Sewing one's life experiences into a comfy quilt

I ALWAYS believe the best asset a woman can have is a pair of hands. So one Saturday from 9.30am to 4pm, armed with a sewing machine and materials, I began a serious affair with patchwork and quilting, drinking hot creamy vegetable soup and eating salmon and cheese sandwiches in-between at Winander House on Park Road, Limerick -- a quilter's haven.
Patchwork has evolved into an art from the time my mother pieced together remnants of cloth to create security blankets. This time round, I had to purchase cotton material and coordinate the colours and cut them into angular shapes and sizes. It sounds ridiculous to purposefully cut a good-sized piece of cloth into smaller bits and then sew them back together again. But therein lies the mystery of many lessons learnt.

To begin with, I had to coordinate the prints and colours of the cloth to reflect the theme I had in mind. This reminded me of the friends I had made during my sojourn across the globe who are as different as night and day. There are those who swear by eating potatoes and others who will not survive a day without rice. Then there are the sago eaters and those who chomp churros.

Greetings also differ. There are some who shake hands, some who hug and some who prefer to kiss the cheek. A motley crew indeed but every single one of these friends added to my wealth of knowledge and understanding.
Then I took the stance of the master cutter, cutting the shapes and sizes of cloth that I needed. The image it conjured was of the gardener pruning his rose bushes, usually in winter, so that the roots would grow deeper and new shoots would sprout in spring. The pruned rose bush is nothing attractive to behold and if plants could talk, probably the sharp pruning shears hurt. Like plants, we are often pruned by our experiences so we can develop into better beings.

The cut pieces of cloth, on the other hand, are like pieces of coloured glass in a kaleidoscope. Each piece of glass is beautiful in itself but when combined with other pieces of glass they form unique patterns, each one different from the other.

Surely, we all, too, have our pieces of glass that cut and make us bleed. Classic quotes concerning the lessons learnt from experiences abound: experiences mould character, it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, every cloud has a silver lining. The list goes on. Yet when we are caught in a bad moment, character moulding is the last thing on our mind.

Most times we think that our bad moments are the worst in the world until we hear of the predicament of another in a poorer state. There is this interesting exercise usually held at group therapy sessions where everyone is asked to pen his problem on a piece of paper and drop it into a bin in the middle of the room. At the end of the session, each person is given the choice to pick "another problem" from the bin to take it home or take his own problem home. The outcome is always similar: no one wants to take another person's problem home, for fear that it could be worse.

The next step in making a patchwork quilt is to sew the pieces together. Again this mirrors life's actions. If anyone has gone through surgery, he can agree with me that when the anaesthetic wears off, the pain is excruciating. Stitching is part of the healing process and the scars that remain stand to remind us of the experience. People say we should forgive and forget but being human, scars do remain and we may not forget but if the sting is no longer attached to the memory, then the healing has begun.

The final process is to put the batting under the completed patchwork to form a quilt. The batting gives it body and keeps someone warm while he watches his favourite television programme during wintry days. As the Christmas quilt now proudly drapes the back of the three-seater in the living room, I cannot but admire the big picture. Truth be told, I had my doubts whether certain strong colours would blend with the pastels, but I was proven wrong. The overall effect was spectacular.

Have a blessed Christmas.

WINTRY CHARM

When the snow falls
On the icy ground
And the wind calls
A curious sound
It’s a mystery
That every snowflake is unique
And everything flies in a flurry
As we shuffle our feet.

When the snow falls
And the robin goes and hides
Behind the walls
That are frozen and white.
The branches are bare
The leaves brittle and light
In the cold thin air
Through the long dark night

When the snow falls
Wrapped in warm coats and mittens
We hurriedly open the doors
With our wooden tobaggans
We scoop up some snow
Partially hidden we lie
No weapons, no arrows or bows
Ready to pelt snow balls at passers-by.

The sweet returns of card making

BUYING and sending greeting cards is like a treasured memory, now that there are phone calls, ecards, short messages and video messages.
Ask anyone below the age of 15 whether he has sent a greeting card and you will feel like a dinosaur when he says: "Who sends cards these days?"

Although the occasional card still arrives in the mail, what we generally find in our postbox these days are bills and junk mail. Gone are the days when we eagerly waited for the postman to arrive on his red bicycle to hand over to us, personally, postcards, birthday cards or festive cards.
We bought cards for all occasions, hand wrote the details and penned them off with warmest regards. For those whom we were particularly fond of, we enclosed little mementos. Then we cycled or walked to the nearest post office to buy stamps of different denominations. We selected the stamps with care, especially if the stamps came in a sequence.

I have just joined a ladies' group and our last activity was not just buying and sending cards, but actually making them and sending them to perfect strangers.

The leader of the group came armed with a list of names, card paper, envelopes and lots of embellishments to decorate the cards.

We were to come up with our own designs and write thoughtful lines to those who needed encouragement and living in far-flung countries.

I thought that was a perfectly lovely idea.

The last time I made a card was about a month ago. I designed a Hari Raya Aidiladha card for my Asian Muslim neighbour as I could not find such cards on sale here.

He was surprised because that was probably the first card he had ever received since he emigrated to Ireland. Shortly after I had given him the card, I went shopping.

