Saving Grace

Graceless Grace and I have always had a prickly friendship. Of course her rude in-your-face abrasiveness has led me to keep her at a comfortable distance - preferably a few hundred miles - since any closer would inevitably lead to a grisly murder with one of us butchering the other. Despite the apparent shortcomings however there is little doubt that I still consider Grace one of my closest friends. Certainly a close associate I can rely on in desperate straits come hell or high water.

Just not too much familiarity since it undoubtedly breeds contempt.

Which is we get along just swimmingly online. As it turns out the painfully caustic barbs Grace occasionally fires ( at random? ) tend to lose their acute sting over the internet. The lack of verbal abuse - coupled with the added distance between us - is the reason why I've been able to offer counsel on her latest disastrous dating debacle.

Encroaching senility on our part has some of us seeking out greener pastures for ever greener youths. 老牛吃嫩草 as the saying goes. Our Graceless Grace - ever the nonconformist maverick - has decided to head for the opposite extreme instead.

By trolling the nursing homes.

Okay that was a little mean. But you can imagine the consternation on my part when she told me she was dating a much older gentleman.

Grace : I'm dating someone. It's getting serious.
Paul : That's great news! Who is he?
Grace : He's a little older than us.
Paul : Age is no matter I'm sure. Only a number and all that.
Grace : Glad you said that since I'm going to be meeting his children next week.
Paul : Children?
Grace : And a grandchild.
Paul : You're dating a grandfather?
Grace : Umm. Yes.
Paul : Umm. That's great news?

Followed by half a dozen inappropriate geriatric jokes especially since it turns out our grandpa here has a fear of commitment, especially with one failed marriage on his resume. Cold feet apparently after that unfortunate mesalliance several months years decades back.


Paul : So will you be serving poisoned apples for lunch when you meet the kids?
Grace : You're going to be making jokes fr a very long time, right?
Paul : Right you are, stepmom.
Despite the evident pitfalls ahead, I told Grace to go for it. So what if the crusty old coot's hobbling on a cane! With no one else in the horizon at the moment, anything would be a marked improvement over the abusive bum she once dated. Advice she heartily took in good stead.

Hiring Moneypenny

In our first ten years as a child, we go through all sorts of firsts. Our first word. Our first walk. Our first bicycle ride.

That indefinable sense of achievement gets a little less common the older we get! Though that doesn't necessarily mean we stop having our firsts even in adulthood - just that those around us don't celebrate our accomplishments as much anymore. Our first job. Our first paycheque. Even our first staggering loan. Since I've struggled through all those important milestones in my mid-twenties, I figured I was rapidly running out of firsts.

Till today.

My first hire. A secretary as it turns out.

My very own Man Friday. Yes, I need a secretary since I'm in the midst of setting up a private limited company. Didn't have the time to sort out the various candidates available so I left the crucial choice to my discerning parents ( at least I hoped ). Rather than depend on the capricious classifieds, my parents decided to rely on the time-honoured tradition of knocking on the door of every acquiantance they knew - no matter how remote - hoping to chance upon a suitable applicant.

Pulling a needle from a relative haystack as it were.

A bewildering stunt that surprisingly worked when they uncovered the unfortunately named Master Moneypenny. Despite the understated glamour associated with such an archetypical name, it would be hard to imagine a more unprepossessing personal secretary. A dishevelled, shirt-untucked hayseed from the countryside complete with a teasing drawl.


Moneypenny : You want me to take off my shirt? B-but why? Is it part of the interview?
Alas, they couldn't find one that vaguely resembled a nerdy but oh-so-adorable Justin Bartha.

But Master Moneypenny had a determined earnestness - and a crafty twinkle in his eyes - that drew me instantly. Though sadly not in a licentious manner. So much for my licentious fantasies of debauchery with the hunky male secretary over a messy, disorganized writing desk! There goes my tawdry offers to debrief my secretary.

Wistful wet dreams aside, it was all business before pleasure for Master Moneypenny. A plenthora of files, folders and documents were strewn all over the table from the little leather pouch he carried. What with his surprisingly respectable qualifications coupled with the affordable rates offered, he was immediately hired.

Which led to the inevitable paperwork.

Moneypenny : Shouldn't take very long to get it up and running.
Paul : And how long does it take to get you up and running?
Moneypenny : Excuse me?
Paul : Ignore that. You mean just a few squiggles of the pen and that's it?
Moneypenny : That's all it takes. So have you decided on the name of the company?
Paul : Whoa.

Seriously. A dozen names flashed before my eyes in blindingly bright tacky neon. With accompanying logos and catchy taglines even. Even had a ludicrous yen to christen the company Golden Prosperity Mountain Towers Above Them All - though the astonishment in Moneypenny's eyes stopped me then.

My company. Turns out that's another first right there.

