The Lessons of Lorong Haji Taib: Part 3

"We're going to the police."

"What?!" said Siew Tat. "We've just been to try and tiu kai (visit prostitutes), and you want us to tell the polis that ah? Won't we be arrested or something?"

"No, they won't lah!" I started the car, gripping the steering wheel.

I sounded way more confident than I felt.

At the Balai (Station)

"Lu orang buat apa?!" ("What did you guys do?!")

The police officer stared at us with incredulity in his eyes, and started shaking his head slowly.

It was a busy Friday night. Someone was sitting in the corner with blood on his head, and someone there wanting to report an accident, and there had been a couple of stabbings that night to boot.

They had just conducted a raid as well, and the station was teeming with about fifteen illegal prostitutes, some from China, some Cambodian and some ang moh looking chicks, don't know from where. They were all squatting with their hands over their heads. I could see Jeremy and Khong Nam checking them out while Vincent and Siew Tat were with me explaining our plight to the police officer.

We felt a little stupid with our problem but the more the story went on, the louder our voices became as more and more we felt wronged.

Another police officer came out.

Apa bising bising ini? (What's all this commotion here?) he demanded.

Oh, sarjan budak semua ni (Oh Sergeant, these kids)... and he explained our plight.

The sergeant turned to us, his face indecipherable.

Hish! Bodoh betullah kamu ni! Kalau mau main pergilah hotel, hah! Cari gadis gadis macam ini lah best! Kenapa pergi Lorong Haji Taib?  (Hish! You're a bunch of idiots, you know that? If you're looking for a little fun, go to a hotel, and look for hookers like these lah! Why the hell did you go to Lorong Haji Taib for?) his eyes widened, as he pointed to the prostitutes behind us.


We were initially shocked at his outburst and then looked a little sheepish, and his glare soon softened after his little diatribe.

Okey, apa kamu hilang? (Now, what did you lose?)

Half an Hour Later 

We are sitting at the sargeant's office. He had disappeared somewhere 'to make a few phone calls.'

All five of us turn as he walks into the room.

"Handfon yang kamu hilang tu, apa model dia? Warna apa?" (What was the colour and the make of your missing handphones?)

One black Samsung, flip phone. One Silver Nokia.

Like a magician he pulls both the phones out of his pockets. Our jaws dropped as we quickly reached for our phones, thankful beyond words.

Duit kamu hilang berapa? And how much money?

Dua ratus tuan. Two hundred ringgit, sir.

Nah, kita hanya recover seratus. Like a dubious trickster he only hands us a hundred ringgit, but we were just happy to be seeing any of it back, to be honest.

We left his room, our heads bobbing in profuse thanks, as he left us with these parting words.

Ingat, okey, lain kali, pergi hotel cari pelacur. Remember to only use the hotels for prostitutes next time, you hear me?

We smiled weakly as Vincent lead the team to get the hell out of there. We walked past the cowering prostitutes again.

"Jeremy, you hamsup (dirty) bastard! Stop looking at them already lah! You've already got us into trouble once tonight!"

"Okay, who wants to go to mamak?"

"Where ah?"

"How about Lorong Haji Taib?!"

"Shut up lah, you idiot!" we laughed.

The Lessons Of Lorong Haji Taib: Part 2

Pap! Pap! Pap! 

The aunties obviously had no idea what a massage was. What we got instead was a modified slapping of our backs. 

There was a few times she came dangerously close to my ass, but I manged to bump her hands away just in time.

After ten minutes, I just wanted to get the hell out of there - 'Eh, cukuplah, cukuplah. Kita mau pergi dah.' (Enough, enough, we want to go already.)


Tak bulih. Tak bulih. Bayar tiga puluh minit musti mau habis semua. (Cannot, cannot. You paid for thirty minutes).

It's hard negotiating when you're lying in bed, almost naked, with your backs to two Indian aunties.

