I have a video camera.
I have a PC.
I have a cable for connecting the video camera to the PC.
I have the software to tell the video camera how to connect to the PC.
I have a manual to tell me how to tell the video camera to connect to the PC.
So far so good...
I follow the instructions in the manual. Switch the camera on. Set the camera to 'USB Stream' mode. Connect the camera to the PC with my dinky grey USB cable. Picture Package software should start automatically.
But no. Picture Package software does NOT !*&^$#@ start automatically. It just tells me I have to install Macromedia Flash Player first.
So I go to the Internet, download Macromedia Flash Player. Install said player. Restart the PC. Start Again. Picture Package software still tells me I have to install Macromedia Flash Player first. I download and install the !$%%*& thing twice more. Still the same thing.
I eat ice cream.
I have a brainwave. Maybe I don't have the latest version of Picture Package Software. So:
Off to Sony website. I nearly drown in an ocean of menus. Eventually I find what I'm looking for. Download new version of Picture Package Software. Restart the computer. Start my camera. Set it to USB stream mode. Connect it to PC with dinky grey USB cable. And...
Picture Package Software starts automatically, as per the manual!!!! YAY!!! Victory!!!
My heart beating with anticipation, I follow the instructions for making a CD: adjust special effects settings, music settings, etc.
But the START button still remains ghostly grey. This wasn't supposed to happen.
So I go to the USB Stream Adjust menu. Oops! Camera Not Detected. Even though the ?*&^%$# thing successfully connected to a USB port on my PC!
So I restart my PC, this time selecting a different USB port. The driver software seems to load this time. And Picture Package seems to recognise my camera, because I am able to adjust the USB stream this time and view my video content.
But: The Start Button is still grey. Cannot copy the movie to the CD. And when I go back to adjust the USB stream again. Guess what: Camera Not Detected!
So I disconnect everything, sincerely desiring to smash it all against the wall.
I drink tea.
I go to my blog, where everything is simple.
Tomorrow, perhaps?
Tuesday, 16 October 2007
Sunday, 14 October 2007
A Matter of Context
It was the great linguist and political activist Noam Chomsky who, when discussing the structure of sentences, came up with one of the most talked about linguistic examples in the history of linguistics. It was this:
I retain the American spelling for the sake of authenticity. Now, as we can see, this sentence is perfectly grammatical. It has a Subject ('colourless green ideas') a Predicate ('sleep') and an adverbial Adjunct ('furiously'). But the point Chomsky was making when he constructed this sentence was that it is possible to create sentences which, despite being grammatically correct, are totally meaningless.
How can an idea be colourless AND green? And how can an idea, which is an abstract concept, be said to sleep, which is an attribute of animate, concrete things like people or dogs? And how can anything sleep furiously? Isn't sleep supposed to be peaceful?!?!?
Now many linguists, myself included, believe that in his theory of language, Chomsky misses the point. Yes, we agree that the above sentence and others like it lacks meaning on one level, but surely, Chomsky ignores the fact that there may be a context or a number of contexts in which such a sentence MIGHT be used appropriately. One of them is in books on linguistics and grammar! If we ignore this linguistic truth, we cannot truly understand how language works in the real world.
So, with these thoughts in mind, I couldn't help noticing the following example of fairly grammatical but "meaningless" language, which I found recently in a shop near my house in Kuching:
In case you can't make out the words, this is a picture of a child's toy rifle, with the somewhat disturbing epithet "Every Styles Fully Wonderful" printed quite cheerfully on the packing.
Now, apart from the obvious agreement error with 'every styles', this sentence is fascinating and demands attention from grammar loonies like myself. Now what, I was asking myself, on Earth has a child's toy rifle, complete with shoulder strap and telescopic eye piece, go to do with "every styles" being "fully wonderful?"
This, I argue, is the source of the ambiguity. Styles, in my own idiolect, are not usually thought of as being wonderful, fully or otherwise. And how can the word 'style' be applied to a toy gun?
Perhaps this is some LSD-crazed post-911 comment on the beauty and wonder of guns and warfare. Or, more likely, this is a poorly translated sentence, probably rendered by an overworked Chinese or Japanese translator with no time to use a good dictionary.