When I returned, my daughter said my neighbour had called and given us a tub of payasam, a traditional South Asian sweet dish, made by boiling rice or broken wheat with milk and sugar, and flavoured with cardamom, raisins, saffron, pistachios or almonds.

Indeed, making and sending a card goes a long way.

First, we put our creative juices on paper. The array of felt pens, stickers and knick-knacks, like ribbons and plastic googly eyes, were enough to spur even the uninitiated into a world spiced with colour, patterns and originality.

Some took to drawing immediately, while others mulled over what to write and how to decorate the cards. For once, we felt like amateur Da Vincis with blank canvasses before us.

Next, I was sitting among friends, mothers and grandmothers. Female bonding, a term that is used in ethology and social science, spells patterns of friendship, attachment, and cooperation in women.

We came from different backgrounds and countries but we shared the same goal for the day.

It reminded me of the movie Letters to Juliet, a 2010 American romantic comedy film where a group of well-meaning volunteers sat down to answer thousands of missives left at the fictional lover's Verona courtyard.

Finally, just as in Malaysia, no meeting would be complete without the eating of comfort food.

We forgot about the carbohydrates, let down our guards and traded personal details and experiences. That was what hot aromatic coffee and custard creams did for the souls. Very welcome treats when the biting cold of Autumn winds continued to blow.

By midday, the group managed to whip up an impressive batch of cards all ready to be posted.

We may never know the responses of those who will receive them, but we all went home knowing that a specially-made card carried with it a lot of love.

'Newspaper' bricks to brag about

AS I sat shredding old newspapers, I was reminded of the "old newspaper man".
He was not exactly my best pal because he would disturb my sleep on weekends.

To make matters worse, I had a niggling suspicion that I was shortchanged every time he took away a towering stack of newspapers and left me with a paltry sum of money.

But that was yesterday.
Like the time-tested tale of the ant and the grasshopper, I am actually enjoying my new-found hobby, making paper mache bricks out of old newspapers to light the fireplace in winter.

Sure, we can go out and buy bags of turf at the convenience store but nothing beats creating your own fuel -- soaking the paper, compressing the pulp in a simple machine bought from eBay and drying the bricks.

Recycling is big time in Ireland. Surprisingly, many household items that end up in the bin each week can be recycled.

The whole idea is to divert rubbish from landfills. In just five years, the country has brought the average electric recyclables to 9.5kg per person compared with the European Union average of 5kg.

Every bag of rubbish to be thrown away has to be taken personally to the dump and the cost is E5 (RM21) per bag. If you want the local council workers to come collect the rubbish for you, then you have to pay E8.

Thus, it only makes sense to recycle here.

Convenience is priority where recycling is concerned. You have to sort out your trash according to the labels on the banks.

Everything is welcomed except food scraps, wet clothes and carpets. The recycling services provided by local authorities are mainly free, although there might be charges for certain items or for large quantities.

There are three types of public recycling facilities -- "bring" centres, civic amenity centres and recycling centres.

Throughout Ireland, there are almost 2,000 "bring" centres. These are collection points for recyclable materials like glass, paper, textiles, food packages and drink cans.

Civic amenity centres, on the other hand, are custom-built, staffed and have specific opening hours.

There are about 100 civic amenity centres in Ireland and they accept more items, including electrical equipment, fluorescent tubes, waste oil, DIY waste and construction and demolition waste.

Like civic amenity centres, the 80 recycling centres around Ireland are also staffed and gated, and have specific opening hours. But they accept a smaller variety of items than civic amenity centres.

Finally, there is the kerbside collection of separated waste (known as a "green bin" collection) which may be run either by the local authorities or private companies.

Some local authorities even provide a "brown bin" for organic waste. If the organic kerbside collection service is not available, it is not unusual to see compost bins in backyards.

The passion to recycle is catching on here and if you are not recycling, you certainly do not belong to the people of the earth, so to speak.

Come winter, as I savour my cup of tea and apple pie by the fireplace and hear the crackling fire hungrily devouring the newspaper bricks, I will feel the pride of my hands glowing and know that I have done my bit for the environment.

MUCH SOLACE FROM WORDS

LOOKING at the Cliffs of Moher, I stood inspired by the unspoilt beauty of nature. The 214m high cliffs overlooking the Atlantic Ocean take their name from a ruined promontory fort "Mothar" which was demolished during the Napoleonic wars to make room for a signal tower. The Cliffs of Moher are also home to one of the major colonies of cliff nesting seabirds in Ireland. Indeed, nature has a calming effect on the soul and spirit.

If we think back to when we were young, we can always remember the people who have encouraged us: dad, mum, teacher or friend. Even in adulthood, a pat on the back by a boss or coach does wonders to the soul and spirit.

Other than the usual "awesome" and "fantastic", I picked up a number of interesting local phrases of praise and encouragement. "You are no daw" means you are smart, "you are deadly" means you are seriously earth-shattering. The power of words is unquestionable. Being encouraged gives a boost to our confidence. Uplifting words can come from anyone: a security guard, a priest or a car salesman.
It was late in the night when I visited a loved one at the intensive care unit of a hospital. I was thirsty and decided to get a cup of coffee from the vending machine. However, the glass door that led to the vending machine was closed and a security guard signalled to me on the other side of the door to press a button to open it.