Let Me See His Western Nose

Despite a century of heady French Indochine with Hanoi as the cherished jewel of its farflung empire, the Gallic influence is not as palpable as you'd imagine. Sure you have the charming side-walk cafes, the distinctive pastel-yellow colonial buildings and the ubiquitous baguettes sold on every alley. Even the picturesquely dilapidated chateaus speak in hushed tones of their former occupants.

But the lingering traces are few and far between.


You mean this used to be French?
My recent stay in Hanoi left me astounded at the dearth of French influence and language. With American dollars and Chinese salesmen on the streets, you wonder what exactly happened to the much-touted allure of French Indochine?

Surely communism happened. Seems like after Dien Bien Phu, the liberated Vietnamese were desperate to rid themselves of anything even vaguely colonial. Almost all traces of the hundred years of French colonialism have been slowly, methodically erased from the maze-like streets. They don't read Voltaire and Rosseau in the cafes. Attempting a bit of 'Parlez-vous français?' would only earn you suspicious looks from the ornery locals. Hardly any of the tree-lined avenues carry names that hint at French influence.

A marked difference from Malaysia.

Despite the gleeful joy our overzealous nationalists take in disparaging their former British overlords, it turns out we have much to be thankful for.

Just take a look at French Indochine. Even the Dutch East Indies. Compare the violent uprisings in the neighbouring nations under their iron-fisted rule to our far more amicable separation from the Brits. A gentlemanly divorce with much fewer bloodied battles on our side. Though we have managed to muck the whole thing up, the Brits initially left us an efficient civil service, a respectable legal system and a functioning parliament. While hardly any French is spoken on the tree-lined boulevards in Hanoi, English remains the lingua franca for the aspiring middle-class bourgeoisie here in post-colonial Malaysia.

Although the colonial British Malaya regime was far from perfect - after all, they maintained power through the cynical manipulation of ethnic and religious division ( a bitter legacy which remains till today ), we were still better off than most.

Unfortunately we just never improved on what they left behind.

The Heat is On in Hanoi

From the austere hush of a haughty French restaurant to the raucous din of a frenzied bike-infested Asian street. From the dainty crust of a dusky rose macaroon to the piquant, spicy tang of a beef pho. From the bold flash of the distinctive lacquerware to the demure pastels of a perfectly rendered counterfeit Monet.

That's Vietnam for you.

Is it any wonder the besotted Americans found it impossible to leave? Hell, even the French had to be forced at gun-point to vacate. But a short vacation spell for me could only mean somewhere close by. Since French Indochine remained a beautiful mystery for me, I figured it was time to discover more in Hanoi.

Learning that the remarkably accomodating Vietnamese actually allow shabby foreigners to waltz in without a visa ( or even a measly embarkation card! ) certainly brightened my day.


Offering prayers
Sadly however that's as far as their hospitality extends. Though service remained near impeccable at the hotels, that couldn't be said of the commonfolk. Little of the gentle grace of the neighbouring Thais or the simple warmth of our countrymen. Brusque sullenness from the locals, even those involved in the tourism trade.

With their communist doors opened wide not too long ago, obviously the local Hanoians haven't exactly gotten used to the wild unpredictability of the capitalist world as yet. Bewildered they are, and still a bit crabby at the unwelcome intrusion. Not even the demure ao dais of their maidens can hide that.

No denying the intricacy of their handiwork though. Remarkable embroidery, beautiful lacquerware, detailed woodcarvings etc... the list goes on. Look no further for oil painting reproductions on the cheap! Plenty of items to buy. Though the decided lack of enthusiasm on the part of the dour, uncooperative shopkeepers certainly lessened the fun of bargaining.

Spent half of what I would have otherwise.

Fortunately I have perfectly good Vietnamese coffee ( and croissants ) to sustain me.

Edward Eerie and the Cryptic Message

Stalkers can be a problem.

Even more so when they insist on swearing their undying love on a daily basis. Like a lovestruck bug, Edward Eerie has been flitting about Piratin Patty hoping for something more.

Patty : Edward was introducing me as his partner.
Paul : Of course he was.
Patty : And he had a clingy arm around my waist.
Paul : As his partner of course.
Patty : It was irritating. I mean, keep your hands to yourself buddy!
Paul : Well, you were his partner.
Patty : Dinner partner.
Paul : I think he wanted more.
Patty : Hello, I didn't get the memo.
Paul : He asked you for dinner! That's the memo.
Patty : I need more words than that.

Words.

Words can say so much but sometimes actions matter so much more. So listen up girls - and boys who are that way inclined. A cute boy asks you out. He buys you dinner. Then he takes you as plus one to a wedding with his closest friends?


Was that Eerie following me?
Let's put it simply. He's interested.

You don't need to have it dressed up in pretty flowery haikus. You don't have to have it translated on Google or Babelfish. Obvious enough actually. No need for it to be written in flashing neon lights billboard size, is there?