A HOME AWAY FROM HOME

If anyone asks me to name a place for tourists where people are helpful, and friendly and live side by side in a multicultural pot filled with delightful flavours, I would definitely say Malaysia without blinking an eyelid. That is why I was so surprised to discover another place on the other side of the globe that has practically all the characteristics that I mentioned above: Boston.

We went there recently on a vacation and when we were trying to make sense of the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority (MBTA), the person manning the information booth literally jumped out of the booth to give us very clear instructions. A big burly man towering over us explained: ‘You can take the B, C or D train to Kenmore but never the E’. This he repeated himself slowly, patiently and definitely -the way felt puppet television characters would tell lost denizens. I was impressed. Most times, we would have to speak through a perforated screen to the very important information officer sitting secure in a booth or worse face the words ‘No Information’ boldly printed on the glass pane as observed in some booths in Rome.

The MBTA was very convenient and efficient and every time I looked around, I felt very much at home. I would see Hispanics, Chinese Americans, Koreans, Japanese, Mainland Chinese and a good blend of other ethnic groups. The best part was everyone spoke English according to his own accent, and everybody understood each other which goes to prove that people from a more culturally and ethnically diverse city are more in-tune with different accents and are thus able to make meaning of what they hear. Unlike in some countries where I had to repeat myself or speak slower, I had no problem whatsoever communicating with Boston folks.

When we walked along the street with a map we had strangers come up to us to readily point out to us where we wanted to go, be it on the historical trail or to go downtown to shop. To quote an example, we wanted to go for the Boston Ballet Nutcracker and were heading towards the box office. Suddenly a sweet elderly lady sprung up at the traffic lights and informed us that we could get half price tickets if we were to purchase from the Bostik Booth instead, just because we were pouring over a map as the lights turned red.

Then there was the food factor.

Feeling hungry, I picked up the scent of a mobile Asian Bistro (parked on the Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s campus grounds) that was busy selling packed lunches to hungry students and visitors. Making a bee-line to the van, I smiled when I saw the menu that offered Teriyaki fish, Pad Thai noodles, Vietnamese spring rolls, Penang Curry Laksa and Beef Ramen with free hot tea thrown in. That reminded me of the ‘economy rice with free hot tea’ meals that I used to eat when I was an undergraduate, living in a rented room in Section 17, Petaling Jaya.

In shopping malls, the food corners boast of a great variety of food: deep-fried, steamed, stir-fried, poached, barbequed, curried, roasted, blanched and battered. The city’s Chinatown which is the third largest after New York and San Francisco displayed mouth watering roasted ducks, teochew ducks or steamed chicken with their skins gleaming under the spotlights in the glass show cases. I could even smell the goodness through the glass. For a moment, I thought I was not very far from Petaling Street.

Boston is also home to educating the mind.

24 hour television programmes served my jet lag hours and my personal favourite was Sesame Street which was aired without fail in the wee hours of the morning. Most of the characters have remained the same except that Ernie and Bert now take the form of computer-generated imagery and sport dread locks instead of the familiar tufts of hair. A visit to the Harvard University left me even more convinced that there could never be an end to learning.

What is beautiful about Boston and the life it exudes is that it is a wonderful combination of the old and the new, of the puritan and the liberal, of painful memories and eventual independence, of singularity in mindset but plurality in outlook, of tradition and of change.

I thought it was just like home.

Source: The New Straits Times http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/a-home-away-from-home-1.38662imes,

Keeping Alive Our Traditions

I find monasteries fascinating. My first exposure to a monk was via the character of the Friar Tuck, the jovial friar and one of Robin Hood's Merry Men. Who could forget the infamous Friar Tuck’s haircut?

When I first went to the Cistercian Abbey in 2008, I stood amazed at the beautiful building that stood out like a gentle giant against the bucolic setting. I had great fun trying to approach some grazing sheep. The closer I got to them, the further away they ran from me.

Nothing could be more pleasant than to have hot tea and scones in the Abbey’s café. Each table had chairs that were different. At first I thought it was strange but then I began to fall in love with the creativity and the contrast. While the monks were all dressed in robes, there was absolutely no uniformity in the colour or shape of the chairs. All this made the tea and scones even more delicious.

So, when I had the chance to visit the Cistercian Abbey again recently, I knew I would be fascinated once more. But this time it was to watch Fiddler on the Roof, an annual production by the boys of the Cistercian College that is within the Abbey.