We heard a sound in the room behind us, but couldn't turn to see. A few minutes later, we could hear a motorcycle being started in the distance... Pap! Pap! Pap! The Indian aunties kept up with their backslapping.

This massage was far from relaxing. It felt more like being caned. For being hamsup.

Now Where Did I Put It?

Thirty agonising minutes which felt like forever later, I pulled my face from the stained mattress, and Jeremy and I hurried to the cupboard. As I put on my pants, there was a silence where the jingle of car keys should have been. Jeremy also noticed that his handphone was no longer in his jeans' pockets.

'Eh, where the hell's my car key?' I asked Jeremy.

'I don't know. Where's my handphone?' He rummaged a little more in the empty cupboard which had nothing more than a few pieces of torn newspapers inside.

'Eh, maybe we left it with the three downstairs before we came up, issit?'

'I don't know lah... We go and ask them lah.'

We left without thanking our service provider aunties, and went down to our waiting friends.

'So how was the ma-?'

'Eh, did I give my car keys to you guys ah?'

'No!'

'No!'

'No what - you didn't give us anything - you went straight up, remember?!'

'Eh, shit lah. I'm damn angry already. These fuckers have gone too far.'

I turned around, with a newfound anger. They have screwed us enough tonight. They're not getting the car.

'OI! Come out here uncle!'

The Indian uncle suddenly melted out of the darkness into the scant light.

'What?' he growled.

I was too pissed off to be scared. 'Give me back my car key! You guys have taken our money tonight - enough already lah! Give me back my fucking car key! I call the police then you know!'

'What? You think you shout I scared ah? You want - you go and call the polis lah! But before you start accusing accusing all... make sure you check the cupboard properly first!'

'I didn't leave it in the cupboard! I checked already before coming down!'

'Are you sure? You go and double check again first!'

I stormed up the stairs, into the room. The two aunties had magically disappeared, and I slammed open the cupboard door, fuming to see -

- my car key.

I took the key and went down.

'Where's my friend's handphone?' I yelled.

'Eh, how the hell am I supposed to know? How I know your friend even bring his handphone inside?!'

Jeremy was looking at me, his eyes pleading for me to forget about it and to just get the hell out of here. 'Eh, don't worry. It's a handphone only lah...'

The gate was unlocked, and the five of us made our way out past the three Indian men. The night was cool with a light breeze; still and uninterested as if nothing terrifying had happened to us at all for the past hour. It took us another ten minutes to walk back to my Dad's

Car

I walked around the car and inspected it from the outside, making sure that everything was okay. Scratch marks - none. Wheels - all there. Hubcaps - also all there.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I pressed the central locking button and the knobs came up, and the lights flashed.

We all got into the car and opened up the glove compartment.

Phewf! All our wallets were still there.

We each took our own wallets, and then noticed that the other handphone was missing. Shit! We opened our wallets - all our cash had been taken. Fuck!

We sat in the car, angry and yet too scared to confront the three men dividing up our money and handphones somewhere in the shophouse at the end of the alleyway somewhere in Lorong Haji Taib.

"ARRRGH!" I banged my steering wheel, impotent. When I looked up, I saw my friends in the streetlights streaming through the car windows. There was an air of defeat, regret and anger mixed in all their faces.

"So, how now?"

The Lessons of Lorong Haji Taib: Part 1

You want a story? I've got a story for you.

There were five of us - Vincent, Jeremy, Siew Tat, Khong Nam and myself.

We were eighteen then, bored and restless one night. Let's go clubbing, said Siew Tat.By the time we got to the clubs, it was already about three a.m., and they were closing for the night. Sien ah.

We were sitting in my car, wondering what to do next when Jeremy pipped up- 'Hey, what about we go and see Lorong Haji Taib?'

Five teenage boys. Whose ears perked up at the mention of Lorong Haji Taib - a place only whispered or laughed about in school in hamsup (lewd) conversations about sensual massages, transvestites and streetwalkers.

