exactly been the pretty princess twiddling my thumbs waiting for someone to come rescue me. Rather till my own farms, build my own castle and hold princely auditions.
Of course that's far better than her other persona of the scared, doe-eyed wallflower being dumped upon! Boy : Oh my girlfriend's upset. She's going off on something I said cause she doesn't get my humour like you do! Taylor : Your pretty girlfriend who's cheer captain in short skirts while I wear t-shirts on the bleachers? Boy : Yeah. Taylor : Can't you see that I'm the one who understands you? Been here all along so why can't you see? You belong with me! Boy : Oh shit. I think I have static over here. Think we're breaking up here. Did you say something?
I'd have thrown the phone at the blind fool of course.
Seriously, dude. Can't you see she's a babe from ten feet away?
But sweet Taylor never does so. Sitting in her room with teardrops on her guitar, poor lil Taylor wails over her broken heart. Gotta admit though that I find it hard to believe that the burly jocks in school wouldn't go for her. Seriously? Are the country boys collectively blind? Gorgeous leggy blonde like her? Even her worst detractors - bad-mouthing Kanye West included - would agree that Miss Swift's reasonably attractive by any standards. Surely she would have more than her fair share of suitors knocking down her door.
Didn't think that my brother would be amongst her fans. Yes folks, my brother has a Taylor Swift CD in the car. He listens to songs about girls crushing on their boyfriends. My brother.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a paltry fortune, must be in want of a country estate.
All it took were half a dozen house tours, five apartment viewings and several hours of deliberation. Finally to the real estate agent's unbridled delight ( and relief no doubt ), I've finally chosen a place of my own. Though I only undertook a one-year lease to see how the rented estate fits.
Hence the given name Netherfield.
Ramshackle old place. Far from being the perfect country seat, Netherfield estate certainly earns the unenviable designation of a fixer-upper! Horrid cherry-stained wood panellings. Tired-looking pink-tinged floor tiles. All matched with shockingly garish fuchsia flowers on the sadly faded floor-length curtains - a cherished item which the happy owner - a Mrs Elton - proudly proclaimed to be specially purchased from highly esteemed city merchants.
If she desires me to appraise her ceiling plaster again, I just might have to stab her with my inkpen.
Obviously part of the nouveau riche, our Mrs Elton couldn't quite finish reciting the manifold virtues of her far newer - and larger estate. Not that Netherfield wasn't a perfectly lovely place but she couldn't quite live in such a quiant country manor any longer. Simply intolerable! My, what would her neighbours at the club say! Paul : My word! Quite unusual fabric for the curtains! Mrs Elton : Pretty pretty yes? I specially choose this cloth! Not cheap I tell you. Paul : It certainly speaks highly of your taste. Mrs Elton : Red curtains to match the house leh. Very french looking la! Paul : Perhaps I should paraphrase by saying that it shrieks loudly? Mrs Elton : Also put those nice pictures of red peonies to match the floor. I've been told I have got quite the taste leh.
Certainly succeeded in going for the terrifyingly mismatched look. No doubt the splashy scarlet spectacle compelled the previous tenants to vacate in a tremendous hurry with various kitchen utensils discarded by wayside. Even found a burnished copper kettle tossed into the drain close by.
And I've only started with the living room! Can't adequately describe the acid-green cabinets in the kitchen without reaching feebly for my snuffbox.
But I persevere. Though cruelly mistreated by the previous shabby-genteel residents, Netherfield isn't entirely irredeemable with neither style nor taste. The bare bones of the structure's still pretty well enough. Definitely salvageable material. Several large airy salons that would benefit tremendously from a little tszuj. Nothing a heap of elbow grease, a little paint and a pinch of style won't cure!
Certainly a challenge for me!
First thing to do is burn those offensive curtains.
In time I've been here, I've actually grown to like this sleepy hollow.
A sly combination of persistent pressure, threats and bribes have coerced friends and family to come visit me in my exile. Unfortunately once they are duped into coming, there's honestly nothing much to do here tourist-wise. Even the guidebook's woefully thin with barely enough items of interest to fill a handful of pages. With all the natural attractions sights out-of-reach hundreds of kilometres away, the city environs itself might as well be a deserted ghost town.