Fiddler on the Roof is a musical set in Tsarist Russia in 1905. The story centres on Tevye, the father of five daughters, and his attempts to keep his family and traditions together.

Whether it is in 1905 or 2012, keeping a family and traditions together is still a feat.

Even with big families in Malaysia, it is not uncommon that when the matriarch or patriarch passes on, sadly the family also breaks up. It takes concerted effort for brothers and sisters to link up and reasons for not doing so abound: geographical distance, family feuds and private concerns. If anything, the unassuming email loop is one way to keep the embers of kinship glowing.

Some traditions are good. I am happy to say that Malaysians still observe many admirable traditions. But not all traditions are helpful and we should learn to let them go and embrace new things and change.

In the musical there is this recurrent theme of arranged marriages (tradition) versus love marriages. (new) In an arranged marriage, great care is taken to ensure that the bride and groom are compatible. Important issues to consider are similarities in religion, culture, background, family status or academic standing. However, whether it is an arranged marriage or a marriage based on love, there is no surety that it will be happy. The only surety is that the parent’s heart will go all soft when the child walks down the aisle. This is beautifully captured in the lyrics of the song ‘Sunrise, Sunset’ where Tevye asks, ‘Is this the little girl I carried? Is this the little boy at play? I don’t remember growing older, when did they?’

Wedding traditions too are symbolic and meaningful. Like the tea ceremony in a Chinese wedding where we show our respect to the members of our new family. I remember carefully bringing the porcelain tea set over to Ireland and serving tea to my late mother-in-law to show her that I loved her as my own.

Call it Malaysian tradition, culture or customs but upholding what is meaningful, ethical and good is never easy.

The tradition where children, even at a young age are taught their proper place and responsibility within the family. The tradition of respecting people in authority especially teachers and not answering back or challenging them. The tradition of greeting our elders at the dining table before eating. The tradition of serving our elders first before we eat. The tradition of hospitality and sharing our food with siblings and friends and even acquaintances. The tradition of working hard in our youth and taking care of our parents when they are old. The tradition of taking off our shoes before we enter the house.

Finally, the tradition of family members coming together on the eve of the Chinese New Year for a reunion dinner. To me that encapsulates the spirit of solidarity, love and unity. And that is what I miss when we are oceans apart.

A Happy Chinese New Year to all ……….

Source: Keeping Alive Our Traditions, www.nst.com.my

Kissing the Blarney Stone for Eloquence

According to wikipedia, eloquence (from Latin eloquentia) is fluent, forcible, elegant or persuasive speaking. It is the ability to express strong emotions appropriately and it is being able to write fluently as well. This is the magic that politicians seek after, debaters battle over and orators die for.

We have seen impeccably groomed people who when they open their mouths, sound very common. In contrast, there are those who will sweep you off the feet the moment they say something. The trick it seems is to talk slowly and deliberately. When a speech is rushed, there is poor control of what is said, resulting in what some call ‘verbal diarrhoea’. For speakers of English as a second language, added problems are first language interference, incorrect pronunciation of words, inaccurate intonation and wrong placement of stresses. Most times students are not taught phonetics nor are they exposed to native speakers.

Having been to a number of one-act plays, I marvel at the eloquence the actors possess on stage. It is amazing how there can only be one person on stage delivering a monologue and yet the audience is not bored. It is the strength and clarity of the voice that say it all.

Some say eloquence is one-third content and two-thirds presentation. Others say it is a craft that can be developed through practice, apprenticeship and coaching.

One fine example was J.F. Kennedy in his series of televised debates with Nixon. His style was eclectic: it was skeptical, laconic, careless and purposeful. Peppered with wit and aptly chosen words, he became the youngest man in American history to win the presidency.

Yet, there are always short cuts for those who do not have the time to practise, Irish folklore says ‘there is a stone that whoever kisses never misses to grow eloquent, he may clamber to a lady’s chamber or become a Member of Parliament.’

That is none other than the infamous Blarney Stone.