The point of all this is that, even though the sentence appears strange, we can still understand it on one level. This is because, even though we don't have any access to the context in which it was created, we can create the context as we go along. We are forced to make sense of the sentence, even though it doesn't really fit into our normal frameworks of meaning.
Here is another example that came to me recently through the Internet, in a spam email message:
This example, which was intended to fool Internet spam filtering software, is grammatical but semantically odd, rather like the colourless green example above. However, it might not be as ambiguous as it seems. I'm sure many of you can think of a science fiction world in which this example makes sense - a world in which "the now" is a real place in which one can be overcome safely by a creature who can see with his mouth!! We could of course go on speculating: maybe the eyes are inside the mouth...whatever!
The moral of this piece, dear readers, is that when we encounter language, it is not enough to merely ask "is it correct?" or "can we say that?" or even "should we say that?". If we do this, we are placing ourselves in a judgmental straitjacket which restrains us from really understanding the nature of language. This is because all writing and speech takes place in a context. Everything we utter or write down, even if it doesn't appear so, has some meaning when seen in its context. And if the context isn't apparent, we create one.
The consequence of this is that if language is meant to communicate, then even when we appear to get it wrong, we are still getting it right! Pedantic language teachers and linguistic purists would do well to heed this.....
Colorless green ideas sleep furiously.
I retain the American spelling for the sake of authenticity. Now, as we can see, this sentence is perfectly grammatical. It has a Subject ('colourless green ideas') a Predicate ('sleep') and an adverbial Adjunct ('furiously'). But the point Chomsky was making when he constructed this sentence was that it is possible to create sentences which, despite being grammatically correct, are totally meaningless.
How can an idea be colourless AND green? And how can an idea, which is an abstract concept, be said to sleep, which is an attribute of animate, concrete things like people or dogs? And how can anything sleep furiously? Isn't sleep supposed to be peaceful?!?!?
Now many linguists, myself included, believe that in his theory of language, Chomsky misses the point. Yes, we agree that the above sentence and others like it lacks meaning on one level, but surely, Chomsky ignores the fact that there may be a context or a number of contexts in which such a sentence MIGHT be used appropriately. One of them is in books on linguistics and grammar! If we ignore this linguistic truth, we cannot truly understand how language works in the real world.
So, with these thoughts in mind, I couldn't help noticing the following example of fairly grammatical but "meaningless" language, which I found recently in a shop near my house in Kuching:
In case you can't make out the words, this is a picture of a child's toy rifle, with the somewhat disturbing epithet "Every Styles Fully Wonderful" printed quite cheerfully on the packing.
Now, apart from the obvious agreement error with 'every styles', this sentence is fascinating and demands attention from grammar loonies like myself. Now what, I was asking myself, on Earth has a child's toy rifle, complete with shoulder strap and telescopic eye piece, go to do with "every styles" being "fully wonderful?"
This, I argue, is the source of the ambiguity. Styles, in my own idiolect, are not usually thought of as being wonderful, fully or otherwise. And how can the word 'style' be applied to a toy gun?
Perhaps this is some LSD-crazed post-911 comment on the beauty and wonder of guns and warfare. Or, more likely, this is a poorly translated sentence, probably rendered by an overworked Chinese or Japanese translator with no time to use a good dictionary.
The point of all this is that, even though the sentence appears strange, we can still understand it on one level. This is because, even though we don't have any access to the context in which it was created, we can create the context as we go along. We are forced to make sense of the sentence, even though it doesn't really fit into our normal frameworks of meaning.
Here is another example that came to me recently through the Internet, in a spam email message:
"The now? Then, I've been overcome safely
and his mouth eyes".
and his mouth eyes".
This example, which was intended to fool Internet spam filtering software, is grammatical but semantically odd, rather like the colourless green example above. However, it might not be as ambiguous as it seems. I'm sure many of you can think of a science fiction world in which this example makes sense - a world in which "the now" is a real place in which one can be overcome safely by a creature who can see with his mouth!! We could of course go on speculating: maybe the eyes are inside the mouth...whatever!
The moral of this piece, dear readers, is that when we encounter language, it is not enough to merely ask "is it correct?" or "can we say that?" or even "should we say that?". If we do this, we are placing ourselves in a judgmental straitjacket which restrains us from really understanding the nature of language. This is because all writing and speech takes place in a context. Everything we utter or write down, even if it doesn't appear so, has some meaning when seen in its context. And if the context isn't apparent, we create one.