We swallowed hard. Our goosebumps raised at the thought of doing something so dangerous, our hearts raced and our penises throbbed at the thought of the forbidden fruit.

I looked around at the other four boys. Loud braggers who had always described how we would 'do' it with this or that girl, one day - the usual big talk for five virgin boys. Always.

After a few wrong turns, I finally got us there in my Dad's car. We did the smart thing and parked our car far, far away from the actual street itself. Being the cautious Malaysians about to wander into a potentially dangerous situation, we took out all our wallets and the ones who had handphones bundled them all into the glove compartment, although Jeremy brought his, just in case.

Fifty ringgits in each of our pockets, with two hundred sitting safely in the car. Steering wheel lock - on. Car alarm - on.

Set.

We looked at each other, guilt flashing in our eyes briefly before we broke out into smiles and headed off into the night in search of adventure.

Lorong Haji Taib 

was everything we imagined. The shops below had their metal shutters drawn for the night, but the stairs leading up to the second and third floors of the old shophouses were lit with cheap fluorescent lights, drawing customers like moths to the many prostitutes/transvestites standing at the entrances below.

We motioned each other to the single cars parked with their brake lights on in the distance, their windows open, the driver haggling a price with the hooker leaning against his window.

We sniggered. We swallowed harder.

'Oi, brudder!' we suddenly heard a call to our right. "You want massage ah?"

We stopped and turned to look at the Indian man calling out to us.

"You want massage?" he repeated.

We hesitated. "Er no lah, uncle, thanks very much." I brought up my hand and weakly smiled my declination.

"We got all kinds of girls... You don't have to try. Just see first lah... Can choose anyone."

I didn't like the look of the seedy Indian man, and quickly glanced at Siew Tat, Vincent and Khong Nam, motioning to them to keep walking. When I turned around, I saw Jeremy's back, following that man into an alley.

Ah, crap.

"Eh, shit lah... Jeremy!"

Jeremy briefly turned, his big head of hair covering his chubby, enthiusiastic "Come on, guys, this is our chance!" face. I ran after him, and the rest of them ambled along unsurely towards the alleyway.

It was a really narrow and dimly lit alley between the shops, and we walked past these two Indian aunties who looked briefly up from their newspapers at us. I could have sworn I saw them shaking their heads. 

I caught up to Jeremy, and both him and I followed the man into this dingy shophouse. There was a solitary lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, and nothing else. No furniture. Nothing else. Not a single damned thing. This was bad news.

We suddenly heard the steel shuttered gate slam behind us. And then the uncle locked it. This was really bad news.

Two other Indian men suddenly appeared, and all our initial excitement was now replaced with a more recognisable emotion - fear. Their eyes were redshot from the mix of toddy and whatever drugs they had been taking, and my knees suddenly went weak with the very real thought that we could get hurt tonight, or worse.

"So kamu mahu massage ah? (So you want massage ah?)" one of them smiled leeringly at us, his features accentuated in the scant light offered by the bulb.

"Er... No lah, brudder. I, erm... we're actually quite tired already... I think we're going to go lah.... No need massage already."

"Masuk sini, mesti mahu massage. (Come in here, must massage)" He had lost his smile, and I was about to lose my continence.

"N--n--no lah, brudder," I stammered. "I'm really quite tired. Anyway, my three friends are waiting outside..."

The Indian uncle who had lured us in motioned to the other drug-addled sidekick, and within a minute, we were joined by Khong Nam, Vincent and Siew Tat. The steel gate slammed shut sickeningly again, and I looked at the three of them apologetically.

All three picked up the fear in both our eyes, and it was contagious - their nostrils started flaring and they started breathing shallower as well.Our fight-or-flight response kicked in, and we were ready to take our chances with these three Indian men. Number-wise we were on top, but if you compared our sizes, despite being five on three, I would say, we were pretty even.

"So, who wants the massage?" the uncle growled, interrupting the virtual fight that we were taking on in our heads. 

