Condomnation

Maybe it's because I'm Asian.

 We were down to the last roll of toilet paper in our house, so I ventured out to get some more. I live about five minutes from the nearest Coles, and so I headed there and bought a roll of 18 Kleenex rolls because they were on sale.

The moment I left Coles, my head started plotting my journey home. The main criteria for my path of choice? As little human contact as possible. So that I don't bump into anyone I know.

Why is that?

Imagine if you bumped into a friend at the supermarket. After the cursory greetings and small talk has dwindled, your bored mind starts to wander down to their shopping basket.

 "Hmmm. Milk. Cereal. Bread. Eggs. Oh, instant noodles. And laundry powder." - and because we are all secretly insecure bitches inside - "Look -*snigger* - he bought Home Brand."

(I love Home Brand. Some of my best buys are from Home Brand.)

Then suddenly you see the toilet rolls. The slightest scrunch, discreet yet noticeable, appears on your face. Eew, he poops.

Your friend now notices your eyes trailing into their shopping basket, judging their private life. They see you imagining them on the toilet bowl, going about their big business. They try to close the door on you, but they can't because the door is in your mind.

There is a subtle nervous swing of the body and basket away from you, and they put on their best fake smile and then hurriedly say their goodbyes, quickly heading to the checkout counters, abandoning the rest of the things that they were actually there to buy.

At least that's how it goes on in my head.

I don't know what it is. Everybody poops. That's natural. Yet somehow to me, being found buying toilet paper is like, I don't know, being discovered buying condoms. By your strict Convent nun school teacher.

Karen tells me that the Australian men here buy their condoms with a swagger. Yup, they will think, the smug smile on their faces obvious as they looked around the shop and then at the cashier, I am getting some. Look at me, everyone, I am getting laid. 

Where as if I were to buy condoms, I think I'd be more like, I'm sorry I'm having sex, unknown checkout chick. Please don't judge me.  Come on credit card, swipe, swipe, swipe! No, screw the plastic bag, oh wait a minute, double bag it!   

(Okay, so that's actually not true. I won't actually be using my credit card at all. What, you'd think I'd leave an electronic trace of me buying condoms?)

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

I'm not sure if you've experienced this as a child, when your parents send you into the shops to get the groceries?

I mean, day-to-day items are fine, right, but, you know, certain other things are not.

I remember going into the local convenience store in our Taman (suburb)and amongst the other things I was sent to get, were some urm, sanitary pads.

I remember the Indian checkout auntie glaring at me when she picked up the box of Sanitas - "Oi, boy, you no shame ar you, buying all these things?"


I looked at her blankly, not quite understanding what there was to be ashamed of. I had no idea what were in the boxes, or why I should be embarrassed about the contents.

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And then there was the time when I was buying condoms from a 7-Eleven in Malaysia as a medical student for a tutorial on Sexual Health. I was with a guy friend and my sister then, and I nervously eyed the selection on display before choosing a few, hurriedly putting them on the counter.

The tudunged (head-scarfed) Malay girl behind the counter stared at the condoms first and then blinked at me incredulously for awhile, before picking them up like they had AIDS, to swipe the barcodes.

"Eee... jijiklah..." (Eew... that's gross) she said, just loud enough for the people in the next street to hear.

Her service with a scowl said it all. Rapist.

Now you see why I am scarred?

Sunday Night Stragglers

We were all out to see C tonight at a Veludo's in St Kilda. I arrived too late to witness the set as I was coming in from work, but we hung around and downed some drinks while listening to the artist he was opening for.

We walked out into the pleasant Sunday night on Acland Street and were deciding where to go next.

Karen suggested Claypots, a seafood restaurant. There was the slightest of hesitations amongst the six guys there, as the conservative China man in all of us went "Really ah? Another expensive dinner ah?"

We trudged to the restaurant, and C and a few others peeled off to put their instruments away. M and Karen and I went ahead of them into Claypots.