The consequence of this is that if language is meant to communicate, then even when we appear to get it wrong, we are still getting it right! Pedantic language teachers and linguistic purists would do well to heed this.....
Monday, 8 October 2007
A Case of Identity
The other day, I had a very engaging conversation with one of my former colleagues. She was depressed because she was unsure about her identity. She is half Chinese and half Iban (one of the component native races of Sarawak), she married a Muslim, converted to Islam, yet is unsure about whether she is Chinese, Muslim, Iban or Martian!
"I just want to be Malaysian!" she exhorted desperately, yet she felt pulled from different directions, all vying to claim her identity for their own. Her Muslim in-laws and friends want her to be a good Muslim. Yet she also feels drawn towards her Chinese roots and culture, but cannot join in totally because she does not speak Chinese!
Now, as a proud Englishman who has never had any doubts about his identity, I find these concerns somewhat petty and insignificant. I just wanted to say to my colleague: "look - you are what you are. You are you. Be comfortable with multiple identities, because it makes you unique. Don't allow others to put you into pigeon-holes" etc etc etc.
But we must remember that Malaysia is a highly multicultural society where the variables of identity - race, gender, age, class, religion, marital status etc - often interact with one another in complex and unexpected ways.
This is especially so if you marry outside your own race, or if you have mixed parentage, as is the case with my ex-colleague. This can result, sometimes, in serious identity problems, which are not trivial lifestyle issues, but which can have long-lasting real world consequences.
This is especially acute here in Sarawak and also in Sabah, where there is a great deal of racial intermarriage compared to the more culturally polarised Malay Peninsula. So it's not a surprise that cultural and racial identity can become profoundly important, and can lead to the kind of angst experienced by my old colleague.
So, all this discussion of race and identity set me thinking about my own case. Now I said I have no problem about my identity, yet sometimes I'm not sure. I know I'm British, specifically English, racially a Caucasian (subject to the White Man's Curse!!) and a Muslim by conversion (anyone who marries a Muslim must become one by law in Malaysia).
I am an Orang Puteh, a Mat Salleh (epithets for Westerners in Malaysia), an Expatriate, a foreigner.....
I am a university academic, a government officer and a Toastmaster. These are my professional identities. So far so good.....
Yet, I have to ask myself why it is that I feel like I don't quite fit in? I increasingly feel that I don't belong here, that my identity as a stranger in a strange land is becoming more and more crystallised.
I think it's because no matter how hard I try, I can never be completely like my local colleagues. Take my official status for example. I work for my university on two year renewable work permits. Every two years, when my contract expires, I have to trundle off to the local immigration department and get a new work permit. Permanent Residence is a possibility, but extremely hard to get - many of my fellow expats have been living here for decades without getting PR.
As a consequence, my status at work is that of a contract worker, albeit a high-status one. I can be, in theory, fired at any time. Another consequence is that when it comes to getting grants for research projects, I cannot be the head of the research team, even though I am the most qualified and experienced.
When there are meetings at work, the meetings are mostly held in the Malay language, even though everyone present knows I am a foreigner. My Malay has never really progressed beyond marketplace level, because there are so few places in Kuching to learn the language. This may be because they expect all foreigners to magically be able to speak Malay as soon as they step off the plane. So this cements my status as The Other even further.
Yet I don't consider myself a typical Expat, and have very little desire to mix socially with my own kind, nor to go back home to England. My experience of British Expats abroad is one of sex, drinking and incessant moaning about the climate and the government, football, cricket etc. I just don't want to hear it. I don't drink, I don't do adultery, I hate football and cricket and I love Malaysia. It pays my wages and it's the country that gave birth to my dear wife, so I don't want to be spending all my time sitting in loud bars listening to my ignorant fellow-expats complaining about it, thank you very much.
So what do I do? I blog, that's what! I observe, comment and try to amuse. And my identity, Prof. Madder, gives me some semblance of sanity whenever I feel lonely and left out. So please keep reading my blog, gentle readers. Help to keep this lost ship close to port, where he can find some safe haven in a turbulent ocean of confused identities!
