A Random Story...

Dear Reader,





Would you like to hear a random story? For I am in a random-story-telling mood. Well, here goes...



Have you ever been approached by an individual with short-cropped hair, wearing a white shirt, plain tie and immaculately pressed trousers, often accompanied by at least one other, almost identically attired individual? Well, I have. Kind of.



Let me start from the beginning.





It was a perfectly normal day; the only remarkable occurrence being that almost the entire family [including me] was outside in the yard, enjoying the sunshine. My younger brother, Nethaniel, shirtless and perspiring heavily, was rambunctiously playing with the dogs. I was sitting on a rattan chair, situated directly in front of the side door, just in case the whole furry, panting group descended upon me and I needed to beat a hasty retreat.




My cousin, Linda--or Lini, as we all tend to call her--was pottering about the garden, doing something to the chilli plants, I believe. Or maybe she was starting a fire for us to roast marsh-mellows over, later in the evening. I don't quite remember that detail, but it isn't really relevant to this story. Moving on.



Our Indonesian maid, Julia, was near the front of our yard, collecting wood or sweeping leaves off the driveway, or some such thing. An industrious, bustling being, is Julia. She always seems to be busily employed doing something, but, to this day, I haven't managed to figure out just what that something is. Anyway, as I was saying, Julia was in the front part of the yard, and therefore she was the closest one to the Big Gate.




I espied the two aforementioned gentlemen from my rattan chair, which was quite a long way off from the Big Gate, actually. They were both carrying backpacks--though, to my everlasting regret, I didn't notice whether they were carrying them on the same shoulder or not--and were both about the same height and build, and they were both white...Caucasian, I believe, is the politically correct term.



My house is situated on a hill. Yes, very picturesque and interesting, my sentimental reader. But not if you're on foot, climbing your way to the top in the afternoon heat, hatless and in a long-sleeved dress shirt. There was a light breeze that day, though, if I recall correctly. So, it probably wasn't that bad for them. Oh, yes, I seem to remember their matching ties fluttering slightly in synchronization; or perhaps it's just my lively imagination at work.



However it was, I was fortunate enough to detect their impending arrival as they were still on the crown of the hill, ascending slowly, each holding what looked like a book in their hands. They were obviously from some religious group, bent on spreading their doctrine to all corners of the globe, on a mission to enlighten every unlucky native and heathen that they came across--or pursued, rather.



Without further hesitation, I jumped from my chair and proceeded to hide behind our car. The car, a Pajero, succeeded in shielding me from their otherwise penetrating gaze. I could still peek out from behind the fender without being seen, though. So I happily stayed where I was, leaving everything to Julia's capable hands.



The two strangers accosted Julia, and called her to come up to the Big Gate, which, incidentally, is kept closed at all times, for obvious reasons. Six reasons, actually. All of which came racing down the driveway at full speed, yapping and barking for all they were worth.



My cousin and brother, only now noticing the two closely-shaved gentlemen in earnest conversation with Julia, joined me behind the Pajero, giggling and 'shushing' each other like a couple of 8-year-old schoolgirls.



My younger sister, Daniella, was inside the house, and had come out to see what all the barking was about. We each gesticulated violently at her to keep quiet and to come join us in hiding. When she failed to comprehend our chaotic miming, I dragged her bodily towards the car and whisperingly updated her on our present condition.



Although we could see what was happening clearly enough, we were too far away to hear what was being said. Then, Julia suddenly turned around and called out each of our names in turn, her shrill voice almost drowned out by the incessant barking.



"Kak Lini!" A slight pause as she waited for a reply.

"Kak Bethany!" Again, no response.

"Daniella!" Yeah.

"Boy!" As a last resort.



That remote method of communication proving ineffective, she made her way up the driveway to seek us out, probably a bit puzzled by our sudden disappearance. As she came up to the side door, she saw the four of us crouching behind the Pajero. Using various gestures and hand signals, with liberal lifting of eyebrows and mouthing out of indistinguishable words, we managed to make her understand that we didn't want to meet these two strangers, and that we wanted her to make them go away. Julia dutifully walked back to the Big Gate to get rid of the two gentlemen, in the politest manner possible, of course.



After a short and, for the audience hiding behind the Pajero, muted conversation, the two gentlemen departed as suddenly as they appeared, apparently meaning to harass--I mean, enlighten our neighbours as soon as possible.