Claypots was an interesting restaurant made up of two shophouses - one shop housed the restaurant proper while the other was a bar/waiting area with cushioned benches lining two sides of the room.

I was surprised as my door was opened for me, but even more surprised when I saw the man holding a clarinet. A drum was set up in the small space next to him, and a piano abutted the bar.

We were told that there would be a twenty minute wait because there were seven of us, and so we sat in the waiting area. Secretly, I was quite hungry and a little impatient.

I sat down next to Karen, and then the magic happened.

The Magicians

Allow me to describe the magicians. The clarinetist had matted grey hair, with a Charlie Chaplinesque moustache and was almost as slim as the instrument he held in his hand. The drummer looked like a wise old principal - his half-moon glasses dangling precariously over his doting grandfatherly face. The pianist and main singer was a lady with a smoky voice who reminded me of a female Rod Stewart. Only more talented.

They all looked in their sixties or seventies and we thought they had nothing to say to us. Boy, were we proven wrong.

They were such a tight three piece band - the clarinetist seemed to have the lungs of an Olympic swimmer as his fingers danced along his instrument, sounding out celestial notes; the drummer hit his snare, top hat and cowbell with the assurance and fluency that bordered on arrogance, and the combined dexterity of the pianist's finger and her distinctive husky voice stirred something in our souls that night.

The rest of the gang finally joined us and we all sat on the benches, tapping our feet and slapping our thighs to the blues/swing music that was permeating the bar. The magicians then each took their turn to wow us with their tricks - they all broke into individual solos in the middle of their songs. The drummer in particular was jaw-droppingly impressive. Each confident strike against the many clangs and crashes of his drum set resonated something almost primal in us - their captive audience that night.

We were so mesmerised that when our waiter came to told us our table was ready, we remained glued to our benches, waiting for the music to finish.

The Good, The Better And The Ugly

We reluctantly left the waiting area into the restaurant, and can we just say - the food was mind-blowing as well. We had a choice wine with our fusion-style seafood - the chilli crab was really delicious and the shell  surprisingly soft, the laksa-styled Malay seafood claypot was good to the last drop and the walnut-crusted duckfish was the ugliest, largest, most satisfying (I'm running out of superlatives here) fish I've eaten in a while.

Chilli crab and mussels.
And expectant hungry boy. 

Big Fish. Small Fist.

Here's how much he loved the fish.

The Aftermath.

Caring. Intensively.

He reminds the doctor of Stephen Hawking, his head leaning unsupported against the large chair. They were sitting him out of bed to avoid pressure sores.

He was a graphic designer before all this happened. Ten months of inexplicable, progressive weakness had brought him to a neurologist in country Victoria who decided he needed an MRI.

It was the radiologist who picked up on the MRI scanner that this gentleman was so weak he was not supporting his airway, and who knows how long he was obstructing for before they found him and put a tube down his throat and hooked him up to a breathing machine.

He had been in intensive care for many days now, his breathing dependent on the ventilator working faithfully next to him. A tracheostomy tube sticks out of his neck awkwardly, and the rest of his body is like a roadmap with lines sticking out from his neck, nose, wrists and bladder, translating signs of life into measurable numbers.

The doctor looks at him and all he can see is his patient. He sees the diagnoses that is yet to be made, he sees the tests that need to be ordered, he reads the numbers on his charts that tell him the patient does not have a fever, that his blood pressure was holding and that his blood counts were all normal.

The patient was quite drowsy for the first few days, but he was more awake now. In a terrible way, he was alive, yes, but he was being kept alive. The tracheostomy tube keeps his lungs working, his nutrition is delivered by a nasogastric tube going into his stomach, his bladder drains into a bag without him having to stand up in a toilet. He is unable to communicate because of the tracheostomy tube - breathing takes priority over speaking for now.

He is understandably frustrated, a prisoner to the illness keeping him here, but instead of bars, there are hospital curtains and railed beds; instead of  prison wardens there are the watchful doctors and nurses. He has pulled out his nasogastric tube countless times in protest, much to their dismay.