"I just want to be Malaysian!" she exhorted desperately, yet she felt pulled from different directions, all vying to claim her identity for their own. Her Muslim in-laws and friends want her to be a good Muslim. Yet she also feels drawn towards her Chinese roots and culture, but cannot join in totally because she does not speak Chinese!
Now, as a proud Englishman who has never had any doubts about his identity, I find these concerns somewhat petty and insignificant. I just wanted to say to my colleague: "look - you are what you are. You are you. Be comfortable with multiple identities, because it makes you unique. Don't allow others to put you into pigeon-holes" etc etc etc.
But we must remember that Malaysia is a highly multicultural society where the variables of identity - race, gender, age, class, religion, marital status etc - often interact with one another in complex and unexpected ways.
This is especially so if you marry outside your own race, or if you have mixed parentage, as is the case with my ex-colleague. This can result, sometimes, in serious identity problems, which are not trivial lifestyle issues, but which can have long-lasting real world consequences.
This is especially acute here in Sarawak and also in Sabah, where there is a great deal of racial intermarriage compared to the more culturally polarised Malay Peninsula. So it's not a surprise that cultural and racial identity can become profoundly important, and can lead to the kind of angst experienced by my old colleague.
So, all this discussion of race and identity set me thinking about my own case. Now I said I have no problem about my identity, yet sometimes I'm not sure. I know I'm British, specifically English, racially a Caucasian (subject to the White Man's Curse!!) and a Muslim by conversion (anyone who marries a Muslim must become one by law in Malaysia).
I am an Orang Puteh, a Mat Salleh (epithets for Westerners in Malaysia), an Expatriate, a foreigner.....
I am a university academic, a government officer and a Toastmaster. These are my professional identities. So far so good.....
Yet, I have to ask myself why it is that I feel like I don't quite fit in? I increasingly feel that I don't belong here, that my identity as a stranger in a strange land is becoming more and more crystallised.
I think it's because no matter how hard I try, I can never be completely like my local colleagues. Take my official status for example. I work for my university on two year renewable work permits. Every two years, when my contract expires, I have to trundle off to the local immigration department and get a new work permit. Permanent Residence is a possibility, but extremely hard to get - many of my fellow expats have been living here for decades without getting PR.
As a consequence, my status at work is that of a contract worker, albeit a high-status one. I can be, in theory, fired at any time. Another consequence is that when it comes to getting grants for research projects, I cannot be the head of the research team, even though I am the most qualified and experienced.
When there are meetings at work, the meetings are mostly held in the Malay language, even though everyone present knows I am a foreigner. My Malay has never really progressed beyond marketplace level, because there are so few places in Kuching to learn the language. This may be because they expect all foreigners to magically be able to speak Malay as soon as they step off the plane. So this cements my status as The Other even further.
Yet I don't consider myself a typical Expat, and have very little desire to mix socially with my own kind, nor to go back home to England. My experience of British Expats abroad is one of sex, drinking and incessant moaning about the climate and the government, football, cricket etc. I just don't want to hear it. I don't drink, I don't do adultery, I hate football and cricket and I love Malaysia. It pays my wages and it's the country that gave birth to my dear wife, so I don't want to be spending all my time sitting in loud bars listening to my ignorant fellow-expats complaining about it, thank you very much.
So what do I do? I blog, that's what! I observe, comment and try to amuse. And my identity, Prof. Madder, gives me some semblance of sanity whenever I feel lonely and left out. So please keep reading my blog, gentle readers. Help to keep this lost ship close to port, where he can find some safe haven in a turbulent ocean of confused identities!
Thursday, 4 October 2007
Chemotherapy Diary #1: Cycle One
That feels much better!
It does one good to have a minor rantette every now and then. But I must come back down to earth, because my wife Annie had her first chemotherapy session on Wednesday (yesterday).
In Annie's case, the good news is that she only has to have four cycles (sessions) spaced three weeks apart, followed by radiation treatment. And it seems that her bone scan and blood work were normal, and that the cancer has not spread.
Now, you hear all sorts of horror stories about chemotherapy. Yes, it does make you sick as a parrot. Yes, it does suppress the appetite. Yes, it does make your hair fall out. Does it hurt? Not so far, according to Annie. The only pain she felt was the needle going into her vein to establish the intravenous feed for the drugs.