Our pupils dilated, our heads almost shook in unison.

"Eh, uncle never mind lah. We give you money. Forget about the massage."

"Eh. Fuck you! You come in already. You must have massage. I don't care."

I looked at my friends, and felt responsible for getting them into this situation. My mind worked overtime. Maybe it wasn't time for mortal combat. Maybe it was time for diplomacy.

"Eh uncle, okaylah, okaylah. Just me and my friend here. We'll go for the massage."

I pulled Jeremy with me and we turned around to look at the rest briefly before the uncle led us to

The Second Floor

Imagine two beds side by side. Imagine two beds that've been used by many men over the years, that's never been cleaned the whole time. See the rust collecting on the steel frame, see the stains showing up by the fluorescent light above, smell the years of bodily fluids crusting on the mattress.

"Okay. Take off all your clothes. Your girls will come soon."

 "Pay first ah. Fifty ringgit."

What?!

"Each."
 
Shit lah. I knew we were being taken for a ride, but the menacing uncle had convinced me one hundred ringgit was a small price to pay compared to, oh, say, a slow painful death, our bodies never to be found  again. 

Let's get this over with, I thought. Jeremy and I quickly undressed, and we folded our clothes into the only other piece of furniture in the room - a bare cupboard at the back of the room a distance away from the bed.

We barely had time to pop ourselves down onto the rickety bed before our 'girls' arrived. You guessed it - the two Indian aunties who we had passed on the way in. I am being kind here when I say that one of them looked like she had been run over by a truck and never really recovered from it, while the other one looked like her uglier older sister.

"Okay, baring depan (Okay, lie face down)." We fearfully did as we were told as I had the strong sense of the uncle lingering outside the room.

Jeremy and I lied next to each other on the bed, almost naked. The night was turning out swell. I looked at him, and whispered,

"Hey, Jeremy? If we survive this, I'm going to kill you."

Green Thumbed

I woke up this morning after four hours' sleep and decided that I would do something that I had put off for a long time - cleaning the backyard.

The last time I remember cleaning the backyard was for my brother's 30th birthday celebrations, oh, let's say two years ago.

Okay, I am not your typical slob... I do clean the house when inspired (every few months) and I like a relatively organised space. I am not a neat freak, though - it's not like I have colour-coded my underwear (anymore) and I am happy to leave certain things unwashed in the sink until there is a critical mass (or until the leftover food on the plate starts to grow legs).

My previous housemate, Li and I took up the enormous task of cleaning the backyard two years ago. Like explorers, we took our gloves and machetes (read: meat cleaver) to the jungle that was the backyard and started pulling away at weeds and hacking away at overhanging branches. I had the added advantage that Li worked part time as a gardener in one of the local houses to supplement his student income.

Several hours later we stood over the empty courtyard, victorious once more over all that nature had to throw at us - some poor defenceless grass and a few helpless branches.

This time, however, I have had to go at cleaning up two years of accumulated mess alone. I lifted up a garbage bag of leaves that had been sitting there for some time to reveal a tiny ecosystem of earthworms and a hundred silvery wriggling things (which I thankfully did not recognise) as well. Gross.

As I pulled away at the grass and weeds with my rubber-gloved hands, the number of creepy-crawlies amplified - here a spider pregnant with eggs, there a fluttering moth, and mosquitoes everywhere.

The tree in the back had overgrown again, and I looked pensively at it after an hour or so of clearing the weeds and dead leaves below. I finally got my brother to bring the meat cleaver again, and I whispered a quick apology before hacking away at the branches.

You know that scene in ninja/kung fu movies where the hero cuts through a forest deftly with his sword and bamboos and branches fall around and behind him as he takes a stance and faces off his enemy coolly?

That was so not me.

The meat cleaver was blunt, and after hacking at the green branches for ten minutes, the branches had barely a graze. The tree shook in the wind, as if laughing at me, and saying 'Is that all you got?' before smacking me around with some of its branches.