The door opened in a jiffy but I noticed that there was no button on the other side of the door for me to get back into the ward. "How am I going to get back in?" I asked. He said, "Just holler, and I will come running." Then some small talk ensued. As I was making my way back into the ward, he said, "You speak very good English." I smiled and thought that was nice.
Then I saw a very elderly priest making his rounds hoping to encourage the patients. He approached an 84-year-old Catherine, held her hand and instead of saying the usual "Get well soon", the witty priest asked, "Are you ready to go back to the hurling field after half-time and continue the match?"

The elderly lady laughed and I thought that was hilarious. Hurling is an outdoor team sport of ancient Gaelic origin, played with sticks called hurleys and a ball called a sliotar. It is somewhat like hockey to the uninitiated.

The priest held her hand and prayed for her. Then before he left the ward, he said, "Now Catherine, no more hurling for the rest of the season, okay?"

As I walked to my car after the hospital visit, I was reminded of the salesman who sold me the car. He told me I would have to buy insurance online. Apparently, the quotes differ greatly from company to company. One of the determining factors would be age. To the average Mat Salleh, all Asians look alike and it is difficult to tell how old they are. So I asked him how much it would cost to buy a year's insurance for a particular model.

He sized me up in my jeans and T-shirt and very seriously without batting an eyelid said, "That depends on your age. I won't ask you how old you are but I can tell you for a lady of 25 to 30 years, it would cost..." I guffawed within. Call it sales talk but if that is what he thinks I am, so be it.

A TESTING TIME

A search for the definition of ‘test’ yields interesting results. It is a quiz to examine someone’s knowledge of something. It has to be a standardised tool for measuring sensitivity or memory or intelligence or aptitude or personality in order to achieve a certain score or rating.

I can remember those schooldays when we studied and were put to the test. No one in their right mind would welcome a test with open arms. Yet, ironically, when we hold the test paper in our hands and find that the questions are spot on and we are well prepared for them, a sudden surge of confidence arises within.

I thought my public tests days were over until I got a call from a stranger, a fellow Malaysian who has lived abroad for years. She has got my name from a common friend and she called me just to welcome me and then she told me I would need to get a provisional driving licence as it is cheaper than an international one.
‘You have to sit for the undang-undang test first before you take the road test.’ She said.
Friends from some countries do not have to take a local driving test. A Singaporean driving licence is readily accepted in this part of the world. Naturally I was flustered and upset to know that my many years of driving experience did not count at all. Just thinking of memorising 851 road rules left me numb. I remembered the last driving test I took was when I was 18 and in my school uniform.
My daughter told me she wanted to take the test as well. So we marched down to the nearest book store to buy the driving test book and the practice CD, both sold separately. We registered online to sit for the test and the studying began.
I chugged uphill like an old steam train. I fussed and I ranted. I argued with the book even though it was a losing battle as it was the written word. There were road signs that I had never seen before and rules that were different. Sometimes for a single road sign there were so many varied answers. The first example: a broken white line on the driver’s side next to a continuous line would mean the driver could overtake. But the correct answers given were: (a) You may overtake by crossing the continuous white line and (b) cross the broken line. The second example is a continuous line on the driver’s side next to a broken line would mean that the driver could overtake with care. The correct answers given were: (a) Overtake only if you do not cross any of the lines (b) Do not cross the white line and (c) You may overtake provided you don’t cross the continuous white line. After looking at all the lines in the book and studying about overtaking, I felt I did not want to overtake any car at all. Try changing a dogma of truth that you have learnt eons ago and the brain would not cooperate.
My daughter whose mind is akin to the tabula rasa (clean slate) where driving is concerned, breezed through the book within hours. She was perplexed at how I saw all the rules in a complicated manner so she pitied me and said,
‘Mum, just study by heart all the answers and don’t question.’
I was lousy company for the weeks that ensued. It is a clear picture of the woman and the book. I took the book with me to the park. I took the book with me when I was a passenger in the car. I took the book with me to bed. When I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, I would sit by the computer and practise the test questions on the CD. I was not contented with the scores until I had tried numerous practice tests. Deep inside, I thought I was sitting for the Higher School Certificate all over again.
Then the day came.
The test was held in a mobile truck which shook when the wind blew. I had 40 minutes to answer 40 questions. The room was cold and my fingers were frozen whether from the cold or impending arthritis, I would not know. The questions looked exactly like the ones I studied in the park, in the car and before I went to bed. Carefully I clicked the answers and pressed FINISH. Then I waited for the words to appear.
Congratulations. You have passed.
As I walked out of the truck, I knew the practical part of the road test would be coming up soon but for the moment, I smiled as I thought of shopping for winter coats, feasting on pastries and sipping hot coffee – treats we had promised ourselves if we sailed through the ordeal.

