Road Trip Australia: Adelaide

It was a spur of the moment decision - a friend was coming down from Singapore to Adelaide for a conference, and asked me to remind him which state of Australia I was in again.

And before I knew it, I was on a plane to Adelaide, for the first time ever in my life, not only to catch up with him, but with some other friends that I hadn't seen in forever.

I touched down and absorbed the airport with my eyes, and walked steadily towards the exit where a friend was waiting to pick me up. I hadn't seen Sel in 7 years, and it was like we never left. Sel has this amazing sense of humour and the best/worst stories ever from his schooldays. He dropped me off at where I was going to live those two nights.

I was going to bunk with Vic at Hindley Street - the King Street equivalent of Melbourne. If that still doesn't make sense to you, think poles and women dancing on it. Scantily-dressed women.

It was quite a vibrant part of town, and Vic and I was walking up and down the streets looking for something to eat (and if there happened to be pole-dancing women in the establishment, well, so be it. Hahaha!) but most of the restaurants were closed and we ended up having dinner at a Lebanese restaurant.

Day 2

I got up really early the next morning as Vic had to attend his conference, and I wanted to take in the scenic sights of Adelaide.

The first photo worthy picture on the top left - seriously! But it did get better after that! :)

It took me about half an hour of walking before I actually saw anything photo-worthy in Adelaide! I must have been walking in the wrong part of the city, but I was really giving up on finding anything, when everything fell into place:


Beautiful gardens in the city periphery - the poor girl has been squatting there forever while people try to suck on her brains.

The University of Adelaide is really quite stunning, with rolling gardens and ancient buildings right here in the City of Churches.

Adelaide, the City of Churches - where they have so much money they use it as floor decoration!

I had breakfast with S, Z and J, three friends who I hadn't seen in 7 years. It was a really good time of catching up and laughing over a Malaysian breakfast. Z was always anxious about how the quality of the food was compared to Melbourne ("Aiyah, nothing compared to the Malaysian food in Melbourne, I know lah!") but it was really quite good, and I was just happy to be there sharing a meal with long-lost friends.

Lunch was with S as both Z and J headed off to work - I was brought to his favourite Vietnamese restaurant, Yen Ling. It was actually really good food, and S convinced me to try the Vietnamese coffee, which looked suspiciously like petrol with condensed milk. Tasted really good, though - like the kopi susu back in Malaysia.
Most "power" coffee ever!

We talked about everything under the sun, like two friends catching up at a mamak stall, and exchanged stories of life and love. I have never laughed so hard, or thought so deeply for awhile now.

We picked up A, who S had been dating since our Uni days from their hospital, and I finally got to see their workplace where all their wonderful stories came from.

On the way back to their house, the coffee I had earlier started to kick in, and I had the Worst. Diarrhoea. Ever. I was squirming around in the back seat, begging for S to stop at the next nearest restaurant.

Let's just say that after I was done, that particular McDonald's which I went to doesn't serve Happy Meals anymore, if you know what I mean.

We went back to their unit and were too tired to go out anymore, and so just called in pizza and soft drinks while we talked delved into nostalgia that night. Another friend J who I haven't seen in forever, and recently married, popped in and the reminiscing just escalated from there!

Day 3

I caught up with V briefly before saying my goodbyes to him, and promising to meet up again in Singapore.

And then it was off to see the Three Stooges - S, Z and J for one last meal before heading home.

They brought me to this place in Hutt St in the posh end of town called Citrus, and there we had the best-breakfast-I-have-ever-had-in-Australia-bar-none. I had the humble French toast myself, which was done really well, but the rest of them had this chilli, garlic and basil scrambled eggs that was beyond description. An egg-gasm, if you will.

The gang at Citrus - two minutes before my head exploded at how good the breakfast was.

And then the last leg - off to the airport where all three of them had saved their best jokes for. I was laughing to the point of begging them to stop.

I sat in the airport lounge once more, waiting for the plane that would take me back to Melbourne, and wondered why on earth it took me seven years to catch up with them.