********************************

The doctors and nurses have tried to be creative in helping him communicate. There is an electronic board with all the letters of the alphabet, and objects ('Doctor', 'Nurse', 'Toilet') and also a small whiteboard and marker when the electronic fails.

The gaggle of doctors stood over him patiently yesterday evening as he looked like he was desperately trying to communicate something to them.

'Count. My. Head. 1. 2. 3. 4.' was the repeated message after half an hour, almost eerie in its mystery.

The doctors tried to probe for a meaning, but the patient finally dismisses them with a roll of his eyes and a wave of his hand when he realised he wasn't getting through to them.  It soon became apparent to the doctors that he was confused, and so they started him on some anti-confusion medications.

*********************************

"He's pulled out his nasogastric tube while I was at dinner," says the nurse, exasperated.

It was a Sunday evening. Big band music crooned gently from the radio that they had placed next to him to drown out the monotonous beeps and bells of the machines surrounding him. The morning nurses had reported that he seemed less confused to them today.

The doctor walks up to him and says "Look, Michael, I know that it is a terrible thing to have that tube put into your nose and down the back of your throat, but while you're on this tracheostomy tube, there's no other way of getting some food into you. Do you understand?"

Michael's eyes pulled up almost defiantly at him. He motions for the electronic board.

"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. I. C. O. S. T." came the message from his weakened arms.

The doctor is puzzled by this almost existential question. "I'm sorry Michael, how much do you cost? As in how much does it cost to keep you alive? Well, you are in intensive care, Michael,  and it is quite exp..."

No, he shakes his head.

"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. U. C. O. S. T."

He taps on the 'Doctor' button.

"Oh, how much do I cost? Well. Michael," the doctor starts, uncertain how to answer him, "The government pays for me to look af..."

Michael starts pointing to himself and then to the doctor.

"H. O. W. M. U. C. H. D. O. U. C. O. S. T." Point. Point.

The doctor thinks he is still a little confused, and sighs - "I'm sorry Michael, I don't quite understand what you mean. I know it's fr...."

Suddenly it dawns upon the doctor what Michael was trying to say, and he breaks into a smile.

He turns to the nurse and says, "Sister, I am not sure if I am reading this correctly, but I think that Michael here is trying to bribe me."

Michael's face bursts into a large smile, nodding he had guessed right. The nurse bursts out into laughter and the doctor is taken aback by this unexpected joke.

"Well, Michael, I don't think you can afford him really," chirped the nurse, mock-chidingly.

Something shifted in the air that evening. The doctor notices out of the corner of his eyes the subtle movement of Michael's foot tapping along to the rhythm of the big band swing. The nurse even managed a little jiggle to the music as she walked past him, causing him to smile widely again.

Although his face scrunched a little from the discomfort, there was minimal resistance from Michael this time as the doctor fed the tube through his nose again.

The doctor waits for the nurse to leave, looks both ways and then leans down to Michael, and whispers conspiratorily into his ear - "For 50 dollars, I will break you out of this joint. How about that?"

Michael gasps a silent chuckle, and nods enthusiastically. For a few minutes, he feels human again.

The Plane Heard Around The World

I was at work yesterday, and a big part of our work actually involves documentation. A few times during the day, many workers - be they doctors, nurses, ward clerks or visiting policemen - would write down the date, and suddenly reel a little in realisation, almost all eerily saying the exact same thing -

'Oh, has it been ten years already?'

September 11 2001. A day forever etched into our collective memories, as citizens of the world.

Whether American, Australian or Malaysian or wherever it is we call home, everyone remembers where they were the day the two planes crashed into The Twin Towers.

My consultant remembers how he had just welcomed his newborn son into the world a week ago to the day. He knew that something was wrong when he switched on the television that morning and every single channel was showing the same thing.