Call Willie if you are seeking a soulmate

WHO can forget the lyrics of the matchmaker's catchy song in Fiddler on the Roof? In the name of tradition, much care must be chosen to find a good catch, complete with looks, reputation, intellect and riches. Interestingly enough, such tradition still finds its way into a quaint town called Lisdoonvarna in Ireland.
About 40,000 single men and women flock to the small spa town of Lisdoonvarna in Ireland every year with one thing on their minds -- to find the perfect mate. This 150-year-old matchmaking festival is the subject of folklore and the whole town comes alive in September and early October. It is probably Europe's biggest singles festival.

There is much music and speed dating during weekends. Other exciting activities are held in 17 venues throughout the town during the week, for example the "Lisdoonvarna Meeting" -- a horse race for amateur jockeys. As with every much celebrated event, the festival culminates with the awarding of the coveted titles of "Mr Lisdoonvarna" and "Queen of the Burren" to the best-matched couple.

This festival was borne more out of necessity in those days where farmers, who had eligible sons and daughters, were often too busy or lived too far apart to have any social life of the regular kind. Thus, "basadoiri" or matchmakers of old invited these eligible bachelors to meet once a year when the hay and crops were gathered, their reward being the collecting of generous dowries once successful matches were made.
Rumour has it that Willie Daly, the present day Lisdoonvarna matchmaker, has been bringing couples together for more than 40 years and has his grandfather's matchmaking book dating back 130 years to prove it. Just a simple filling of form listing basic details and interests for a nominal fee sets the hopeful on his romantic quest for a life partner. It is all done in a decent manner, with no secret trysts unlike what Will Smith, the date doctor did in Hitch.

In fact, I was told that a friend of my brother-in-law met his bride at the festival and they are still happy together. But Willie once lamented to a local tabloid that a decade ago it was all about falling in love and finding a soulmate, but in the last 18 months, people are asking, "Has he a house or is he solvent?"
What is it about match-making that intrigues us and is it still relevant in today's society? When I ask students which they would prefer: match-made or love marriages, there is always a split down the middle with half the class preferring one to the other. Sometimes, discussions turned into heated debates and like warring chieftains defending their territories, I fear war might have broken out had I not stepped in.

Most people in my parents' era found their partners through a matchmaker.

Others argue that falling in love is a magical experience like in Barbara Cartland's ageless romantic rendezvous. But people can also fall in love for the wrong reasons. For example, some people love the idea of being in love so much, they end up falling in love with the first person that is nice to them.
A lot of people are scared of being alone, so they get committed to someone quickly and people also fall in love to show off to others that they can be loved as well. But my students will unanimously agree that neither arranged or love marriages are made in heaven.

The festival, itself, is brilliant, really. It is like a hunting game for hordes of lonely souls seeking the prize of an Irish heart. I hear that 10 cheerleaders from Texas are due to arrive in Ireland, and these high-kicking girls are heading to Lisdoonvarna and have already got in touch with Willie. They could have fathers who own oil wells or they could perhaps be searching for rich, lonely travellers such as themselves.

Some have thumbed their noses at the festival saying that no self-respecting person would join the hunt which is contrived and commercialised. Others may go away feeling shortchanged as they had set their hopes too high and could not find their princes among the down-to-earth bog farmers there.

But if there is this willy-nilly feeling deep down that will not go away, telling you that the biological clock is ticking, then by all means call at Willie's office at the Matchmaker Bar or one of his clinics in the Hydro Hotel. The Lisdoonvarna Matchmaking Festival is simple fun, and as they say "the craic is mighty in Lisdoonvarna".

ACTUALISING ANGELA'S ASHES

MANY of us have stories to tell but how many are able to tell them so well that they do not look like washing dirty linen in public? Memoirs that are detailed at the right places and punctuated with candour and wit are a breath of fresh
air.
W. Somerset Maugham once said that “To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all the miseries of life.” Somewhere after “make a million dollars, have a make-over”, “stop p r o c r a st i n at i n g ”, and “be on time”, “read more” is one of the top goals that many people set for themselves.

The first step is to get a good book.

This can be hugely satisfying. It shows things beyond daily horizons, and characters are so vivid you feel as if you really know them. The reader and the writer may be separated from each other in time and space, yet there are links common enough to ignite the faintest connections as we recognise that we have been there and done that. The settings may be different but human folly and wisdom cut across boundaries.
The next step is to embark on a walking tour. Walking tours are good for the soul, whether leisurely or purposeful and help us truly appreciate historic neighbourhoods, buildings, and culture. They allow the unraveling of both facts and juicy bits on the side, giving them the personable touch.

Compare this with a bus tour where the driver speaks into a microphone and you use the headphones which promise to explain the necessary in a number of languages of your choice, that is, when they are not faulty. You may see a variety of sites but yet never really see what is revealed in just an hour or two as you walk the same paths as someone else did decades and centuries before you.

Historic neighbourhoods scream of sufferings, trappings and troubles as stoic determination results in ambitions realised and hopes fulfilled.
Indeed it is difficult to think about things the same way after you have beaten the same streets as real people have walked. It is like dessert after a meal. Pleasurable.

So I called Noel Curtin and enquired whether we could take a walk.

Not any ordinary walk, but a walk through the late Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes, the Pulitzer Prizewinning book. I was not disappointed.
Noel fixed a Saturday where I could join ten other tourists to meander through the once squalid roads of Limerick, Ireland.