If any of you out there are anticipating with dread the possibility of chemotherapy, here is our story so far. I will update you every now and then, with pictures where possible. So yesterday, then, Annie went into the Oncology Department of the Sarawak General Hospital for her first chemo session.
After a blood test and an interview with the oncologist, she was issued with a little prescription that she took to the pharmacy counter, and was led into a small but pleasant room full of fellow-cancer patients, all sitting in comfortable chairs accompanied by their very own personal intravenous drip feeds hooked up to metal poles on wheels.
The windows had stained glass, like a church, and there were pictures on the walls, and air conditioning. The atmosphere was somewhere between a dentist's waiting room, an airport departure lounge and a ladies hairdressing salon, with patients constantly fussed over by a couple of nurses, who checked their charges before every now and then administering the drugs.
Chemotherapy is delivered to the patient intravenously, and it's usually an outpatient procedure, so you can go home the same day. Depending on how many doses you have, and how bad your prognosis, the process usually takes about two or three hours.
Annie made friends with a pretty little nurse who, it so happened, came from her home state of Sabah. Other patients chatted with her and reassured her that everything was OK. As you can see from the picture, the atmosphere was generally positive:
The chemotherapy drugs Annie has to take look somewhat fearsome, and come in several theatrically huge syringes, some the colour of water, and others just like cherryade:
But once these drugs were fed through to her system, she was able to get up and walk out, with a slight pins and needles feeling in her head and a raging thirst and desire to go to the toilet (luckily the ladies was right next door to the therapy room). Annie reported that when she went to the toilet, her urine was red - must have been all that cherryade!
Since coming home, Annie has been drinking water like a fish on amphetamines, and has to take some pills to reduce the effects of the drugs. She has vomited a couple of times, but otherwise she is just as chirpy and tough as she has always been! However, when I came home from work this evening, she told me that her hair was starting to fall out a little bit. Nine grey hairs were removed! This is an omen!!
I will keep you posted as soon as there is something to post about. In the meantime, you will be treated to the usual doses of banal drivel that I have been accustomed to trot out on this blog!!
It does one good to have a minor rantette every now and then. But I must come back down to earth, because my wife Annie had her first chemotherapy session on Wednesday (yesterday).
In Annie's case, the good news is that she only has to have four cycles (sessions) spaced three weeks apart, followed by radiation treatment. And it seems that her bone scan and blood work were normal, and that the cancer has not spread.
Now, you hear all sorts of horror stories about chemotherapy. Yes, it does make you sick as a parrot. Yes, it does suppress the appetite. Yes, it does make your hair fall out. Does it hurt? Not so far, according to Annie. The only pain she felt was the needle going into her vein to establish the intravenous feed for the drugs.
If any of you out there are anticipating with dread the possibility of chemotherapy, here is our story so far. I will update you every now and then, with pictures where possible. So yesterday, then, Annie went into the Oncology Department of the Sarawak General Hospital for her first chemo session.
After a blood test and an interview with the oncologist, she was issued with a little prescription that she took to the pharmacy counter, and was led into a small but pleasant room full of fellow-cancer patients, all sitting in comfortable chairs accompanied by their very own personal intravenous drip feeds hooked up to metal poles on wheels.
The windows had stained glass, like a church, and there were pictures on the walls, and air conditioning. The atmosphere was somewhere between a dentist's waiting room, an airport departure lounge and a ladies hairdressing salon, with patients constantly fussed over by a couple of nurses, who checked their charges before every now and then administering the drugs.
Chemotherapy is delivered to the patient intravenously, and it's usually an outpatient procedure, so you can go home the same day. Depending on how many doses you have, and how bad your prognosis, the process usually takes about two or three hours.
Annie made friends with a pretty little nurse who, it so happened, came from her home state of Sabah. Other patients chatted with her and reassured her that everything was OK. As you can see from the picture, the atmosphere was generally positive:
The chemotherapy drugs Annie has to take look somewhat fearsome, and come in several theatrically huge syringes, some the colour of water, and others just like cherryade:
But once these drugs were fed through to her system, she was able to get up and walk out, with a slight pins and needles feeling in her head and a raging thirst and desire to go to the toilet (luckily the ladies was right next door to the therapy room). Annie reported that when she went to the toilet, her urine was red - must have been all that cherryade!