Indeed, how can we explain the friends that we swore we would keep in touch for life just slip away by the wayside as we chase for the things that we thought mattered.

To Cherish, Honour and Obey

I went for my first ever Australian wedding a few weeks ago. To be fair, it was the second wedding that I have attended since being in Australia, but this was the first Caucasian one that I have attended. I was like the Token Asian Guy there, if you know what I mean!

It was held in a vineyard somewhere in the south of Melbourne, about an hour and ten minutes' drive away, especially if you're really late, and your girlfriend has kindly offered you her car which has the electronic tag device for the Citylink tolls on it.

True to form, I arrived twenty minutes late at the vineyard, to see the groom and bride about to walk into the garden where friends and relatives were waiting for them. M looked dashing and poised in his cream-coloured suit as E's left hand slipped into his, bouquet in her right hand, dressed in a beautiful off-shoulder wedding gown.

They turned the upper halves of their bodies to look at me as I drove the car around the corner. M smiled and waved hello, and just at that very moment, the sun peeked through the chink between them (hello, Mao's Last Dancer!), and they were bathed in the glorious Melbourne evening sun, both of them looking for a moment like angels on their wedding day.

They must have ran towards the celebrant, because by the time I was parked and out of my car, both M and E were already standing in front of the sixty-odd crowd of witnesses, and the celebrant's voice floated in the air as she spoke the blessings and officiated the wedding.

From where I was, it was a little difficult to hear what was being said, yet when it came M's turn to say his vows, everyone could see his lips move as he stumbled through his prepared speech to E, but his flushed face and tearing eyes were evidence enough of the emotions running in them that evening. The sight of a grown man crying, especially for all who knew M, evoked a lump in all our throats and tears were gathering at the fringes of most eyes present.

The ceremony itself was brief, and soon vows were exchanged, and signatures cemented the wedding. We then headed into the wine cellar, dimly lit with candles, as we drank champagne and ate canapes while meeting friends, new and old.

The dinner itself was nice and cozy in a restaurant that overlooked the vineyard. The food was quite good, but the highlight of the night were the speeches from the parents. Both M and E came from a large family of four siblings, and both fathers were equally eloquent and witty in celebrating and embarassing M and E that night. You could hear the pride in both their voices about their children, and how welcoming they were to their respective partners.

M spoke last and admitted that he did not know what the ingredients of a happy marriage were, as most of who he considered to be happily married couples warned him about the perils of marriage, while the only person to say something nice to them as a couple was their jeweller, who was recently divorced!

It then proceeded to a night of drunken dancing, as white people, emboldened by alcohol, finally took to the dance floor to sort-of dance. Okay, so I was guilty of some bad sort-of dancing as well, but I will never turn down the opportunity to move my body like an epileptic.

The night soon drew to an end, and goodbye kisses and congratulations wished to the happy couple before I left, feeling warmed by what I had witnessed tonight.

I Do. I mean I would like to I Do.

The long drive home that night allowed me to entertain some thoughts as the wheels slowly ate up the distance between me and home.

I think that perhaps I am generalising here, but I think that a lot of women think about their wedding day.

About four or five years ago, that was a very occupying thought of mine as well - about how perfect my wedding day would be, about the speech that I would make, about the friends and family gathered around to celebrate this momentous occasion. I would wish Dad were there to see it as well.

People talk about how there shouldn't be an emphasis on the wedding day, but on the marriage instead. Too much emphasis is placed on that single stressful day sometimes, when the real crux of it is in the journey together as a married couple.

Yet tonight was a reminder that weddings were important, too, as a celebration of a milestone in both M and E's lives - much like the hallowed 21st birthday celebrations here.

It was a chance to hear the stories from the parents who had watched their sons and daughters grow up, blossoming into adults, and falling in love; with the secret wish for the couple that they too will one day give their own speeches at the happy weddings of their sons and daughters.

A Little Bit More Of Innocence

It was a Sunday night, and started becoming very busy in the Department.

People were streaming in with problems that needed attending to urgently, and there was a very sick man bleeding to death from his bladder in one of the resuscitation bays.