I quickly re-read the book so I would not miss out all the details that set the pulse of the memoirs and waited anxiously for Saturday to arrive only to find that the ten other tourists had made other plans. Undaunted, Noel assured me that the walk was still on.

Much to my delight, what had started out as a group walking tour became a personalised tour .

It had drizzled earlier in the morning.

As I contemplated taking an umbrella, I abandoned the idea once I realised that the rain would only make the streets of Limerick more endearing and authentic. Pervading through the book was the smell of the damp cold climate of Ireland where each child once had only one set of ragged clothes, patched shoes, and lacked a coat. Someone once said that Angela’s Ashes probably got its title from the Irish oral tradition of telling stories while stoking the ashes of the fireplace.

Noel painstakingly stopped at strategic locations featured in Angela’s Ashes: the post office where the author worked as a telegram delivery boy, Leamy school where he studied and the churches that played significant roles in his life. Even as I scribbled interesting notes, images of McCourt and his brother picking up coal dropped along Dock road vividly played in my mind.
McCourt wrote, “Mam is in a terrible state at home. There isn’t enough coal to cook the dinner, the water isn’t boiling anymore and she says she’s demented with worry.

We ’ll have to go down the Dock Road again to see if there’s any coal or turf lying around from the lorries. Surely we ’ll find something on the road this day of all days. Even the poorest of the poor don’t go out on Christmas Day picking coal off the road. There’s no use asking Dad to go because he will never stoop that low … .” It was once again life in Ireland, specifically life in Limerick city during the 1930s and 1940s in all its grittiness and grinding poverty. Going through the city streets and lanes helped relive the memoirs and I felt like a privileged intruder into another’s private world.

RELIVING FLEET-ING MOMENTS

COMICS are a source of fun. I know that because I was an avid reader of Beano and my favourite characters were Dennis the Menace, Roger the Dodger, Minnie the Minx and The Bash Street Kids. I often wondered why after having read the 100th copy of Beano, the Bash Street Kids still remained in Class 2B and the teacher had not aged one bit.
Nothing is more powerful than the memories created by a child's experiences. Childhood is when life is uncomplicated, meaningful and straightforward when compared to adulthood where society in the persons of significant adults, model that life has meaning only when we limit ourselves to the labels of productivity, effectiveness and success.

Time has a way of breaking up our memory into little jigsaw pieces and through time we try to capture and preserve them within the confines of our mind.

So I made a bucket list of all the things I would like to do. Interspersed among the common things like travelling to exotic lands or feasting at grand hotels, there are a number of small things which are delightful to me.
One of them is standing in front of 185 Fleet Street, London with a Beano in my hand.

Just as one would associate the blue door with the famed Notting Hill movie, this particular address was where Beano was first published. While others dreamt of seeing the Eiffel Tower or Statue of Liberty, I knew I had to walk along Fleet Street.

Somehow to a child, every page of the comic running through the printing machine promised more laughter, more antics and more fun. I also imagined the rumbling machinery of the printing press, starting off slow then gathering momentum and emitting hot steam, not unlike a steam engine train.

Although Fleet Street is now associated with matters of the law, it was once synonymous with the written word. It was the home of the British press until the 1980s when it headed east to Canary Wharf and Wapping.

I could well imagine the scandals, the gossips and the exciting news exchange between journalists of that time. I could not resist trying the sticky toffee pudding that famous journalists rooted for and then entering a British red telephone box not to emerge as my alter ego (like Superman ) but to try to call my friends at the press.

If rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous is important to reach one's station in life, being physically close to where the famous journalist, the poor playwright or the humble novelist of the past is important to fulfil one's sense of personal achievement. Thus, I sauntered into Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, which true to its name, had a gloomy charm.

Charles Dickens, who frequented the tavern, even alluded to it in A Tale of Two Cities where the character Charles Darnay had "a good plain dinner and wine at a tavern on Fleet Street".

I chose a chair just next to where Charles Dickens would have sat. There was a plaque bearing his name, thus reassuring me that I was at the correct seat.

It has often been said that we live on a sparse diet of promises we make to ourselves when all the conditions are perfect. Perfect conditions may not happen and life has a way of accelerating as we get older.

I have seen so many senior people, despite having weak knees and bad feet, still actively climbing up and down tourist destinations. They seem to tell me that the best way to get the most out of life is to look upon it as a magnificent adventure.

I gaze at the remaining eight items on my bucket list and I could not agree more.

CARPE DIEM! SIEZE THE DAY!

MUSICAL theatre...learn how to act...meet new friends! A fantastic four-day musical workshop, now enrolling. Young people aged 7 to 18 will have a chance to act in Lion King, Mamma Mia or Hairspray, shouts an advertisement displayed by a music academy.
This hip workshop is one of the extensive options available for summer. After all, school is out for three months and restless teens are inundated with opportunities to choose their creative fields and hang out with others of like mind.

They can test out the fantasy of a glamorous Broadway musical career even.