I remember all my training in my sporadic years as a Boy Scout (Tenderfoot extraordinaire) and took to the branches but this time at a 45 degree angle and then pulling as hard as I could as the bark showed. It started to work, and soon it was me laughing at the tree, cutting off its multiple low lying limbs and clearing the pathway for the sunlight so that the weeds below could grow healthily once more.

Oops. I think I just undid a morning's worth of hard work.

Random Memories: Eight Years Old  

I remember when we were still kids, we used to have a garden outside our home in TD. We had a mango tree and a papaya one as well, with a healthy layer of grass underneath to complete the Home of The Year look.

Every few months, the grass would grow to a point where we were sent out to go and 'pluck the grass'. We would grab at it with our bare hands, throwing it into a pile in a corner, wishing all the time that we owned a goat that would eat our work away.

The reward after two hours of hard work was that you got to set the grass on fire. This was before the days of hazes and environmental consciousness and pollution. We would set a newspaper on fire at the kitchen stove and then run through the dining room, walk gingerly past the living room and then try and stuff it into the stack of grass.

I remember as kids we were entrusted with the task of blowing up the fire - we would huff and puff until our faces went blue and we staggered a little from the hyperventilation - it was then we decided fanning it with newspapers were the smarter option.

I would laugh gleefully as the flames finally consumed the grass, sending puffs of smoke and dancing pieces of charred newspaper up into the air. All that was left in the end was a mound of ashes which we used to fertilise the trees, and the... grass and... weeds again.

Oops. I think I just undid two hours worth of hard work.

A New Year. A New Resolution.

Happy 2011 to all my friends, family and readers, who have given up reading this blog entirely for the sole reason that they have married and remarried, have had four babies and moved into nursing homes waiting for me to put up another post since my last one!

Haha! Indeed, this blog has been forsaken for the far quicker gratification of the mistress that is Facebook. Add to that the iPad and hanging out at Karen's and there you have my year in a nutshell. 

But no longer. This will be a year of returning to my first love - of writing, and telling stories.  Terribly.

Random Memories: Nine Years Old

Karen and I were walking along Box Hill aka Asian Central after dinner yesterday, and out of curiosity, we strolled into what looked like a candy and snack shop.

The shop itself was a curiosity - it sold your average snacks and drinks, but then there were display cabinets displaying soft toys (understandable) and bras (what the?!) for sale.

We sauntered around the shop a bit, picking snacks at leisure. As we were checking out, my vision strayed onto these little square boxes sitting enticingly along the counter, and my eyes suddenly lit up with nostalgic recognition!

These bubble gum boxes were the stuff of my childhood - sold everywhere, from supermarket counters to the old grandfather-vendor who used to sit outside my primary school.

They were sold for the measly price of 10 sen each, and brought me much happiness as a child. Four little baubles of bubble gum, bursting with fruit flavours! My favourite was the grape flavour, and so I bought a box with little hesitation.

For the mere price of 30 Australian cents I suddenly held a key to my childhood again, as I have not seen this bubble gum for a very long time.

I remember how as a child of nine, this very box of bubble gum taught me a very important life lesson - inflation.

The cost of living had gone up, and trying to keep the price of the bubble gum the same, the manufacturers had taken instead to the sneaky task of removing one bubble gum, so that only three balls of pleasure were left in the box.

I remember when I first opened the box with three gums in them. I stared blankly for awhile at the three purple balls and turned to look suspiciously at the supermarket that sold it to me.

My little mind raced to the factories where these magical bubble gums were made, and I imagined this poor Japanese auntie, tired from overwork, accidentally miscounting the bubble gum quota per box, making the life of this nine year old particularly miserable for the day.

It was only later, when my second and third boxes all had only three gums in them as well, did my mind finally compute that my nine year old life was never going to be the same again.

It was a harsh lesson for a young kid to learn, and I recounted my story to Karen, who laughed and we made a little bet on how many this box would contain.