At the moment, cash spillover from the numerous oil and gas multinationals here still gushes out constantly - along with money printed from the timber felled in the lush tropical jungles. But natural resources like these don't last forever - in the blink of a couple of decades, they would be exhausted and this litle city would naturally fade into obscurity as many of our forgotten tin mining towns have. Even now the city's young professionals are leaving in droves.
Foreseeing such a calamitous event, the city's forefathers have been touting Miri as a resort city and the gateway to the wild hoping to lure the almighty tourism dollar. Oddly enough, the attractions offered - the world-renowned Mulu Caves, the spectacular Niah Caves, beautiful beaches, exciting game fishing, colorful coral reefs, exotic tropical rainforests - all lie miles away from the city itself. For a resort city, there's really nothing much to do here. No wonder most tourists think of the city as an overnight stopover before jetting off some place more interesting. Even the locals from hereabouts go somewhere else for recreation and you're selling the town as a tourist mecca?
O brave new world that has such people in it.
Which is a pity since Miri should be the main event rather than the sideshow.
1) Be nice to the Travellers
Seriously. Don't fail at this as the peninsula has. Nothing quite as important as having perfect sign posts and ready information. Tourist maps should be readily available with pertinent information included ( e.g. bus routes ). Unless you're clandestinely peddling marijuana, hiding the obscure tourist information booth in the backyard of a seedy inner-city bus station isn't the way to go.
And can I request that some of the surly, incompetent waitstaff / salespersons be sent to a gulag for formal retraining? I simply can't spend my days giving them public dressing-downs for lousy customer service!
2) Arts & Crafts
Don't even mention the apathetic handicraft centre left to languish in the sweltering summer haze!
Concerted efforts should be made to revitalize the centre. Monthly fairs on the weekends? Offering free booths to the locals ( and even the expats ) to showcase their own works of art? Have classes to teach those willing to learn? The arts & crafts of the indigenous people here are simply unique - and worthy of acknowledgement. Beautiful batik handicraft abound in the city yet there are hardly any art galleries around to showcase their hard work. Even the little tamu market selling local produce needs a serious makeover.
And let's face it, cultural villages with indigenous tribes grouped into separate houses might be kitschy but it works to keep the shutterbug tourists happy.
3) Places of Interest
Unfortunately Miri isn't all that old a town. Perhaps a century or so? Apart from the first oil-well here named the Grand Old Lady, there are hardly any other places of historical significance - even the older shophouses by the river have been refurbished to look almost brand-new. There is a tiny clocktower but it has been whitewashed over so that's passe. And unless it's Tsukiji Fish Market, there's nothing much to boast about the market here.
So, sorry guys but you gotta start building some sights. You already have a crocodile farm and marina built which is great. But you do need more than that. Really. Theme parks. Entertainment venues. Hell, even a leaning tower would do.
4) Enough with the Parks & Seaside
Really... parks? Perfectly good recreational activity for the sedentary locals but unless you have an extraodinarily unique concept for a park, don't even bother putting it in the guidebook. No sane tourists will flying in here to gaze at potted plants. And the water's here are coloured an awful murky brown. Touting the dubious beaches here for a swim would be seriously counter-productive.
For the adventuresome few, introducing hiking trails through the hills surrounding the city would be good.
5) All that Jazz
Evidently having the jazz festival here every month of May does draw the crowds.
But rather than growing complacent with the plaudits, the festival should expand and improve by involving the city itself. Emulate the eminently successful Edinburgh Festival. Rather than confine itself to the country club exclusivity of one venue, they should paint the town! Have the artistes showcase their talents in the clubs and pubs around town. Get the nearby city schools to participate with choirs and glee clubs. Promote special offers for jazz artistes that month - books / CDs / DVDs. Instead of relying heavily on outside talent, invest in our local jazz acts as well. Sheila Majid. Sean Ghazi. Shanon Shah. Atilia.
Overly emotional boys who break that seemingly inconsequential nail, then start spiralling into a whirlpool of despondency where dozens of other unresolved issues start getting sucked into the woefully potent mix? Honestly I find these boo-hoo boys baffling - though I'll admit there's always this near irresistible urge to give them all a hard shake.