Given a chance, everyone can be passionately creative. I am talking about indulging in performing arts. The performing arts are those forms of art where the artiste makes use of his own body, face, and presence as a medium. This includes dance, music, opera, drama, magic, spoken word and circus arts. The artistes are called performers, including actors, comedians, dancers, magicians, musicians, and singers. My first foray into the world of performing arts was when I was studying at Universiti Malaya and acted at the Experimental Theatre.
So, I was glad I was invited to see the outcome of the musical workshop for amateurs last Saturday. Looking at the young ones prance and sing on stage, anyone would think that they had practised all their lives and not just four days. I could see that their faces were beaming. Beaming with pride, joy and expectation. After the performance, I went backstage and I could hear squeals of excitement.

An actress in Hairspray said, "Our sweat could probably flood a whole house but it was definitely worth it. I so totally want to join this again next year. It was a non-stop run through and we all were just freaking out hoping not to forget any lines, lyrics or dance moves but thank God, it was a success! It wasn't perfect, but it was pretty awesome!"

I am glad I appreciate the arts.

Even at school we were always caught up in the battlefield of Science versus Arts. Everyone seemed to clamour to enter the best science class, never the Arts. I remember I was in Form Four Science One and after one semester I knew I was more inclined towards the Arts. Making the switch was unheard of at that time. Every well-meaning teacher discouraged me from doing so because unfortunately, the Arts classes were synonymous with poor teaching and classroom management and certainly students who were thick in the head. It was good that my parents were behind me and I have no regrets making that switch.

And now, I have just returned from watching Les Miserables at the Queens Theatre in London and a strange feeling starts to wash over me. It was the same kind of bliss that I experienced when I watched the amateurs on stage: seeing the actors, singing along with them as every song is as familiar as a nursery rhyme, my shoulders untangled and a feeling of appreciation was all around. I felt so relaxed I almost forgot to breathe. The performers had the same passion as the young amateurs. The only difference was these were professionals acting almost every day of their lives and they carried out the musical very well.

The performing arts remind me of the need to stop and smell the flowers. From the day we arrived on the planet, we have not stopped blinking, running and working. It is almost a crime to enjoy life. So like Tracy in Baltimore who notices that the rats on the street all dance around her feet shouting, "Tracy, it's up to you", it is really up to us to make a life for ourselves, to choose how we want to live it to the fullest.

Carpe Diem, seize the day. If not now, when?

LOOKING FOR LEFROY

I lingered outside a huge iron gate on 18 July 2010 hoping to catch someone friendly enough to answer my curiosity because I was informed that the house within was no ordinary house as the owner is a Lefroy. Just as the name Kennedy would bear associations to U.S. presidency, to an English literature enthusiast, the name Lefroy could be the Lefroy that Mr.Darcy was probably modelled after in Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.

Let me explain.

Jane Austen died on 18 July 1817 and Mr. Darcy the novel’s hero, made famous by Colin Firth in the 1995 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice is the man that most ladies would die for. Word has it that one of the likely candidates of real life Mr. Darcy was Tom Lefroy, a 20 year old Irish who visited Jane at her Hampshire home of Steventon in mid December 1795 on her 20th birthday.

Unlike Elizabeth Bennet, the heroine of the novel who finally tied the knot with Mr.Darcy, Jane Austen remained single throughout her life, despite being called on by potential suitors. It was a question of being successful and risking it all. Tom Lefroy was expected to ‘rise into distinction and there haul up the rest’ but he could risk all of it if he married Jane who had no money. Tom who chose the former went on to build a massive Gothic mansion Carrigglas Manor for his family in County Longford. The grey turreted house has recently been renovated into a hotel with a rambling 660-acre golf course and housing estate. Interestingly enough, Tom called his first daughter Jane after marrying Mary Paul in 1799. This private segment of Austen’s life was portrayed in the 2007 biographical portrait ‘Becoming Jane, directed by Julian Jarrold with Anne Hathaway acting as Jane.

Jane Austen said, "A woman especially if she has the misfortune of knowing anything, should conceal it as well as she can."

When we compare the station of a young person then and now, we have indeed come a long way. The good and the bad. When before young girls could only dream of going to school and cash and status conscious parents kept women from the men of their dreams, now we have opportunities to succeed and the liberty to live. It was also not uncommon then for young men to leave school to fend for the family and take on more jobs than one. They were determined, focussed and industrious. They took pride in the toil of their labour, so to speak.

But now, we have survival guides on how to cheat the welfare state.

I have been here for a fortnight and I have met more than five young educated people who prefer to depend on the state for their daily sustenance and hang around pubs smoking, drinking and idlying. Psychologically, they are convinced that state benefits are not charity handouts but they are their rights. They still live with their parents and their parents still pick up after them. They take on part time rather take full time jobs. I even heard one grumbling that working from 3p.m. to 9 p.m. at a part time job had destroyed his social life.

I watched a cartoon once where a group of graduating students queued to receive their scrolls from the college president. After having received their scrolls and tossing their mortar boards into the air, they made a bee line to another queue, this time the dole queue. I was eight then and did not understand one bit what it was all about.

According to a Leicester Mercury report early this year, Leicestershire's dole queue has seen its biggest increase in 11 months after soaring by more than 1,000. The number of Jobseekers' Allowance claimants in the city and county rose by 4.3% to 24,607 in January. Northern Ireland has been hit harder by the economic crisis than any other UK region. New figures show that six towns in the province are in the top 10 UK dole blackspots based on regional increases in claimants.