Later we asked Julia how she managed to dispatch them so expediently. She said she had informed them that they could not preach their doctrine here, as it was a Malay household. We all looked at her in disbelief. We thought perhaps she was making a joke. Surely they didn't fall such an obvious lie. Why, the entire time they were at the gate, there were six dogs barking at them. A Malay household indeed! At first we were incredulous. Then, when Julia assured us she wasn't making a joke, the funny side of the whole thing kicked in. I haven't laughed so hard in a long time.



Alright, if you aren't a Malaysian, you're probably a bit in the dark here. You see, my international reader, Malays are prohibited by their religion to come into contact with dogs. That means they can't even touch dogs, let alone keep one for a pet. Let alone six.



And so, there it is. My [mostly] true story. With a few literary embellishments here and there. Poetic licence, and all that.

I sincerely hope my little anecdote manages to cheer you up, dear reader. It certainly cheered me up, just by remembering it.

Well, it's that time again, my dear reader. Until next time; parting is such sweet sorrow...or whatever.







Yours,



Figgy the Storyteller

Birthday Girl

Dear Reader,











I'm 18 today. I feel so...young. And unprepared for life. School is a waste of time; it doesn't prepare you for anything. After about 10 years of being spoonfed pretty much everything, you're suddenly expected to fend for yourself in the 'real world'. You're left to battle the raging seas of life, with nothing but your inexperience and all the useless information you've accumulated throughout your years of 'education' to guide you.

There's definitely something wrong with the Malaysian education system.



But I digress. I'm forgetting something. I am not alone. I am not navigating the twisted labyrinth of the adult world without a road map; I have the Ultimate Road Map. I have God on my side.



No, don't roll your eyes at me, my sceptical reader. God really does have all the answers; we just never bother to ask Him for them.



So, my insecurities aside...guess what I got for my birthday present? A shopping trip! [Yay!] Unfortunately, I didn't get to buy any new books. Another day, perhaps. However, I did manage to buy not one, but two new articles of clothing. One shirt and one dress. I also bought some shoes...a pair of black ballerina flats, with a little flower-bow-thingy on the front.



Have I mentioned my love for [obsession with] shoes? Oh...well, in that case: I absolutely love [am obsessed with] shoes! There, I mentioned it. It's really wonderful how a nice pair of shoes can make one forget about one's troubles, isn't it? At least, for a while.



If I had my way, I'd take a whole year off before continuing my education, and do things I would never have had the time or the motivation to do otherwise. Like remodel my room, or take up pottery, or learn how to bake cupcakes, or something.



But what I'm really worried about is the total and complete disappointment I'll face this March, when my SPM results come out. SPM is The Big Exam that every student in Malaysia has to face before they graduate. The one that decides your future. The one that determines whether you are smart and hardworking, or if a career in the academic field just isn't the best idea for you.



I am a smart person. [And modest, don't forget modest!] But I am also an extremely lazy person. I have no stamina whatsoever when it comes to studying. I'll read one page, then fall asleep at my desk. Often, I'll just skip the reading and go straight to the sleeping part, for convenience's sake. I have recently discovered a shocking truth: if you don't bother to study, you won't get good marks. Who knew?



*sigh* All I can do is hope, I guess.



Anyway, I think I've wasted enough of your time, dear reader, with my little cyber-rant. So I'll just say goodbye, adieu, until we meet again...etc, etc.













Yours,







Figgy the Legal Adult

All About Me!

Dear Reader,







I realise that up until now I haven't really fulfilled my role as a blogger. Rather than writing about myself, I have been writing about random nonsense that doesn't actually reveal any information about my character, personality or the type of person that I am. The very act of blogging is narcissism itself. We can't have a humble blogger, now can we? What would the world come to? Modesty in a blogger: a sure sign of the Apocalypse.



So, to truly live up to my self-appointed status of 'Blogger', I must blog about myself. I shall begin with a list. A list of my favourite things, people, places, interests, etc, etc. To sum it up, a list of what makes me smile, the part of my day that I can look forward to, and what I think of before I fall asleep, then proceed to dream of until morning. Here we go:-









#1: God



Yes, GOD. And I don't mean the Catholic, almost-cruel God that sends everyone to Hell for lying to their mother or for cheating on their Maths exam. Nor do I mean the strict, religious, over-bearing, distant God, who frowns upon anything remotely resembling fun or happiness. I'm not talking about the pushover God who forgives any and all of your sins, just because you remembered to say 'Gee, sorry', either.