The evening doctor had kindly stayed on to sort out the dying man, and I was left with free rein of the busy Department.

In the midst of all the chest pains, kidney stones and chronic lung disease patients, there were a host of teenagers as well, which was unusual for a Sunday night.

One of them was the hospital's littlest orphan, on her second-daily visit to the hospital, asking for someone to look at her sore neck at 2 a.m. because she had tripped over her dog and hit her neck on the edge of the door. The nurses tell me that she had been in not too long ago faking the same complaint - she had found another trigger for the staff to finally pay attention - they had put her in a collar, scanned her head. She devoured the attention, her large unblinking eyes surreptitiously smiling at all the fuss, and had hoped for a repeat of the same tonight.

Another boy and his undistinguished partner came in after having a longer than usual seizure that night - he was flailing his arms and legs for a good 15 minutes and she was worried enough to bring him in. I remembered him from one of my shifts before, and recognised that he had another pseudoseizure, a psychological variation of actual seizures, and took some blood off him and watched him for a couple of hours.

I was trying to suppress my surprise when I found out that he was the littlest orphan's brother.

Two siblings separated only by the entrance door to the Emergency Department. She didn't seem to acknowledge his presence in the Department, and I don't think she acknowledged him outside either.

The boy's partner was someone who you wouldn't have cast a second glance at on the streets. Nothing about her turned heads to look, nothing about her personality invited further probing questions. She was plain in every sense of the word.

The evening doctor remembers her from last night, though. She had come in for some vague medical issue, and cried in pain the moment the nurses put the tourniquet on her in order to take blood. We're not even talking about the needle yet. Just a tight band around her upper arm, and she started crying uncontrollably.

Where kids their age were going to parties, or pubs, deciding which university to go to, or which jobs to interview for, these three frequented the hospital instead.

The last teenager that night was a nineteen-year-old girl and her young partner, the 'love of her life'. I saw her yesterday night when she thought that she had vomited up blood in her toilet.

We had taken bloods from her and given her fluids, when an hour later she threatened to discharge herself. Luckily the pathologist was in, and the bloods were processed, and there was nothing of immediate danger so we sent her off.

Tonight, however, the boyfriend explained that she had had about eight cans of Victoria Bitters, and they were out looking for her missing dog when she fell down and had a seizure. Her seizure sounded bona fide, and there was a strong family history of her father and grandfather having it too. And dying from it.

Once again, when she had sobered up, she wanted to leave.

You don't understand, you are endangering your life if you leave now, I try to tell her.

I HATE HOSPITALS! she complained vehemently. I know my rights, and I will sign whatever paperwork I have to, to get out of here.

But you might die! I protest.

Look at these! she upturned her hands defiantly, and you could see the multiple slash marks across her wrist where she had previously cut herself. You think I give a damn about dying?

I attempt a softer approach. You know, I understand life has been hard for you, and...

She arced up.

Understand? How could you understand anything? I have been fending for myself since I was ten years old and...

Hey, don't get started, her boyfriend's voice is soothing across the room. I liked him when I met him yesterday, and you could see that he was the one thing going for her in her nineteen-year-old life.

I sensed an opportunity.

It's not just about you, you know. Think about the people who love you.

Her voice was steady but precarious. I will look after myself, okay? I have been looking after myself for a long time now. I will get that brain scan in the morning...

How do I know that? I ask.

Well, the love of my life will ensure it! she says, turning towards him.

He was sitting atop the counter in the room, his hunched shoulders supporting his intoxicated face. He looked away uncomfortably, his hunched shoulders too small to bear the burden as the love of her life.

Sometimes we go about our middle-class lives sheltered from the cries of this broken world we live in. We worry about the meaning of life while some people worry about simply living. We worry about our careers, our cars, how we can save for the latest iPhone and what Europe will look like this time of the year.

Modern Day Prophet

I can't get over this song from Jason Mraz while thinking about these orphans - both the real ones and the with-parents-like-that-they-might-as-well-be ones.