Some of us were kids when it happened. A policeman remarked how he was in Year 8 (fourteen) when it happened, and woke up oblivious to how the world had changed as he slept, but knew something was wrong when he heard all his classmates talking about the 'terrorists'.

We were sitting at home that day, the family watching TV over dinner. Dad was in charge of the remote control and was lazily surfing the channels on our satellite TV when he stopped on CNN. We watched curiously as there was breaking news about how a plane had accidentally flown into one of the Twin Towers in New York.

We all sat up, curious window onlookers of what was happening halfway around the world from us. We had assumed all we were seeing was some misguided pilot who had flown a little too low, into the path of a tall building. An unfortunate accident.

We were still trying to process what we were seeing from the cameras trained upon The Twin Towers, when the second plane hit.

We couldn't believe our eyes, and curiosity gave way to fear as it dawned upon us that what we were seeing was no accident.

We continued watching, mouths wide open, as the buildings started to collapse slowly. The images of people jumping off the buildings or the gray cloudstorm of destruction engulfing the fleeing New Yorkers below will be forever etched in my memory.

Everyone at work remarked how surreal it was - as if they were watching a movie.

I remember my little sister, sixteen then, watching the TV, her fearful tears streaming as the carnage unfolded before us, helpless witnesses to a day that changed the world forever.

Hope and Security seemed to crumble along with the two towers. It seemed that today, some ten years ago, the bad guys had won.

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

One of my favourite habits as a young teenager before afternoon school session started was to lounge around the house in the morning reading the newspapers over breakfast.

We used to have the New Straits Times (NST) delivered daily to our doorstep. It was the more serious of the available newspapers in Malaysia, kind of like The Age or The Australian, and about the same layout and size.

There is something nostalgic about the feel of the newspaper spread in your hands - the rustling noise as you turn the pages or fold it over your lap, the way your thumbs darken by the ink rubbing off on your hands and, of course, that oh-so-satisfying crackling noise it makes as you snap-straighten the paper.

Reading the newspapers was a habit we picked up from Dad. It was a morning ritual for him - Dad in his wheelchair, newspaper in hand, breakfast at arms' length. He would always be reading the main news while we picked up the lifestyle and sports sections.

One day, out of nowhere, Dad made this stunning observation of our newspaper reading habits.

'You boys ah! Only read comics and stories about people being raped or sex stories only! Read something else lah!'

I glanced up slowly from my newspaper with a disinterested Yeah, whatever, Da-a-ad look but deep down I was like Shit! He's got us figured out! Quick! Read something important like, uh, the financial news!

I must say it was a scarily accurate description about what we were actually reading in the newspapers, but hey, what would you expect from an apathetic teenager whose only concern were his raging hormones and his second childhood?

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The comics were the only reasons for newspapers to exist, as far as we were concerned. Sometimes I wish we could just throw away the rest of the newspaper, or that it was just one big comic newspaper.

I had a peculiar habit when it came to reading my comics. After familiarising myself with the comics in the NST through the years, I would always read what I thought were the less-funny comics first and saving the funny ones for the last. So my eyes would travel in a rehearsed way, first over Peanuts, Ferd'nand,  Blondie, Bringing Up Father and a few others, before finishing up with Baby Blues and The World of Lily Wong.

Sunday was always our favourite newspaper day because it meant an entire pull-out of comics - all in colour! Luxury!

We switched over to The Star a few years ago, a more compact, easy read (think Herald Sun, but classier) and I think they have a better collection of comics, epitomised by the one I will always save for last:

Random Memories: Twenty Two Years Old

I remember distinctly the trip to the hospital for the MRI – I was sitting outside the MRI room, and all my personal belongings which would interfere with the functioning of the MRI machine were taken away from me (apart from my magnetic personality).

The waiting area for the MRI had all the cheer of your typical hospital – immaculately white walls, the token potted plant (which had the effect of brightening up the place like a weed in a graveyard), and the severely expired magazines which sat on the single table next to the mass of waiting chairs.