I was brought up in a generation where living off the state would be a huge embarrassment and a disaster. We all had to try different types of work while deciding on a long-term career plan. In fact, while we were yet students we did part time jobs during the holidays. I knew someone who worked at his parents’ food stall after school and yet he rose to become a successful dentist. I knew of another who gave all the prize money he received from the university to his parents to help run the household.

As in every scenario there are genuine cases of hardworking people being laid off. But then again, there are plenty of loafers. It is every working class parent’s dream to see a child graduate and get a job, move out of the family home by 25, own a house by 30 with some savings on the side for marriage and set up a new home. It represents upward social and financial mobility. Now, we sincerely rejoice with the parents who have responsible grown up children and lament in silence if ours are not the same.

That brings me back to the industrious Lefroy who being the first son among 12 siblings probably gave up personal happiness to help better the status of his family. So as I reluctantly walked away from the huge iron gate, I told myself I must call another day just to confirm my suspicions that the real descendents of Tom Lefroy are in my neighbourhood. I live in hope still.

LOST AND FOUND IN DUBLIN

The Irish Daily Mail reported that a humbolt penguin was stolen from the Dublin
zoo.
The flightless 10-year-old Kelli suffered the stress of the kidnap ordeal and disgusted zookeepers swore that the delicate bird could have died from the trauma and her other half could have wasted his life pining away for her as well.

Penguin team leader Eddie O’ Brien said: “These birds get stressed very easily when taken out of their environment. They don’t react well and it could easily have caused a heart attack.” The penguin was traumatised after it was stuffed into a bag and abandoned on a busy street. In human terms, that spells what culture shock is.

I was reading my daughter’s journal and saw first-hand what culture shock is. Everything here in Ireland is so different from Subang Jaya .
The active and socially independent teen who jumped from the commuter train to the bus, suddenly finding that she has lost her “wheels”, is a dramatic change.

When before she could go with friends to watch Knight and Day, now she has to beg her parents to bring her for Eclipse. Not only that, a cinema ticket for Tw il ig ht in Malaysia would cost RM6 while a ticket here would cost E10 (RM41) .

So she penned the following lines in her journal: “I miss Malaysia. I miss going out for walks not worrying how cold it is. I miss taking a cold bath on a hot day. I miss enjoying a nice bowl of cendol with friends. I miss saying, ‘photos will be on Facebook! Will tag you soon’. I miss calling anyone whenever I like. But then... I guess this is what God has planned for me.” And that was for the first week.
By the second week, things looked perkier. She registered for a drama workshop and youth activities at the local church.

A significant turning point was when we visited the Saturday farmer s’ market and the whiff of spicy Malaysian food changed all pers p e c t i ve .

What is a Malaysian without spicy food? Where we stay, finding a Malaysian is as scarce as hen’s teeth and when we saw the fishmonger at the market who bore some resemblance to a Malaysian, I asked, “Are you Malaysian?” He smiled and said coyly: “No, I’m Filipino, but we are near each othe r. ” After a whole week of mashed potatoes and chips, we were starting to worry about maintaining our f igures.
So a visit to the Asian supermarket was in line and there they were — rows and rows of Asian products ranging from jackfruit chips from Vietnam to Brahim’s sambal tumis paste from Malaysia.

At the vegetable section under a huge display tag “Chinese vegetab le s”, we saw ladies’ finger s, k a il a n , siew pak choy, angled loofah and bean sprouts.

My favourite Lee Kum Kee oyster sauce and Popo dark soya sauce were all there. We screamed in delight as we had finally found the centre of our being. Small things m at t e r.

Audrey will start school in September. I think of the hundreds of Malaysian students who will be coming to Dublin to study for the first time in September. Away from home and from loved ones, how will they fare? The first challenge will be the weather. Then comes the people and the food. The Irish are friendly people but then again it would certainly take a lot of resolve to get started, adapt and mingle. I fear many will cry buckets of tears as they think of home 10, 880 km aw ay.

So back to the humbolt penguin that was found and returned safely to the zoo. It was bundled up from a safe and familiar environment and thrust into the strange unknown.

But the beauty of it is that it sur vived.

REALISING A DREAM

I HAVE climbed the high tower of Yeat’s Thoor Ballylee, the Tower house and surveyed the terrain of my life.
Nearby at Coole Lake, white swans gracefully swim with cygnets in tow. The air is fresh and crisp. Hundred-year-old trees line the countryside road, and the
smell of oven-baked soda bread fills the air. Wild daisies throng the road and fields of lavender overwhelm me. The images seem to jump up from a storybook or a movie like P.S. I Love You.
Deciding to leave a profession that I had enjoyed for 27 years is a gargantuan task of resolve and determination. The day I handed in my optional retirement papers, close friends screamed, “You are too young”, “I’m so envious” and “What a loss to Malaysia” and my students cried “The university will die without you”.

Knowing that I was entering a lecture hall for that final lecture and listening to students crooning farewell songs could bring a tear even to a glass eye.

Some of my colleagues tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Brave girl, I wish I could do the same”.
Indeed it was a big step, taken after careful planning and building up the nest egg.