When the house was left in shambles
Who was there to handle all the broken bits of glass
Was it Mum who put my Dad out on his ass
or the other way around?
Well I'm far too old to care about that now.

And taking drugs and making love at far too young an age
And they never checked to see my grades
What a fool I'd be to start complaining now

What about taking this empty cup and filling it up
With a little bit more of innocence
I haven't had enough it's probably because...

When you're young it's okay to be easily ignored,
I'd like to believe it's all about love for a child.

Dear God, please look after and love our orphans in the way we have failed to.

Other People's Stories: Paris, I Love You

I sat before his lumbering hulk over dinner.

I watched him smile his familiar smile framed by his trimmed Indian beard. The bags under his eyes were deeper than when I last saw him seven years ago, but his eyes still twinkled with mischief. He was big, and used to be overweight, but has been working out recently.

He tells me that he has a poster of Eric Bana in his room, and hopes to look like him one day. His hair is slicked back just like The Incredible Hulk star.

His large frame hides a soft heart, a fragile heart that has been mishandled by clumsy girls of late.

The No. 1 Parent's Dating Agency

He would turn 31 in two years. That was his parent's ultimatum for him. If you don't find a girl by then, we will very well find one for you.

His younger brother was begging to marry his girlfriend of eight years but they said No, your older brother must get married first.

He tells me about Europe. He was going there to see a potential girl that his parents thought would be nice for him. He had an adolescent crush on her in his teen years, and they had been communicating via e-mail leading up to his visit. His younger brother was graduating as well, so it was going to be six weeks well spent.

When in Amsterdam, do as the tourists do

He started off with a week in Amsterdam.

He walked by the canals daily, avoiding the many cyclists, and was tempted to walk into a 'coffee shop' and have those wonderful marijuana-laden brownies, but feared for its unknown effects on his health. He was by himself in Amsterdam, and it would be awhile before they would find his drug-laced body.

Amsterdam was famous for one other thing, of course - the prostitutes who stood along the glass windows. Half-naked live mannequins for your viewing pleasure, sir.

There were all sorts of women you could choose from - tall, short, chubby, skinny, blonde, brunette, blue-eyed, brown-eyed, young, old, Asian, European, African - for a Malaysian Indian boy this was overwhelming - watching your pornography finally come to life. It was like he was a child let loose in a hormone-crazed Teenager's Candy Store.

There were no friends or family around for him to feel self-conscious or self-conscience with. He walked past the masses of women seductively calling out to him, and pretended to ignore their siren calls while secretly checking them out of the corner of his eye.

He made several rounds around the alleyways, his steps getting slower and more deliberate as he gathered enough courage to even look at the women.

Man, were they ugly.

He had toyed with the idea of losing his virginity in Amsterdam long before even setting foot in Amsterdam. Here he was in the Sex Capital of the world, and he was damned well going to have sex, even if it meant that he had to pay for it. Because no girl in her right mind would want to sleep with me for free, he laughs. A self-deprecating joke repeated often enough has now become his personal mantra.

My First Time

He finally walked into an establishment where the women were definitely of a different class. They were all beautiful with inviting bodies, and their clientele was telling - men decked out in corporate suits and ties, looking for a quickie before heading home to their wives or to work.

He could not take his eyes off the line of women, each standing outside their own mysterious room, beckoning to him in their accented English.

He faltered, initially. He walked out hurriedly from the place. All his conventional upbringing went against his lust for his first ever experience of a woman. I mean, what would your mother say if she knew, huh? he chided himself.

But then the Other Voice spoke.

You've thought about this since even before the trip, man!

This may be your only chance ever of being with a woman - you're never coming back to Amsterdam!

Who's to say that you would even make it out of Europe alive? Your plane could crash, and you would die a virgin. You want to die a virgin?!

Screw that. He was in Amsterdam, and he would find himself a hooker.

He steeled himself, but still felt nervous as his sweaty palms pushed past the doors once more, his stomach churning with excitement and anxiety.

His eyes darted around the women holding out the forbidden fruit to him at 50 Euro a pop.

Pop. What a funny way of saying ejaculation.