Since coming home, Annie has been drinking water like a fish on amphetamines, and has to take some pills to reduce the effects of the drugs. She has vomited a couple of times, but otherwise she is just as chirpy and tough as she has always been! However, when I came home from work this evening, she told me that her hair was starting to fall out a little bit. Nine grey hairs were removed! This is an omen!!
I will keep you posted as soon as there is something to post about. In the meantime, you will be treated to the usual doses of banal drivel that I have been accustomed to trot out on this blog!!
Monday, 1 October 2007
And Lovin' It...
Now, I don't have a bad life, when all is said and done. Yet there comes a time, once in a while, when things just seem to stop being OK. And this is just what is happening at the moment.
They say that into each life a little rain must fall. Well, I'm getting a biblical shower right now. And my umbrella has holes in it.
Of course it all started back in June when my wife got breast cancer. She had her operation and got better and stronger, and she is now looking forward to a lovely dose of chemotherapy and radiation treatment that starts this week. It is normal for cancer patients to be given chemo, of course, even though Annie's case is relatively minor.
But naturally I couldn't help worrying for her, and that was probably why I ploughed into the back of a Toyota Hilux last month. That little episode, although it didn't cost me much financially, has made my life extremely inconvenient, as my car had to go to the workshop to have the dents undented.
And unlike in many other countries, the workshop doesn't give me a complimentary car so that I can carry on with my life and do my job like everyone else. Oh no. I have to use the wife's little ATOS which, for a big man of my size, is a bit like trying to drive one of those fairground dodgem cars except this one has a roof which my head keeps brushing against. Also, I have to push the driver's seat right back to accommodate my legs and stop them from developing deep vein thrombosis every time I get in the car!
And of course, because we are now temporarily a one car family again, this makes life hard for my niece, who needs to go to school every day, and it makes paying bills and going to the shops a logistical challenge. This makes me feel guilty and stupid for hitting that $%#@ing Toyota Hilux in the first place.
AND, to make matters even more exciting, the air conditioner in my office at work has died, plunging my office into stifling tropical heat. I find it hard to work or concentrate on anything because it's so hot. And I'm fasting of course, so there's no hope of water.
AND, my office computer hard disk went away for repairs the other say and when it came back after three days, I couldn't access the internet!
AND, the ATOS has developed a leaking fuel pipe and has required an air conditioner overhaul.
AND the tap in my bathroom at home is broken, and I need to change the strip light in the bathroom.
AND the air conditioner company haven't got any compressors in stock, so I will have to sweat and swelter in my office for another few days while my work piles up....
All I can say is, what could possibly go wrong next? An earthquake? A tsunami? An assassination attempt? Bring it on!!
The only light at the end of the tunnel is that my car will be ready on Thursday. I just hope that I can take my wife to hospital to have her chemotherapy.
God, I need my pills!! Where are my pills?!?!?
They say that into each life a little rain must fall. Well, I'm getting a biblical shower right now. And my umbrella has holes in it.
Of course it all started back in June when my wife got breast cancer. She had her operation and got better and stronger, and she is now looking forward to a lovely dose of chemotherapy and radiation treatment that starts this week. It is normal for cancer patients to be given chemo, of course, even though Annie's case is relatively minor.
But naturally I couldn't help worrying for her, and that was probably why I ploughed into the back of a Toyota Hilux last month. That little episode, although it didn't cost me much financially, has made my life extremely inconvenient, as my car had to go to the workshop to have the dents undented.
And unlike in many other countries, the workshop doesn't give me a complimentary car so that I can carry on with my life and do my job like everyone else. Oh no. I have to use the wife's little ATOS which, for a big man of my size, is a bit like trying to drive one of those fairground dodgem cars except this one has a roof which my head keeps brushing against. Also, I have to push the driver's seat right back to accommodate my legs and stop them from developing deep vein thrombosis every time I get in the car!
And of course, because we are now temporarily a one car family again, this makes life hard for my niece, who needs to go to school every day, and it makes paying bills and going to the shops a logistical challenge. This makes me feel guilty and stupid for hitting that $%#@ing Toyota Hilux in the first place.