One warm soul however, had brought an item of hope into that reading table – there was a scrapbook filled with the eternally optimistic comic Rose is Rose cut out from the weekend editions of the local newspaper.

It looked to be a labour of love, as it must have taken someone months to years of patience to compile it and to leave this little gesture in the hospital to cheer the hearts of worried patients.

I read it with a thankful heart, discovering love and hope in this time of uncertainty.

Sugar. Honey. Honey.

We were gathered around the table last week for our usual Thursday night gathering, when the subject of comic books came up. Our faces lit up with recognition as we named some of our favourite comics - the all-American sweetheart Archie and his motley crew of friends, the Beano comics headlined by Dennis the Menace and his sidekick dog Gnasher, Dandy comics with Bananaman! and so forth.

Comic books were a constant companion to us - we read them under the blanket with torchlights, or on our toilet bowls or sprawled out over our couches on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Uncle R was saying how he wished he had kept his comics from last time, because they would be worth a mint now. I thought about my well-loved Archie collection and about how brown, creased and dog-eared they all were from repetitive reading and wonder about how much they were worth. Perhaps to an old newspaper vendor.

If you go up to my bedroom in Malaysia, you will actually find a row of translated-into-Malay Japanese comics like Slam Dunk and Doraemon and some tattered Archies.

Call it a refusal to grow up, but whenever I am home on holidays, it's always fun to just reach out for a comic, and then lie down to read it.

For the brief few moments before sleep claims me, I can escape this world into one where the American redhead tries to figure out his love triangle between the rich brunette or the homely blonde; where the Japanese redheaded rebel finds his place on the basketball court and a little Japanese boy's everyday problems are solved by a futuristic cat with wonderful marvels from his fourth-dimension pocket.

Random Memories: Nine Years Old

The cupboard stands before him in his Auntie's house, towering twice the height of his nine-year-old self. Sitting among the many decorative paraphernalia from their family's various trips overseas were rows of books neatly lined up - detective stories, choose-your-own adventure series and an entire row filled with Archies.

Double Digests, Single Digests, Betty And Veronica, Lil' Archie, Jughead - an entire bookshelf row of Archies.

He thinks about the four or five copies he had at home and how he had read them so often he knew them by heart. At RM 5.95 for a Single Digest, these were luxuries his family could ill-afford.

He is only allowed to read the comics when he is there, and never dared to ask if he could borrow one home. The visits are often not long enough for him to get through a single digest.

Take one home, the Little Lawyer whispers.

But that's stealing! the Sunday School voice says.

They won't notice it's gone, and then, you can put it back the next time you're here. Little Lawyer was pretty convincing.

The two voices bickered for awhile. His eyes trailed over the toy cars from the Netherlands, the intricate fans from China and the kimono-ed dolls from Japan, carrying echoes of foreign lands, which in his nine year old mind, he will never be able to visit.

He makes up his heart and he reaches for two Archies, and, quickly peering over his shoulder, he stuffs two of the books into his gawdy yellow button-up shirt.

He turns around and his heart stops in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his auntie in the distance, standing at the bottom of the staircase leading into the landing, a silent witness to his brazen theft.

Head bowed, he quickly walks past his auntie, thinking magically somehow that if he pretends not to see her, then she wouldn't be able to see him.

He walks to the couch downstairs and plops down next to his Mum. His bowed head stares at the telltale boxy corners angling from his too-small shirt, poking directly into his nine-year old conscience.

His auntie walks slowly down the second flight of stairs, deliberating how best to deal with this situation.

She starts of by continuing a conversation with her sister - his mother, as if nothing had happened. He is relieved. Maybe she didn't notice.

Just as they were standing to leave a few minutes later, his auntie looks at him and says, 'Maybe you'd like to return me the comics before you go.'

His Mum turns to him -'What comics?'- initially quizzically and then with horror as it dawns upon her what he had done. He unbuttons his top buttons and pulls out the comics one by one, his ears and cheeks burning with shame. He half expects the ear-twist or slap but it never comes.