He finally settled on a tanned, curvaceous brunette. She led him into her room with a little laugh, and introduced herself as Anna from Portugal.

Anna from Portugal. He wasn't sure what to do, but he felt like he needed to exchange pleasantries with Anna from Portugal. With a little rehearsed laugh, she led him into the room lit by electric candles and eased him onto the bed. He fumbled with his clothes in his eagerness and noticed how coolly she undressed herself. He hoped his inexperience wouldn't be obvious to Anna from Portugal, but even if she noticed, she didn't show it.

He slipped her the fifty while she slipped him a condom.

His mind was attempting to sort out the assault on his senses, torn between stage fright, intense pleasure, the intoxicating smell of her perfume and the warmth of her body against his.

Soon they were going at it fully but then Pop! and suddenly it was over as quickly as it started.

He apologised to her as he slipped his clothes back on. She shook her head slowly, and her thick Portuguese lips smiled an It's OK.

You're not the first, she thought.

You're my first, he regretted.

50 Euro, 5 minutes = 10 Euro per minute. What a waste of money!, he cursed in his practical Malaysian head. He was conjuring up thoughts on how to make his next visit last longer. More bang for his buck, so to speak.

He walked out quickly, not catching the eyes of the other prostitutes as he made a beeline for his hotel room. He was slightly disappointed at how it abruptly it had ended, but also elated that he had finally Done It.

It had taken twenty eight years, but he was finally a Man, although he didn't feel any different, to be honest.

He never visited another prostitute on his entire trip.

Lost. In Translation.

Austria was beautiful. He spent two weeks there by himself - Vienna was the total overseas experience - the place was clean, cultured and the people were generally very nice. He wandered around as a lone traveller, pointing to maps when language failed him, and developing a crick in his neck from looking up all day at centuries-old churches.

He spent a few days in the picturesque Salzburg before trying out the amazing beers in Munich which an American traveller had mentioned to him in passing.

He loved hearing the English language from the congregation of tourists with him. He would often eavesdrop into conversations, and savoured understanding when so often words on the signposts and those leaving the lips of the locals meant nothing to him at all.

Europe quickly became a routine - every day he would take in the breathtaking sights around. And every night he would return, remove his shoes in the quiet of his hotel room, and wish that Anna from Portugal was there to hear about what he had seen that day.

Paris Je t'aime

His next destination was Paris. He plopped his luggage in his hostel room, and proceeded to circle on his map the places he was going to visit here.

It was while waiting in one of the many eternal queues to the tourist attractions that he noticed for the first time how out of place he was here in Paris.

Here he was - one stupid, lonely little Indian boy in the City of Love amidst a queue filled with couples. Some were smiling and sharing kisses frequently while others stood around looking bored. One or two were obviously exasperated and arguing whether or not the wait was worth it.

He felt like he did once more in high school - that stark loneliness and subtle rejection as the kid that everyone picked last to join their team in their basketball games. A pariah.

It was somewhere in the middle of the gardens surrounded by the trimmed hedges when he was surprised by his angry tears.

I want someone to hold hands with!Why the hell doesn't anyone speak any English around this Godforsaken place? I'm sick to death of being alone! Where is my girl, huh?! WHERE IS MY GIRL?! I'M NEVER GOING TO FIND MY GIRL!! I want to be in love too!! It is true! The only women who will sleep with me are the ones I have to pay! Or the one my parents choose out for me! I AM a loser!!

Wave after wave of these thoughts washed over him, and soon he began to cry in earnest. His whole gigantic frame shuddered as he wiped the tears from his eyes, and he tried to choke back the sobs. Fuck this, he thought, as he ignored the curious stares of onlookers, and he allowed himself a good cry there in the middle of the gardens somewhere in the City of Love.

Turning the Decade

To my older brother, on his 31st birthday - Happy Birthday! May this next year be one filled with friends old and new, discovering new experiences and finding a deep joy in life!

Random Memories: Eight Years Old

My brother and I used to sleep in the master bedroom by ourselves when we were younger. I am not sure how we got away with that, but I suspect that my Dad's inability to climb the stairs easily and both my parent's generosity had something to do with it.