AND, to make matters even more exciting, the air conditioner in my office at work has died, plunging my office into stifling tropical heat. I find it hard to work or concentrate on anything because it's so hot. And I'm fasting of course, so there's no hope of water.
AND, my office computer hard disk went away for repairs the other say and when it came back after three days, I couldn't access the internet!
AND, the ATOS has developed a leaking fuel pipe and has required an air conditioner overhaul.
AND the tap in my bathroom at home is broken, and I need to change the strip light in the bathroom.
AND the air conditioner company haven't got any compressors in stock, so I will have to sweat and swelter in my office for another few days while my work piles up....
All I can say is, what could possibly go wrong next? An earthquake? A tsunami? An assassination attempt? Bring it on!!
The only light at the end of the tunnel is that my car will be ready on Thursday. I just hope that I can take my wife to hospital to have her chemotherapy.
God, I need my pills!! Where are my pills?!?!?
Saturday, 29 September 2007
Steamy Night in Kuching
Wasn't my last posting depressing?! I thought so too, so I accepted an invitation last night to another Malaysian culinary institution, the steamboat restaurant.
My department was organising an evening out for our Language Club and Debate Club students at a little place called Heritage Garden Steamboat Restaurant. Now, for those of you who are not in any way knowledgeable about things Eastern, Steamboat restaurants are very common ways of enjoying the culinary bounties of nature here in Malaysia. The way it works is that you have a big table, usually round, with a gas burner in the middle and a large pot full of steaming hot soup on it.
Arranged around the sides of the pot are small griddles for frying bits of food on. You go and select as much fish, seafood, meat, raw veggies, fish balls etc. as you can fit on a plate, and, with the encouragement of your friends and family, as well as the help of chopsticks and large ladles, you proceed to cook your own delicious morsels! No need for snotty waiters who get your order wrong, and no need to wait for hours for your food! You simply prepare it right in front of you!
And here are some images to show you how it's done:
The Heritage Garden is situated in a cosy outdoor garden under a roof with lots of plants and wood carvings on display. There are plenty of tables and the atmosphere is smoky, steamy and steeped in food and jollity.
This being the tropics, the mosquitoes were also at the feast, so I suffered mercilessly from dozens of tormenting bites from these disgusting little pests. They really enjoyed my sweet, warm British blood. Well at least the UK is managing to export one thing to Malaysia!
But, even though I was being eaten alive, I stuffed myself silly - eating far too much including some ice cream! When will I ever learn? Probably when they cart me off to the cardiac unit I expect. Ah well...
One thing I did learn, though, is just what it means to say that Malaysians love food. Our party consisted of about 20 students as well as three of us lecturers. They were all joyfully placing bits of food on the grill plates and popping various morsels in the cooking pot and later taking them out, to devour them with loud conversation in high-speed Malay and English. And it all started again, once they finished.
Several of my students kept asking me if I had had enough - even though my stomach bag was about to burst! It seemed perfectly natural to them to take as much food as they could, without worrying about the consequences. And they are all SO thin!!
In the end, I had to make my excuses and leave this culinary revelry. I must say, it strengthened my faith in young Malaysians, who all seem to be born to enjoy themselves without doing silly things like getting drunk, puking up, shouting rude songs at each other or getting off with each other.
All the kind of things I used to do when I was their age! It's a good thing that the past is, definitely, a foreign country to which there is no visa!
My department was organising an evening out for our Language Club and Debate Club students at a little place called Heritage Garden Steamboat Restaurant. Now, for those of you who are not in any way knowledgeable about things Eastern, Steamboat restaurants are very common ways of enjoying the culinary bounties of nature here in Malaysia. The way it works is that you have a big table, usually round, with a gas burner in the middle and a large pot full of steaming hot soup on it.
Arranged around the sides of the pot are small griddles for frying bits of food on. You go and select as much fish, seafood, meat, raw veggies, fish balls etc. as you can fit on a plate, and, with the encouragement of your friends and family, as well as the help of chopsticks and large ladles, you proceed to cook your own delicious morsels! No need for snotty waiters who get your order wrong, and no need to wait for hours for your food! You simply prepare it right in front of you!