I'm talking about the God who created the World and everything in it. God cannot be contained in a box; He's too big to be described in one phrase, or sentence. All the words in the Universe can't even begin to reveal all of who He is. God is God.



And when I say 'God', I'm also referring to everything pertaining to Him. In other words, everything good and right in this world. If someone asked me to tell them what God means to me, I'd say: 'whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such things.'



So there.









#2: My Family



Ah, my family. The stories I could tell you about these ones! I know that this comes as a surprise, what with my suave and charming manner and all, but I am actually quite the homebody. I am the only girl I know of who would turn down a shopping trip or a party with friends for a quiet evening at home, with no other company but a good book...and my mother and father, and my two sisters, and younger brother, and cousin, and maid...and 6.5 dogs...and cat. I think it's because I can be myself around them, without wondering about how I look, or what I should or shouldn't say.



It's almost like I have split personalities: one when I'm with my friends, and one when I'm at home. I'm louder and more opinionated when I'm at home, often screaming on the slightest provocation--sometimes, without any provocation at all. And with my friends, I'm quieter and shyer; and I'm not just talking about my behaviour, either. Even my voice gets quieter and harder to hear. I find that I have to repeat myself when I'm talking to my friends, and fight for their attention just to be heard.



Ah. Well. That's life, I suppose.









#3: Music



I absolutely love music. Or, rather, I should say that I absolutely love songs. When I listen to music, I tend to focus more on the lyrics than the instruments being played. I'm too impatient to endure classical music, I think. I mean, a song without words. I'm sorry, but it seems pointless to me. I think it's just because I really, really like words. Like, a lot.



I especially love songs that tell some sort of story. I like to imagine the stories or characters behind the songs, or what would inspire a person to write them. A great song, in my opinion, is one that exercises your imagination; takes it for a walk, so to speak.









#4: Imagination



I-magi-naaa-tion. One of God's greatest gifts to mankind. Before the wheel, or the telephone, or the TV, or the personal computer, or the Internet were invented, they were just ideas in some guy's head. Crazy ideas. Impossible ideas. Imaginative ideas! I really like my imagination. I believe it's my favourite possession.



I have this friend, who shall remain nameless. My nameless friend was born, unfortunately, with a serious deficiency in Imagination. The One Who Shall Not Be Named has no creative talent whatsoever, or, at least, very little of it. Can you believe, dear reader, that The Nameless One actually chose to write factual essays for every exam? Yes, every exam. When I say 'factual essays', I mean the boring, dull, monotonous, hum-drum essays on [gasp!] serious issues, like global warming, or acid rain, or gangsterism, or vandalism, and what we can do to prevent these catastrophes from happening.



Needless to say, I never write factual essays if I can help it. And even if I write about a serious issue, I manage to inject some sort of storyline into it. Despite what you may think, dear reader, it is possible to write essays which are both factual as well as fictional.









#5: Words



Of course. You, no doubt, saw this one coming from a mile away, my ever observant reader. I'll just say this once again, for the record: I love words! The written word: Man's greatest invention!



I even dream about words sometimes, especially after a day of fitful reading. As I begin to drift off to sleep, fragments of sentences and nonsense-words float through my head. It's almost like I'm reading a book written by an architect of the Tower of Babel.



But, there is a downside to my fascination with words. I feel compelled to correct spelling and grammatical errors, all the time, everywhere I see them. I take misspelt words as a personal insult, and either rectify it immediately or, if I can't do anything to fix it, moan and gripe about it all day.









#6: Penguin Popular Classics



My favourite 'brand' of books. Yes, my dear reader, books have brands as well. Not only are they cheap, absolutely free of typos (unlike a certain other company claiming to sell high-quality classic books...), they are, most recently, extremely green! Green, as in environentally friendly. Apparently they're now made completely from recycled materials! Oh, and the cover is green in colour.



The only problem with buying books published by the Penguin Group, of course, is that they're all classic. Think Dickens and Austen and Kipling and the Bronte sisters. Classic. Not a modern book to be had. Though, on the other hand, considering what trash passes for novels these days, it might be better to just stick to good ol' Penguin.









Alrighty then. I'm fresh out of ideas. Another time, another post, dear reader. Til then, I remain...









Yours,



Figgy the [Almost] Humble Blogger