The Blarney Stone is a block of bluestone built into the battlements of Blarney Castle, Blarney, about 8 kilometres from Cork, Ireland.
One of the stories associated with this stone is associated with the Lord of Blarney, Cormac McCarthy who saved an old woman from drowning sometime in the 14th century. In gratitude the old woman cast a spell on the stone so that the Lord would never again be at a loss for words.
It is not surprising therefore that visitors from near and far make a pilgrimage to lock lips with the stone. This includes statesmen like Winston Churchill, hollywood actors, famous novelists and playwrights. In the episode entitled ‘In the Name of the Grandfather, Homer and grandpa Abe Simpson visited the Blarney Castle. Even singers kiss the stone, Mick Jagger included.
So deciding to follow the footsteps of the famous who must have benefited from this swift puckering of lips, I made a beeline to seek out this enchanted stone once and for all. Besides promising myself that it would be great fun, my line of reasoning was if these people are still the icons of the day, then the Blarney Stone could have contributed to it.
Now, kissing the Blarney Stone is no mean feat and the trick is to kiss the stone in a certain way in order to tap its full power.
First you have to pay a fee to enter the Blarney Castle and then ascend to the top. The stone dramatically is set on the top storey. Then you will need to lie down away from the stone and grasp the railing firmly with your hands above your head. There will be people who will help you lean backward so that your head is even with the stone in order for you to kiss it. Once the kiss is rendered, viola, your photo is professionally taken. For those who suffer from acrophobia, there is a virtual Blarney Stone. (http://www.irelandseye.com/blarney/blarn....) but I cannot promise that the effect will be the same.
Was it worth the effort climbing to the top of the castle in the Irish drizzle so I can be part of the 200,000 hopefuls who perform the sacred act annually? Could the cold arrest the multiplication of germs on that particular part of the stone that has been kissed? Have I received the ‘gift of the gab’ to welcome 2012?
Shortly after my return from the castle, I complimented someone with some well-meaning remarks of admiration.
He said, ‘I don’t think you have kissed the Blarney Stone. You must have swallowed the whole stone even.’
Talk about an instant eloquence enhancer.

Wishing everyone a Happy New Year!

Read more: www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/kissing-the-blarney-stone-for-eloquence-1.26159

THE WAITING GAME BUILDS OUR CHARACTER

JOANNA Lumley spent her childhood in hot and humid Malaysia and read a book called Ponny the Penguin. The northern lights was the most beautiful scene Ponny had ever seen in her life. After reading that, former Bond girl Joanna knew she had to experience what Ponny saw: the northern lights, or aurora borealis, which are natural light displays in the sky, usually observed at night, particularly in the polar regions.

Joanna, who never played with snow in her childhood, finally travelled to the North Pole with a camera crew and survived the harsh terrain and icy snow. She was padded up like the Michelin Man, slept in three sleeping bags on a block of ice in Igloo Hotel and rode on snowmobiles. But the greatest challenge was in the waiting. Waiting for the northern lights that would only appear when there is a right recipe of natural ingredients: cloudless skies, soft moonlight and intense solar activity.
The waiting game is a tedious process and the worst thing is we can never know what the outcome may be. There are things that we can plan and work towards. But there are countless others that we cannot do anything about in our own strength. The only thing we can do is to wait it out. In fact, there is even a 1998 television movie called the Waiting Game and a song by The Cooper Temple Clause bearing the same title.
We have waited sometime or another in our lives.

With Christmas round the corner, children over here wait for Santa to arrive on his sleigh laden with gifts. Apparently, Canada Post offers a service where children can send their letters to: Santa Claus, North Pole, HOH OHO, OHO, Canada. Each letter gets a reply from Santa himself. All for a bit of fun really. Tell a child that Santa does not exist and he will burst into tears. It is a pity though that the true meaning of Christmas is masked by consumerism.
The waiting game can be both exhilarating and frustrating.
Exhilarating when the next day brings forth the results that we wish to see. Frustrating when what we hope for crumbles before our eyes.
After an exam, we wait for the results to be released. Then, we wait to attend scholarship interviews. Next, we wait for the results of scholarship interviews. Then we apply for jobs and wait for the outcome of job interviews. When we have made a small bundle, we wait for the soul mate to appear. We wait to tie the knot and have children. When the children have become independent, we wait for that round-the-world trip. We wait to enjoy our retirement years. The long and the short of it, we spend our childhood waiting to grow up, and then we spend our senior years waiting for others to grow up.