And here are some images to show you how it's done:
The Heritage Garden is situated in a cosy outdoor garden under a roof with lots of plants and wood carvings on display. There are plenty of tables and the atmosphere is smoky, steamy and steeped in food and jollity.
This being the tropics, the mosquitoes were also at the feast, so I suffered mercilessly from dozens of tormenting bites from these disgusting little pests. They really enjoyed my sweet, warm British blood. Well at least the UK is managing to export one thing to Malaysia!
But, even though I was being eaten alive, I stuffed myself silly - eating far too much including some ice cream! When will I ever learn? Probably when they cart me off to the cardiac unit I expect. Ah well...
One thing I did learn, though, is just what it means to say that Malaysians love food. Our party consisted of about 20 students as well as three of us lecturers. They were all joyfully placing bits of food on the grill plates and popping various morsels in the cooking pot and later taking them out, to devour them with loud conversation in high-speed Malay and English. And it all started again, once they finished.
Several of my students kept asking me if I had had enough - even though my stomach bag was about to burst! It seemed perfectly natural to them to take as much food as they could, without worrying about the consequences. And they are all SO thin!!
In the end, I had to make my excuses and leave this culinary revelry. I must say, it strengthened my faith in young Malaysians, who all seem to be born to enjoy themselves without doing silly things like getting drunk, puking up, shouting rude songs at each other or getting off with each other.
All the kind of things I used to do when I was their age! It's a good thing that the past is, definitely, a foreign country to which there is no visa!
Monday, 24 September 2007
The Dull Ache of Desperation
The past is like an old girlfriend who no longer wants to know you.
But how many of us remember this simple yet awful fact of life? How many of us desperately need to live in the past, dreaming about how things were, and fooling themselves into thinking they can re-live the good old days?
Ah, we are all of us prisoners of the past!
One of the ways this particular prisoner likes to torture himself is to visit the websites of all of the universities he studied at, just to see who is still there among the staff, and to see how much the happy places of his youth have changed. One regular site is that of my favourite alma mater, Lancaster University in the UK, where I did my PhD. Although I have four university degrees from four different institutions, I am particularly proud of Lancaster. I spent ten very happy years of my life, on and off, working and studying at that wonderful place of learning perched on a windswept hill in North West England, near the sea. It is the place where I made and lost some of the best friends of my life, and it is where I met my wife.
So I always like to look at the Lancaster University web site, especially the pages for my old department, just to see who is still teaching there and who is new. The photos on the pages for those old survivors who still teach in the Linguistics and Modern English Language Department are much older and greyer now of course, and many are now professors, or senior lecturers. Others have moved on, retired, or come in since I left there in 2000.
It always seems that I am the only one who has stayed the same, that is, until I look at myself in the mirror! But when I click on those web pages, I see the past, I step back into it for a while, and recall the places as I remember them, and it’s as if time never passed on…
Yet I know that if I were to step back onto Alexandra Square, in the middle of the Lancaster campus, right now, there would be hardly anyone who would recognize me. And I wonder if I would recognize the campus at all. I had a dream a couple of years ago. Somehow, I had teleported onto the Lancaster campus. It was night time, and the place was totally unfamiliar, crowded with young faces I didn’t know, and unfamiliar buildings rose humiliatingly on all sides. I tried to ask directions, but nobody understood what I was saying, and I could not form proper words in English. I was lost, in a place that was both familiar, yet totally alien. I no longer belonged there, my time had passed. Then I woke up in the present, my nostalgic dream a fast-fading memory.
You see, nostalgia is like an addictive drug. It hooks you, draws you in, makes you want to linger just one more time in the warm glow of the past. But eventually, it destroys you. Because you see, that old girlfriend you once adored and walked hand in hand with on the beaches of the good old days, she has moved on. She has changed, grown up, met someone else, married and had kids. You wouldn’t recognize her now, plump and weighed down with childbirth and mortgages, a harder set on her face, the odd line here and there and the inevitable graying hair.
So, for many of us, this need for the spurious comforts of the past is a particularly sad kind of desperation, a dull ache that never fades, and yet, there we go once again, clicking onto our past, kidding ourselves that we can go back to it once again.
I’ll close with the words of one of my favourite poems:
“Everything Changes. We plant trees for those born after. Poisons poured into the oceans can never be poured out again….”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)