The master bedroom holds a lot of memories for me as a child. I remember the pillows that adorned the bed - interspersed among the proper sleeping pillows were our bantal busuks (literally 'smelly pillows' in Malay, equivalent to a security blanket.) I had this yellow Doraemon pillow which I must have drooled on incessantly until it changed colour. (Ewww...)

The master bedroom was also the scene of the death of our childhood dreams - I remember how as little children we used to have these wonderful T-shirts with capes at the back of them - it was the height of the Superman (Christopher Reeve, not Brandon Routh) craze then. We were pasar malam heroes in our T-shirts - I was the Malaysian Hero with my red flowing cape while my brother had his blue Batman one.


My wonderfully artistic younger sister's recreation of what I looked like in that caped shirt as a child. I wish I knew where the original photo is.

We were a handful, both of us boys, tearing through the house like chimpanzees on steroids, our capes flowing behind us. We would scream the house down, and I think that one day we were jumping around and making a little too much noise when Mum decided that she had had enough, so she grabbed the sewing scissors and then proceeded to cut the capes off our T-shirts, much to our juvenile horror.

We didn't fly around so well after that. Our tiny imaginations couldn't bring us beyond the jagged edges of cloth that hung limply from our superhero uniforms where our brave capes once flowed.

I remember as well the nights before our sleep when my brother would tell me stories sometimes or we would talk about everything and nothing before falling asleep. There was a period in his ten-year-old life when his only aim was to make me laugh until I begged him to stop.

The magic words that would cause me to laugh uncontrollably would somehow always involve a bodily excrement or function and some bad words (read: shitting, pissing and farting) and I would be so tickled that I would still laugh about it the next day.

Twenty one years on, and my taste in toilet humour has not weaned off one bit. Just ask Karen.

Happy birthday, Jo.

Wong Fu Productions: Up In Da Club

Wong Fu Productions is the inspired trio of Philip Wang, Ted Fu and Wesley Chan - three Americans of Asian heritage who started off in their budding directing and production skills in college.

They struck Youtube gold (or should I say yellow) when they uploaded their first clip - Yellow Fever several years ago and since then, the trio have never looked back, coming up with their own production company, becoming more adept at both their directing and acting skills, and indeed have created a nice little niche market for themselves.

Indeed, their brand of militant niceness and astute humour have struck a chord with many people, Asians or not, and they continue to serve as an inspiration to many aspiring talents.

Watch all 4 parts to the end - I laughed my ass off - and I know that you will too! (I know that some connection speeds are slower than others, but it is worth the wait!)

Chew On This

Almost true representation of events.

(With apologies to my friends who are dentists, who I am sure are kind to small animals and little children. Occasionally.)

The top 3 things that humans fear most:
1. Public speaking
2. Death
3. A visit to the dentist

I have not seen a dentist in 20 years. I am not particularly fond of them, they don't get Christmas cards from me.

My teeth are, surprisingly, in perfectly good condition, thank you very much, apart from this unbearably horrible toothache that I get when I eat. And when I don't eat. In fact, it hurts all the time.

[The chances of Heng Khuen seeing a dentist is found in the equation

P = Pt x ft > Fd

where P is the probablility of Heng Khuen visiting a dentist, Pt is the pain from the toothache, multiplied by ft which is the frequency of the toothache and Fd is the F@^&ing dentist, er I mean, Fear of dentist.)

I finally dragged myself to the dentist and he tells me that I have multiple cavities, which are holes in my teeth. He says that I have enough holes in my teeth for him to play a whole round of golf.

I am not laughing.

I also have this set of impacted teeth, which means my mouth was too small (contrary to popular opinion) to fit in all my teeth, so two of my molars were squeezed in to sit under my tongue, which I often show to little kids to scare them into obedience.

But my dentist says that my impacted teeth have to come out, or else more cavities will form when food gets stuck there. I think of the piece of apple that I had last night now stuck between my teeth. It now has a face. And a beard. And a pickaxe. And it is furiously chipping away at the rock of my teeth, laughing gleefully like a maniac, as it digs harder and harder to find the nerve that will give me Unbearable Pain which is its Revenge for me eating it.