Tough love, that's me. Which is what I do when I find Charming Calvin ( who is shockingly prone to such fits of despair ) occasionally dipping a toe into such a morass of dejection. Rusty nail leads to a broken door which leads to a fragmented flat which leads to a damaged apartment building which leads to a towering crash which leads to ... You see where I'm going with this. Probably ends with the calamitous destruction of civil society as we know it.
I'm not saying I'm entirely immune to such alarmist thoughts. We all have what seems to be insurmountable quandaries sometimes. But whenever I find myself tottering near the edge, I usually give myself two backhanded slaps to get myself out of that blue funk. Mentally speaking. The ones that can be solved I lay them out on the table. The ones that seem nigh impossible I shelve for later.
Feeling low?
Curling up into a ball in a dark corner sobbing quietly to the strains of weepy emo refrains isn't a reasonable solution.
Perhaps it's the nature of my job. Looking at a sole patient as a whole would leave us all adrift wildly scrabbling for answers - so we start compartmentalizing. What took years, and occasionally decades, to form isn't going to disappear miraculously overnight. There is simply no way we can possibly solve all the medical problems when they are presented. Not to mention the new ones that crop up as ensuing complications of the above!
Compounding the problems certainly doesn't help.
So we split them up into manageable problems. You have an elderly nonagenarian with multiple organ failure - basically falling apart - so we split him up into kidney failure, heart failure etc. Then tackle them accordingly with reasonable targets to be met in a certain length of time. Some problems take longer to solve after all. Some you probably never will.
Turn impenetrable mountains to simple molehills. Easier to handle, that's all. Do what you can. And for the few you can't do anything about, find help. Out there, there's someone who has survived a similar calamity. Talk.
Medical trends these days seem to favour having the expectant fathers present during the delivery. Their presence in birthing classes and the delivery room is a natural given - and many fathers wouldn’t dream of missing out. Rather than patiently wear out the squeaky hallways twiddling their thumbs while passing out cigars, modern dads-to-be are expected to share in the wondrous miracle of childbirth - with their horrified faces no doubt several feet away from the bloodied vaginal gateway as the baby comes roaring through.
Same goes for the caesarean section.
Although most of the fathers look as if they'd rather have a painful vasectomy than endure the childbirth, they still manfully march into the operating theatre with their multi-functional cameras faithfully slung around their shoulders.
Though I find the fellas mostly redundant since the anxious mothers are far too involved in the coming event to bother much about them. Far from offering succor and support to the mother during the labour pains, some turn out to be quite a hindrance instead. Quite a number of men are squeamish around blood, turning quite fearfully green when blood spatters around them.
That's why it was so novel to have a father like Burly Beng around.
Not the usual kinda dad!
Big bearish hulk in a coloured hawaiian shirt and faded jeans with curious tattoos running down each arm. Engraved gold doubloons encircling his thick neck to match the shiny gold bands encased on each finger. Not forgetting the prerequisite long fingernail on the little finger! Just the ugly sort you'd want to break down doors - and legs - when collecting rent.
Fearing that the thug was there to raise havoc, I was this close to calling security only to be creditably informed that he was the prospective father-to-be!
Rather than sit quietly in the background clutching his wive's feeble fingers, Burly Beng decided to take an active role in the surgery. Didn't point out any mistakes of course but he certainly asked a dozen probing ( and curious! ) questions about slicing red meat. Instead of carefully avoiding the bleeding gaping wound made by the scalpel for the caesarean section, Burly Beng leaned in for a closer view, seemingly enraptured by all that gushing red blood.
Playing with his nail every few minutes.
Which prompted this whispered conversation with the surgeon once Beng had stepped out of earshot. Paul : He was standing awfully near the surgical site. Surgeon : And didn't look in the least bit afraid of the blood at all. Paul : Inured from all that bloodshed. That's what happens when you've butchered a few recalcitrants. Surgeon : Very true. Not to mention the red paint on the walls. Paul : You better didn't leave an unsightly scar on his wife. Surgeon : Hoping I didn't as well. Paul : He might just shoot us both where we stand. Surgeon : Or cut us up with a butcher's knife! Paul : You didn't have to encourage him by answering all his weird questions! Surgeon : I had to. My back was to him. He could have kept a machete in his shirt!
Murderous ah bengs and gold bling aside, I still have a question. Why the protruding nail?