Women in my mother’s day hardly went out to work. They could only officially retire when they leave the world. Since young, my motto has always been to excel
in what I do. Some call me a perfectionist, but I prefer to see it as trying to perfect whatever I do, to learn from my mistakes and not to be too harsh on another or worse still, take a moral stand and judge others with my limited mortal eye.

I can remember that my original dream was to be a homemaker, a wife and a mother. Somehow, I have this affinity with all things related to housekeeping and child rearing. But like any other young person who never made it to the
Forbes list of the richest people in America, I had to join the workforce.

The students were wonderful. The admiration was great. The floodlights, the microphone and the audience made it all very tantalising.

The pretty kebayas, the good money and grand dinners made the adrenalin rush.

The best was seeing one’s name in the newspaper, in journals and in books.

But then again….. It is only when we dare to leave the old that we can embrace the new. If Columbus had not left his homeland, America would not have been discovered.

When something extraordinary happens in the lives of ordinary people, it is worth every sacrifice of the familiar to welcome the challenge that lies ahead.

Like trading in the regional driving licence for a more expensive international one. Having been so used to cruising along concrete nondescript highways, I now have to learn all over again how to meander through country roads flanked by lush green meadows and the Jacobean sheep and Friesians that dot them. I would
also have to trade in my 34°C of everyday sunshine for drizzles, frost and snow.

As I celebrated the last Chinese New Year with family and friends and listened to the sounds of firecrackers and drumbeats that ushered in the Year of the Tiger, I wondered whether the Chinese New Year festival in another land would be the same?

The best part is that I am learning to savour. I am learning to take long
walks and enjoy Oscar Wilde’s writings. I am learning to spend time with the people I love and treasure the moments. I am learning that it is all right to leave behind things that once mattered — the rat race, the promotion, the glamour, the glory and the chasing after the wind. I am learning it is fine just to get to know myself. No more paper qualifications, no more applause, no more appendages to define my being.

It is a celebration of diversity where I will learn to live with a new bunch of people renowned for their wit and humour. While I’ll teach others to eat with chopsticks, I will also learn that Riverdance is not necessarily by the river.

It is summer again and a new chapter of my life has begun. I am now basking in the beauty of an idyllic county, learning how to be proud of who I am and what I have become. I am back to my original dream of being a full-time wife and mother. And I am still perfecting the art of frying sausages and hoping to catch a leprechaun.

LETTER PERFECT LOVE

Faezah, my good friend wrote…..
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I will not be able to attend my friend's wedding because I will be in Kuching, Sarawak on the day of the reception. When duty calls, ...

That is so sad. I will make it up to you Koh Soo Ling, who is pictured here with husband Michael Howard.

Soo Ling has found happiness with a wonderful Irish man who loves her with an intensity that makes her heart flutter.

She will begin a new life in Ireland and the prospect of living in the countryside fills her with excitement.

She will love her man, take care of him, cook and bake for him, take part in community life and write, write and write.

Yes, Soo Ling will continue to write for New Sunday Times and she promises to share her

activities with readers in Malaysia.

Theirs is not a whirlwind romance. They started as pen pals, two teenagers who were eager to learn about foreign cultures.

Pen pal relationships are so mysterious. Some write to their friends abroad for only a short time; others continue to swap letters and gifts in their old age.

Yet others arrange to meet face-to-face and this sometimes leads to serious commitments including marriage.

The pen pal relationship between Soo Ling and Mike went on for seven years (1970s-1980s). She was the window to the Far East for him.

The picture below (right) shows Mike at the post office in Batu Pahat where Soo Ling posted her first letter to her Irish pen pal.

They met up once in the early 1980s when she went to London for a holiday (see picture above). He flew from Ireland to London to see her and to visit his uncle.

The exchanges stopped when he got married.

By a curious twist of fate they reconnected in June 2008 when Soo Ling decided to seek him out.

She knew his son was named after him and googled junior's name. Ten possible links came up on the first page.

She hit on one that looked very probable. Where was Mike at that moment?

He was in the garden; his son brought out his laptop to show his dad.

Senior could not contain his joy. He was ecstatic about the discovery.

Mike was going through a reflective period at the time; he was trying to make sense of his world, his wife had passed away. But Soo Ling was unaware of this aspect of Mike's life at the time.

Her sudden appearance online was "a breadth of fresh air". He asked his son to reply (he was not computer savvy then) to his long-lost pen pal via email. Later Mike wrote a five page letter via snail mail saying "how happy and thankful he was" that Soo Ling had "sought him out and found him".

The rest, as they say, is history.

Ireland's Own, a family magazine, paid tribute to the pen pals by publishing an article about their reunion. The picture above shows Mike, Soo Ling and the owner of the store where Mike buys the magazine from.

Soo Ling tells me that she is "so happy because God is looking out for us".

"It is like a miracle. We've been given a second chance and it was totally unplanned. It's a beautiful friendship, simple and honest."

Mike has learnt many new things from the reunion such as acquiring computer skills, wearing bright shirts, tasting sambal belachan and durians while Soo Ling has understood the meaning of rest and recognised the scent of flowers.

Soo Ling will be leaving Malaysia for Ireland a week after the wedding and I miss her already.