Karen, the eternal optimist, said four, while I - all illusions broken at the tender age of nine - said three.

My fingers fumbled clumsily with the outer plastic wrapping  and I popped open the box to find - four! little bubbles of joy!

I actually let out a little laugh of disbelief, my childhood self restored once again. Sure, they cost the equivalent of 90 sen today, but even hope has not escaped the claws of inflation.

Every bite still burst with (artificially flavoured) grape flavour, and I did what my nine year old self would have done - two gums first, then wait for the flavour to run out, then one, wait for the flavour to run out, and then the last one.

It's amazing how the mouth remembers.

The God Of Parking Lots

"I have come to the conclusion that I am God's favourite son."

Everyone gathered around the table looked curiously at him as he declared those brave words with his trademark toothy smile.

What do you mean? someone ventured.

"Well, when I was doing the shopping for the Halloween party for the kids, right, I was going with A to the city. And you know how hard it is to park in the city, right?"

"A was telling me that there was no way in the world that I would get a car park in the city at 5 pm. I told A not to worry; that I was God's favourite son!"

"Guess what? As soon as I reached the city and started looking for a car park, suddenly a car indicates right and pulls out of its parking lot."

"Yes!" I looked at A, who lifted a corner of his mouth in a smile to congratulate and curse me at the same time for just being lucky.

"We were walking away from the car when A suddenly remembered that we had to pay for parking, and so we hurried back to the parking space. And guess what? The parking meter was spoiled! Hahaha!"

"I turned around to A and shouted 'Yes! Woo Hoo! See? I told you I was God's favourite son!'"


Everyone at the table laughed, although some were a little bemused.


The God Of Small Things


I was with K the other day looking for a park in Victoria Market, when a car space suddenly opened up. As we drove into the car park, I joked, "No, I am God's favourite son."

K laughed a bit, remembering the above thanksgiving meeting, but then raised this point - "I think that we don't truly understand who God is, I think we trivialise Him if we think He is at all interested in finding us parking lots."

"I mean, God was never a God of covenience, what. Think about it - if anything He is a God of Inconvenience."

I think about Abraham, who was told to sacrifice his son Isaac at the altar. Or Noah, who had to endure the ridicule of everyone when he was told to build the Ark for the flood that no one thought would come. Or Daniel getting thrown into the den of lions, or Joseph being sold to the Egyptians.

I thought about my friend from the Overseas Christian Fellowship last time who was convinced that God loved her because she was desperately looking for her favourite brand of instant coffee in the Asian grocers, and there was one last packet remaining.

I truly don't know what to think - is God truly interested in the small everyday things of our lives? The Omniscient Micromanager? Or is God interested only in the Big Issues at hand - world poverty, wars, the environment, our sin and salvation?

I love that after being a Christian for some 23 years, I'm still trying to make up my mind about who God is, and to know His heart. He remains enticingly mysterious, as that day some two thousand years ago, when he came down as man, and spread his hands on that cross for our sins.

Other People's Love Stories: All Dressed in White

She stands in the darkness, arms and legs poised, her rapid, shallow breathing betraying her anxiety.

Anxiety was better than tears, she decided. One hand reaches to smooth the ruffles of the wedding dress.

Come on, God, she says under her breath. I don't know why You're putting me through this, but You'd better see me through this.

Please?

The lights come on.

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

They were together for three years before he finally popped the question. She remembers it well - they were at the park where they had first met. He had walked ahead of her, which she thought a little rude, but her head suddenly lifts up as she hears him turn abruptly. She is shocked to see him on his knees.

He is stuttering his proposal youknowwe'vebeengoingoutforalongtimenowandIthinkwhat ImeantosayisthatIwantyoutoWillYouMarryMe? She brings her hands to her face, and nods vigorously, surprised by her tears.

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


"I'm saying sorry in advance, 'cos this won't always go to plan..."