I was at the passing-out ceremony of the Gardai (police) once. I could see the pride in the eyes of the graduating officers as they performed the march past and pattern formations.
The bugles blared and the drum roll was electrifying. Families, dressed in their best, came in droves and stood in the bitter cold in the open square to witness their loved ones receive commendation from the chief commissioner of police. No one complained. The waiting was worth it.
Yet, sometimes waiting does not seem to pay off. Take the apple tree in our backyard for example. We waited for the tree to bear fruit. It was terribly exciting when the green apples showed up. Then we had to wait some time longer to see the apples turn red. That was exciting, too. The day came and we took out the basket to harvest the red apples only to discover that the birds had got to them first. That was definitely not exciting.
My better half once told me, whenever we are anxious over a certain matter, just remind ourselves that if nobody died as a result of it, then the situation could not be all that bad. I also find that in most cases, a problem does not look so bad after we have had a good night's sleep. Somehow, a clear head in the morning helps dispel the misery of the night before.
If anything, waiting builds character. Sounds cliché but it is true. The journey of waiting yields many corresponding lessons that help us navigate life's journey better. We become more mellow and less quick tempered. We learn to be more accommodating of other people's shortcomings as we are reminded that there are things beyond our control.
We learn to know our place in the cosmic universe.
Joanna waited and waited. When she finally lay on her back on the icy bed of snow and watched the spectacular curtain of the northern lights dance before her, she said: "For an hour-and-a-half, everything you can imagine began to happen. There were long, thin strings which went like snakes across the sky. Over our heads, there was this light that burst out in a great flower of strings, like an anemone. I felt like Ponny the Penguin. I was moved to tears... It has all come from the sun and our little tiny planet that we're trying to save... You see how majestic it is, and that it's part of the massive universe, and you begin to feel very humble."
Wishing all Christians a very Blessed Christmas.

Read more: The waiting game builds our character - Columnist - New Straits Times http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/the-waiting-game-builds-our-character-1.20868#ixzz1gtzx8BEA

THE BEST OF THE BOG

IN winter when the days are short and the nights are long, the best thing to do would be to curl up in front of the fireplace, sip cocoa, indulge in chocolates and watch television programmes.
Every time I want to go out, there will be a mental debate whether it is worth all the trouble to leave the blazing hearth and to put on the scarf, the gloves, the hat, the coat to face the chilly winds and to make sure that the windscreen has defrosted or the roads are not too slippery for my trusty Peugeot to meander through.

Most of the green surroundings that Ireland is synonymous with are in dormant state during this season. So, some time back, I thought it might be interesting to see the hard and soggy side of nature, the bog to be precise and I had never seen a bog.

For most people, contact with bogs comes via large sacks packed with turf sods for the fire or plastic bags filled with gardening peat. I had read that the bogs were the last wilderness to form in the Irish landscape in the wake of the Ice Age.
Stories abound that in the past, men used to bury butter, to take short cuts or to hide murdered bodies in the bog. In medieval times, those who inhabited monasteries, manor-estates as well as cottages burned turf to keep warm. The tenants of the land had to cut, store and transport turf. This was part of the customary duties levied by the owners of the land upon their tenants. It was not surprising then that an extensive and specialised Irish vocabulary evolved around the cutting of turf, and different parts of Ireland had their own variants or “turf dialects”.

The opportunity very soon presented itself. As I picked myself gingerly into a pick-up truck and headed for the bog, my heart palpitated. I had never sat on a pick-up truck before, much less one that saw three people on the front seat because the back part of the truck was filled with indescribable things which exuded unfamiliar smells. It was a roller coaster ride as we rocked upwards and sideways in unison, like trapped sardines in a can. Through it all, I was sandwiched between two burly men: John and my better half, Michael.
The journey seemed perilous and the road allowed only one vehicle to pass at any one time. I feared the worst should there be an oncoming vehicle but Michael pointed out to me that there were sporadic enclaves where the oncoming vehicle could wait, should the situation arise.
Actually, I had nothing to fear because John negotiated the road bends with great agility. Indeed, I would not have been surprised if he would do the very same, had he been blindfolded. I later learnt that the bog had been his childhood playground.
John asked me whether I would like to see bog one or bog two. My pragmatic brain settled for bog one which was nearer although John argued that the second bog would be more spectacular “bog-wise”.
Finally, we reached our destination. The ground was soggy and I was grateful to the creator of wellingtons. The biting cold made my hands freeze. It was 5pm and the air was laden with dank heaviness.