Instead he follows her sheepishly to the car, and she is strangely quiet. It is only when the doors are closed that she turns around and raps him smartly on the knees.

'Why did you do that, hah? Haven't I taught you better than that! You bring shame to the family, you know!'

She is furious, and continues to lecture him on how stealing is wrong and how he should be ashamed of himself. The drive home is a tempestuous one. 'If you wanted one, just ask and then we will buy for you lah!'

He knows she is just saying it to placate him.  He knew comic books, amongst other luxuries, were never going to be a priority in this household. Just for once he wished that he could have something when he wanted it. Through his tears, he yells out in exasperation, 'Liar! As if!'

They are quiet for the rest of the drive home, each still seething from guilt and shame.

He is surprised when she turns into the shop houses on the way home. She stops outside the local stationary shop in his Taman (suburb) which sold the comics.

'Nah,' she hands him a red ten-ringgit note. 'Go get your Archie,' she says quietly.

He sits there stunned for a moment, unsure how to react.

He slowly reaches for the note and manages a thanks mum, before bursting out of the car and racing up the steps to buy his comic book.

Close Encounters in Melbourne

Had a great catch up with a friend tonight who was here from NSW for a conference. Unfortunately, he had a busy schedule and we could only catch up around midnight, so I brought him to Oldtown Kopitiam in QV.

I had not heard from him for about eight years now, so it was good to see where life had taken us and how we had both grown up in ourselves and our relationships as well.

At around 1 am we decided to go for a spontaneous tour of the city of Melbourne. It was wonderful walking in the city in Saturday twilight, and I had forgotten how magical the city could be at night.

We gazed up at the imposing fluorescent-lit cathedrals, dodged the drunken late night revellers and walked past the post-party queues at KFC. There was a busking band playing Latin music on Swanston Street and a group of people had started spontaneously dancing along.

I showed him Fed Square and Flinders St station, and we saw the upside down neon ice-cream cone that was the National Arts Centre in the distance.

I walked him back to the hotel, and then we said our goodbyes, promising to catch up again soon(er than the eight years it had taken us to catch up this time).

As I turned the corner away from the hotel, I lifted up the hood of my jacket over my head. I exhaled - hands in both pockets - and then steeled myself to take on the treacherous road home through Melbourne's CBD.

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You must be thinking, what on earth are you talking about, Heng Khuen? Melbourne's a safe city!

So I thought until I heard this story a couple of weeks ago where a travelling friend-of-a-friend's was mugged by two guys in front of the State Library while he had gone to get some kebabs from Stalactites.

All he wanted was some supper, and he ended up $500 poorer (he had only brought cash for his short trip) and a Welcome-to-Melbourne, Please-Come-Again bruise to his left eye while trying to fight off his assailants.

And so it was with this story fresh in my mind that I quickly paced through the streets of Melbourne by night. I kept to the brightly lit areas, tried to stay where there were crowds, and sussed out whoever was walking my way. I followed my gut instinct - couples are usually safe, groups of friends with at least one girl in it are safe and girls are safe. Beware the lone male or a group of two.

I had made it past Russell Street, walked down Bourke, and made my way past the Latin buskers on the opposite side of Swanston Street. It was a wonderfully festive atmosphere - the music was infectious and the dancing group had now increased three-fold.

I afforded myself a little smile at how people were having a great time enjoying Melbourne on this beautiful Saturday night. The air was carefree and footloose.

It was at this exact moment when I approached the Swanston St Church of Christ on a quiet corner of Little Lonsdale Street.

I caught the eye of this big Caucasian guy loitering there with who I assumed was his girlfriend. It took me all of two seconds to realize that his 'girlfriend' was actually a skinny male with a hood over his head. My guard, which had been let down just a second ago, leapt up immediately.