I walk into the dentist's room. There is a chair in the dentist's room. It is not like an electric chair. It is an Ergonomic Reclining Chair with soft cushion padding, which fits your body snugly so that you can lie in it comfortably. It is like a La-Z-Boy couch which you lie on to watch the game on your big screen TV.

Except that it is not a La-Z-Boy. And there is no soccer match in front of you.

They slap on a pair of sunglasses and then suddenly a light descends upon you from above. The light stand is angled like a curious dinosaur bending it's head down to get a closer look at you. Except that it has the Sun for its face.

It is like you are in an interrogation. A comfortable chair, and a not-so-comfortable interrogation.

There is a tray. There is a tray with many instruments which look like they belong to a villain in a Bond movie. There are instruments with hooked pointy little ends which look like they could cause a lot of pain. And then there are the clamps. Which could fit on your little finger, squeezing it tighter and tighter. There is a needle, which looks like it could have truth serum in it. There is a pair of pliers. For ripping out teeth. And fingernails.

Suddenly your breath stops as your eyes land on the most horriblest instrument of all. The drill. The tiny little sharp rotating drill which sounds like a hundred little tiny fingernails scratching on the blackboards of your mind.

The dentist comes in, and he is all smiles. You expect a Villain Monologue during which time you will shoot out the lights with your gun, kick him in the balls and then make your escape.

You have to keep your mouth open the whole time while he does unkind things to you. Not unlike another profession that I know of. (With apologies to my friends who are in that other profession, who I am sure, too, are kind to small animals and little children.)

He reaches for the drill. The dentist tests it first. It gives a satisfying buzzing whirr in his gloved hand, vibrating the air around it. And then he reaches it into you. Hundreds of tiny fingernails scratch slowly but eagerly along the blackboards. The high pitch whirring resonates in your head, threatening to detonate it from inside.

Your body arches upwards. Your face scrunches in pain. Your fists grab the comfortable La-Z-Boy beneath you and threaten to rip it to pieces. You want to scream but there is no sound.

He has to inject you with an anaesthetic, he says. It will feel like a pinch. Or a mosquito bite, he promises. But it is not like a pinch. It is like a mosquito bite except that the mosquito is from a place called Hell, and it has eaten a mouthful of red-hot cili padi and volcanic magma before stinging you.

Your mouth gradually goes numb as if Muhammad Ali threw a few punches at you, but only managed to hit the left side of your face.

The dentist reaches for the pliers. You feel the steel rubbing on your tongue and clunking against your teeth as he clumsily rips your tooth (fingernails/eyes/nipples) out. The tooth is curved like a scimitar and red from the stab wound into your gums. Your mouth pools with blood. You taste it on your tongue.

He gives you a cotton swab to chew on. He smiles and expects a thank-you nod for his hard work torturing you today.

He leads you out of his room and you think that you are finally safe. Thank God that is over.

The worse is yet to come. Your half-numb mouth hangs open at the amount that you have to hand over for the forty five minutes of torture that you had just walked out of. A thread of saliva steals out from your open mouth like an art thief's rope at the Louvre, and it dangles over the three digit number on the bill before you.

Like a masochist, you swallow your blood-stained saliva and dig deep into your wallet to pay for the pleasure of the pain today.

The receptionist flashes you a perfect smile and takes your cash. You pray that somewhere in the back of her mouth, the tiniest little piece of a Mars Bar is patiently chipping away at the those pearly white teeth.

Do Not Go Gentle Into the Good Night

So I walked into the ED one Sunday night and it was chaos. It looked like a bomb had struck the place after a hurricane and a tsunami had hit it. The crap did not only hit the industrial strength fan, it also hit the full-blast air-conditioning and the heating in the ventilation.

But enough bad analogies.