I took great care to tread the ground gently, lest I stepped on murdered victims of centuries past. We even had to cross a makeshift bridge in single file which reminded me of Captain Hook asking Peter Pan and the lost boys to walk the plank.
As my eyes spanned the bog, I saw the most beautiful sight ever. Neatly stacked in mounds, all covered with plastic sheets were stacks and stacks of turf.
All around the mounds stood heavy duty rubble sacks filled with turf and more turf, not unlike the rocks of Stonehenge, dark and ominous in the quiet of the evening. It was no aurora borealis but it was the beauty of a man’s hard work.
Signalling to Michael that there was work to be done, the two men started to fill more rubble sacks with turf. This, they did, not once but several times as I cheered them on. Watching the whole process, I had nothing but admiration for the brave attempt to harness the harshness of the land. There was no complaining but only sweat and dedication. All this for turf that would sell for E3.5 (RM14.80) per bag.

Sophocles said, “Without labour, nothing prospers”. How true. It is that manual competence that gives us a sense of autonomy and a feeling of responsibility. At the end of the day, we begin to appreciate something of the pleasing exhaustion that is characteristic of the work done.


SOURCE: The best of the bog - Columnist - New Straits Times http://www.nst.com.my/opinion/columnist/the-best-of-the-bog-1.14699#ixzz1fYO4x0QJ

FINDING THE PERFECT SHAPE

Standing on a basalt column of the Giant’s Causeway (known in Irish as Clochán an Aifir or Clochán na bhFómharach) the jewel in the crown of the fabulous coast of County Antrim, I cannot help but marvel at the 60 million year old volcanic wonder.
I was drawn to the site by the folklore that goes with it whereby Finn McCool, an Irish warrior tore away large pieces from the cliffs to make a sturdy causeway to Scotland so that he could fight his adversary, a Scottish giant called Benandoneer.

I was also intrigued by the hexagonal shape of the basalt columns which together resemble a beehive’s honeycomb or the scutes of a turtle’s carapace. However, there is a purpose for the shape and size of the columns. The hexagonal pattern is known for structural rigidity, density and optimal economy.

Everything that we see around us comes in all shapes and sizes. Yet, appreciation of shapes and sizes is relative: it differs from civilisation to civilisation and from age group to age group.
I am referring especially to the human shape and size.
While some societies think that big is beautiful there are others that worship the wasp-shape femme fatales or six-pack hunks.
I overheard a beautiful teenager complaining of having ‘bat wings’(The hanging flap under the arm seen on older women) and a ‘muffin top’. ( overhanging flesh (fat) that spills over the waistline of pants or skirts).

All I could see in front of me was a well-toned body that anyone could die for.
In this case, what does that say about the human perspective of oneself?
Perceived imperfection and low self esteem.
Whether we like it or not, the environment around us screams ‘you are not good enough’. With every feeling of imperfection, there seems to be a solution. So we try to become thinner or fatter, shorter or taller. We enrol for workout classes, we go on crash course diets, we go for special protein diets and we wait for the miracle to happen.
If we are food lovers or if we live in a society where eating is a national joy, we end up promising ourselves that we will start our diet tomorrow. Anyone from 15 to 50 years of age who likes to look good has gone through this rigmarole of going on a diet, promising to keep to the diet, breaking the diet and then going on a new diet.
Unfortunately, this becomes a struggle as age catches up and metabolism slows down and it is much more difficult to shed those extra kilos that you piled on during winter and promised yourself that you would shed them when summer came. Except that summer had gone and it is now autumn and approaching winter again and those extra kilos are still there.
Unless we are sitting on a time-bomb of high cholesterol and fats, it is good just to take stock of ourselves. Is it real or perceived imperfection? Are we who are healthy beings and structurally a size that is different from the mannequin feeling poorly because we cannot be a size 0? Can we walk into a department store, pick out a comfortable dress that gorgeously goes with the flow of our bodies or are we longing for that tiny, whimsical dress that promises the charm that we think we lack?
To be honest, it is very difficult.
Even so when we are surrounded by others who perceive themselves to be imperfect and have low self esteem and somehow want to include you into that very same sisterhood. We just have to grit our teeth and listen to the same old unsolicited comments like ‘You’ve lost weight’ or ‘You’ve put on weight’ never mind if a great catastrophe has struck a neighbouring country or the economy has crashed. Sometimes it is as irritating as a single person going to the annual family function only to be asked the same question, ‘You are not so young, when are you going to get married?’
Hopefully like most things age has a way to help us become more confident in the way we think or in the way we look. I have seen ladies, (definitely not a size 0) looking regal and charming in attractive dresses, sensible shoes and matching accessories.