The music starts, and she is trying to keep time with her partner for their hip hop performance. Her body moves in memorised rhythm but her mind is a million miles away.

Her partner does not seem the least bit bothered. He is in his bridegroom vest, and dancing like he was the only one on stage.

They are dancing to Guy Sebastian's Art of Love (ft. Jordin Sparks), and it talks about the bliss and pain of relationships. The words of the song are knives which cut away at her heart, and her legs.


"... and we're all about giving up..."

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

It was two weeks before the wedding when she gets the phone call.

He is stone cold as he speaks over the phone. I'm sorry, I'm calling off the wedding. I can't go through with this.

She is stunned. Sure, there were arguments about the venue, and who they were going to invite, but they could talk it through, surely...

Something snaps.

Why? What do you mean? she protests. What do you mean you can't go through with this? We've had everything planned - the invitations have been sent out and the venue booked, for fuck's sake!

I'm sorry, he fumbles. I'ma... I... uh...

I'm sorry.

Sorry?!! Sorry??! Sorry is not what you say to someone to call off a marriage! Sorry is what you say when you accidentally bump into someone or when you're going to be late to something. YOU DON'T FUCKING SAY SORRY WHEN YOU'RE CALLING YOUR FIANCEE TO CALL OFF THE WEDDING!

She drives over to his place, her mind racing faster than the car, and she almost kills two cyclists who scream profanities into her unhearing ears.

She races up the stairs to his place, and it is only after a few minutes of angry knocks that he lets her in.

Her arms are folded, and she storms in. He is silent while she unloads on him. Her heart's content is emptied of its discontent.

Her tears are hot, and her mascara trickles down as she seeks to understand his change of heart. He is a wall, and she does not understand where she had misplaced the key to the heart of someone she thought she knew.

His silence frustrates her increasingly, and she throws himself at him, her arms flailing. She didn't know what she was hoping to achieve. Maybe she could beat a reason out of him.

He is caught off guard by her sudden charge at him, and he reacts by pushing out, and she lands hard on the floor.

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

He picks her off the floor.

"Sometimes I'm going to miss, I'm still learning how to give..."

Her body launches into the chorus with sharp, angled turns, and her choreographed body quivers a little in the wedding dress, but betrays nothing.

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

Why? She asked a friend. Why is God doing this to me? 


Maybe, says her friend quietly, Maybe it's a chance for you to finally let go.


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


She stands before the thunderous applause of the crowd, and nods a tiny nod of acknowledgement. Her partner is lapping up the ovation of what he was convinced were new members of his self-established fan club, and gives a peace sign as they run off stage.

Her heart is beating in her ears. Her heart. Which scabbed over clumsily when he stabbed it in all the different places. She had pulled off a big scab today, and prayed that it would now begin to heal properly.  

... I'm gonna get it sometime, 'cause I'm still trying to learn 

Still learning (art of love)

Still learning (art of love)

Still learning (art of love)

The art of love. 

Not Florence Nightingale

"You've got to be tough as nails to be an Emergency Nurse," he says, recounting his time in Liverpool. "They're a special breed."

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

"There was this one time there was this girl lying on the waiting room floor, right? Screaming hysterically. Everyone had come out with the trolley and were standing over her."

"Get up!" the Emergency Triage Nurse screamed at her, exasperated by how melodramatic this teenage girl was behaving.

"GET UP!" she yelled again. "I've just had my hernia operation and if you think I'm going to lift you up, you're fuckin' mistaken, so GET UP!"

The others around her lifted the girl up and threw her onto the trolley before they wheeled her into the department.

"We found out later that the young girl had this massive frontal lobe brain tumour when we scanned her head, and that was probably why she behaved the way she did. I went up and told the Emergency Triage Nurse about the result, and you know what she said?"

"Well," she just shrugged unapologetically, "the rest of them are fuckin' dickheads anyway."

He laughs while recounting the story.

"Tough as nails," he shakes his head. "You've just got to be tough as nails."