My Spidey senses screamed out as the fat guy made a nod in my direction, and the both of them suddenly sprung from their relaxed positions and walked purposefully towards me. I picked up my pace, leapt onto the kerb and walked as fast as I could towards the nearest people about twenty metres in front of me.

I was about an arm's length away from them, and heard the skinny one say 'Damn, a jumper,' whatever that meant, but I sure as hell didn't hang around to ask.

I waited nervously on the corner of La Trobe St, my heart racing, looking out of the corner of my eyes to see if they had followed me. Luckily for me, their pursuit had ended as quickly as it had begun.

It wasn't until I got home when I could finally breathe a sigh of relief again; hearing the door lock behind me, keeping the city at bay for one more night.

Whether true or perceived, I must say this encounter has shaken me. I'd like to believe that it was not mere coincidence but Providence that I had heard the story the other day, and had been more vigilant tonight.

A split second too late, and this story may have very well ended differently.

Kung Fu Panda 2: A Movie of Awesomeness!

Went with Karen to watch my second favoritest movie of the year after X-Men: First Class - the irrepressible Jack Black reprising his role in Kung Fu Panda 2. This was a fun-filled movie for the whole family, with laugh out loud comedy and also touching scenes that brought you to the brink of tears.

(Okay, so I cried. Uncontrollably.)

(Like a real man.)

It was one of the better 3D experiences I've had this year as well - breathtaking scenery, in-your-face action and a clever use of artistry to display flashback scenes.

I have never heard Karen belly-laugh so frequently at a movie, which is a good indication of how good it was!

Go watch it in the cinema!

Random Memories: Fourteen Years Old - Not The Karate Kid (aka Wax On, Face Off)

It was a very exciting Saturday in my school. It was the inter-school Interact Club meeting, and we know that all boys join the Interact Club for only one reason - a chance to meet girls!

Being an all-boys school meant that girls were a rare treat (okay, so we had the sixth form girls, but they were four years ahead of me at that time, and I didn't have the necessary cougar-taming skills required back then).

We were all dressed in our whitest shoes, our olive-greenest trousers and carried our winningest smiles that day.

It was an amazing day - we were split up into groups for discussions, and I was finally in a classroom with - gasp - girls! I was so excited I almost forgot to breathe.

The day was going well, with me talking to my friends trying to look important while peering out of the corner of my eye to see if a girl was checking out my extra olive green pants today.

I was walking up the stairs with a friend out of the canteen during a break, when I noticed two sky blue-pinafore uniformed girls approaching. This was my chance to impress! I talked a little louder and gesticulated a little more with my hands, not noticing the step as I tripped over it and landed right on. my. ass.

My friend stood over me, just as surprised as I was. The girls had stopped to look. It took me all of two seconds to recover from my stunned surprise/embarrassment and so I decided to do the most cool thing I knew then - do a judo leap from my supine position up to a standing position, and then walk away as the girls stared in awe and clapped in wonder.

Clap, I tell you!

So with all my years of judo training, I...oh wait a minute. I have never had any judo training. In fact, I've never had any kind of training. Not even brain training.

Which would explain why my attempts to get up looked something like a miserable tortoise trying to get back on all fours again after falling onto its shell.

My friend stood over me as my legs were flailing in the air trying to make some contact with the ground. His concerned look was somewhere between "What the hell are you trying to do, Heng Khuen?" and "Oh my gosh! He's having a seizure! Someone grab a spoon to ram into his mouth before he bites his tongue!"

It was only by the fourth spoon did I finally decide that my kung-fu leap back to coolness was a stupid idea, and I finally stopped kicking around like I was possessed. I calmly stood up, dusted my self off, gave the step my best disapproving "You've won the battle, but I will win the war!" look, and then walked off past the two giggling girls, my head held high, my friend laughing as he caught up with me.

I certainly taught that step a lesson, and I am sure it will think twice before tripping the next fat fourteen-year-old boy that crossed its path.

Ah, my mortal enemy. We meet again.