Just before I had walked in, there were three simultaneous codes - a 91 year old man who had a large aneurysm of his aorta (swelling of the main blood vessel in the tummy area), another seventy something year old gentleman was having seizures from the newly diagnosed brain tumour in his head, and there was a 30-something year old mother who had overdosed on a whole heap of medications who no one could wake.

And she was vomiting out blood as well for good measure.

And so the whole department was abuzz with doctors and nurses flying from one end to the other, trying to put out as many fires as they could.

Every bed was taken in the Emergency Department that night, as evidenced by the full waiting room outside, as we had neither the time nor the place to see anyone.

My boss went out and told the waiting patients in no uncertain terms that tonight the ED was really busy, and unless they were willing to wait for a long time or thought that their ailment needed attention this very night, they would be better off coming back tomorrow. Or never.

Please, thank you, come again.

The surgeons were in the room seeing the gentleman with the 10 centimetre aorta that was about to rupture, trying to convince him that he needed an operation urgently. His wife and daughter were there by his side keeping vigil.

His wife stood there by his side telling him that he should probably have the operation. For the longest time the man kept silent while she talked on and on about how he should have it. She was trying to cope with the sudden bad news and her mind was grasping at straws at this stage. She was about to lose him and she wasn't ready yet. So, yes, yes to the operation. Yes to hope.

20 metres away in another room, a young mother was trying her best to die on us. Her family had checked in on her at six pm that day and thought that she was sleeping so they had left her alone. It was only when she didn't rouse that night when they called her to dinner that they feared the worst.

They rushed into her room, the pack of empty pills by her side and she would not respond to their frantic calls trying to coax her back from Death's edge. Her brother had tried to sit her up, and she had vomited out blood in his arms, and the family were beside themselves as the call for help went out.

Many women have tried to take their own lives, but more often than not, it is actually a cry for help and most survive. I have never seen someone come so near to death on overdosing on pills before.

And so we were trying to put the tube down her throat to help her breathe, and all this time the blood gushing out of her stomach made it very difficult. Then we had to get lines into her to give her the medications that would keep her blood pressure up.

We had to keep reaching for some shots of adrenaline to bring the blood pressure to a level where it would perfuse the vital organs in the body.

The man with the brain tumour had finally settled from his convulsions with the medications that he was given. His family sat next to him, distraught at what they had just witnessed. Just this morning he was fine - he was their father, their husband - having breakfast with them, laughing about things and now eight hours later his body no longer belonged to him.

It was weak on one side and would not respond no matter how hard he willed it, and when he fitted, he jerked around as if he were being drawn on the strings by an invisible puppeteer.

We had to attend to the man with the enlarged aorta because he had suddenly lost consciousness. As we stepped in, the surgical registrar dramatically waved us away, his arms cutting open in a fashion like No Deal!

No! he exclaimed. Don't do anything!

The surgical registrar recounted to us what had happened, his eyes wide open in surprise. It was the most amazing thing! he exclaimed. So we were just telling him about the operation when this man suddenly turned to his wife and daughter and said, angrily -

"I've had enough! I don't want anything done for me anymore! See you! Goodbye!"

And with that he just... went.

The surgical registrar's voice trailed off, amazed that the man could dictate his own death.

[Mr A leaves the play, never to return. Exit Stage Left]

My boss went out to talk to the family to confirm the man's last wishes, and he returned to the room, his single nod confirming that this man should be kept comfortable only.

Back in the room with the young mother, we battled on and had to throw a heap of medication at her in order to keep her blood pressure up, in order to stop her from the death she wanted so much. She was finally flown away to another hospital that night, her family still coming to terms with their grief and now needing to find their way to her tonight.

There is time to breathe, and reflect. Here was one man who had lived a good long life, and had seen many things in his time, and who was just sick of it all. He somehow wielded the power over the timing of his death -nature had finally taken its course, and he wanted no more of our withcraft to try and stop it.

On the other hand, here was a young mother, who at a very young age decided that she had seen enough in her time and was just sick of it all as well. And in some strange way, she wielded the power over the timing of her death as well, but the love of her family, and the same modern medicine that brought her to the brink of death was trying its best to pull her back to life.