I have seen men with flat caps and tweed jackets (definitely with no abs) looking classic and smart. A plus point is when they converse and they reveal a wealth of knowledge and experiences.
What they have is not show but character.

Source: The New Straits Times 20 Nov 2011 http://www.nst.com.my/top-news/finding-the-perfect-shape-1.8364?localLinksEnabled=false

OF NAMES AND TITLES

As a child I used to go to the cinema to watch Chinese martial arts films. There were usually rival martial arts schools with each school trying to be the best in the region. It was not uncommon for students of rival schools to crash into their competitors’ courtyards to try to disrupt kungfu lessons. When things got ugly and fights broke out, the first thing the rivals would do was to literally bring down the name of the school, usually engraved on a wooden board and hung up high, and break it into two. This amounted to the greatest humiliation a school could face.
In Asian cultures generally, names and titles are important. The name that a person has is usually chosen with great care by his parents to depict the best qualities ever that a child could have. Titles on the other hand symbolise respect and we address our aunts and uncles by their respective titles in accordance to their seniority and level of kinship. As a child, I dreaded going to my relatives’ houses because I had to address them by their titles according to which side of the family they were from. I would get an earful from my mother if I had used the wrong titles.
Acquired titles whether academic or bestowed upon for great achievements are also greatly guarded and carried with pride. I know of many who would feel offended if they are not ‘properly’ addressed.

Living in a land of strangers in Ireland, the first thing that I learn is that laughter is the best medicine and if I am not offended when no one knows my name or who I am or what I have been, then I am alright. Winston Churchill once said that ‘attitude is everything.’

Walking down the street one day with a bag of groceries, I laughed when a friendly Irish called out to me, ‘Fine day! Are you the latest kitchen help at the Chinese takeaway down the street?’

In another instance, I was at a poetry recitation gathering at a café nearby. A group of poetry lovers and academics had gathered for tete-a-tete. They were discussing the latest conferences and seminars which they assumed I would probably not have understood as I might have been a foreign house-help to one of the lecturers there.

Then there is this great difficulty of pronouncing Chinese names and recognising a Chinese face. To them apparently all Chinese look alike and all surnames must follow the first names. It is a great revelation to many that we do look different and our surnames come before our first names even though China has the largest population in the world and it has been one of the earliest civilizations.

I have been called by so many other names each time an acquaintances tries to remember my two syllabic name. So to make things easier I settled for ‘Soo’ which I thought was simple enough until a helpful acquaintance in a gardening class decided to label my rose cutting pot for me. She wrote ‘Susan’ beautifully and I asked, ‘Who’s Susan?’ and we all had a good laugh when the truth was revealed.
Then when I gave a dentist my name over the phone, he double confirmed it by saying ‘Sierra Oscar Oscar’? (A phonetic alphabet used to identify letters in a message transmitted by radio or the telephone)

I said, ‘Yes’.
He then realised that I must be non-Irish and probably didn’t speak much English, so he very kindly said again, ‘Sugar Orange Orange’?
When I related the incident to my family members we almost died laughing.

If names are difficult to deal with, titles in most cases are almost non-existent.
I made the acquaintance of a nice lady at the local mini market and the first problem that I faced was how to address her. Should I call her Mrs or Ma’am? With a weather beaten face that once saw better days, she whispered gently, just call me Evelyn.
That I found both strange and difficult to do. Disrespectful even since she is much older than I am. Back in Malaysia it is common to address an older person as Uncle Lim or Pak Cik Awang although he may not be related at all. We even have ‘Uncle Lim’s Kopitiam” and that café is certainly not run by our uncle. Likewise the senior woman who sells tau-foo-fah by the roadside could very well be Aunty Mary to all and sundry.

Children can call their caregivers kakak if they come from Indonesia and the Malay boy who sells noodles at the canteen is also known as Abang.

All said and done, the Irish are lovely people and people who can laugh at themselves. When an Irish acquaintance asked me what I am doing in Ireland, I said I married an Irish.

He replied, ‘You’ve married the worst kind’.

SOURCE: THE NEW STRAITS TIMES http://www.highbeam.com/doc/1P1-199653308.html
6 NOVEMBER 2011