Last Sunday we shopped in the Forest Hill Chase shopping centre, partly to look for kiddo’s stuff for a “show and tell” session in school. As we were about to leave, we walked past a Tatts Lotto outlet and saw a poster with the bright red ball with “22” written on it. Theresa and I looked at each other and said, “Yeah – why not?” It was a “powerball” draw (whatever that means) and it is to take place today

Today’s the draw. 22 big ones. It’s only the second time we have bought a lottery ticket. It is more a fun, raffles sort of thing. There’s a sense of excitement which clever advertising has obviously and successfully created.

I was just dreaming about it (the advertising catchphrase was “ticket to dream”) and thought about what I’d do if we actually win 22 million bucks. Would I quit my job? I guess so, but what would I do? I guess most of us work because we have to. So if you suddenly have 22 million dollars, you’d start thinking about stuff you really want to do.

Yet as I thought about it, would I make any sense if I said I don’t want the trap of freedom from routine? If I say routine liberates me, that having to wake up every morning (especially on a Monday) to go to work on time and put in the required hours, that these obligations liberate me, would I make any sense?

Imagine having to do nothing everyday. Wouldn’t that be a trap that emasculates instead or is it a liberating act which empowers? I know, I know, true freedom comes from wanting to do something, and doing something because one wants to, not have to. But what if you have no conviction of any kind and you only do what you want to do for some epicurean indulgence? I mean if I have nothing to do, even if that means I don’t have to do anything, what would I choose to do?

I could choose, because I now acknowledge the role God has in our lives, to preach the gospel or serve in the church in some full-time capacity. But that is a calling, not a volunteer’s first port of call. I must fit into His purpose and He must see it fit to use me, for which I believe some preparation is essential (before the calling comes). What do I do then? Charity work? But I have no heart in that one. Travel? Not without my family, and my daughter cannot grow up an idiot just because I now have 22 million dollars – she has to go to school. Employ a private tutor? No, I want her to learn like everyone else, to get along, to overcome bullies, to have homework, music lessons and all the other worries of a typical high school student. So if she has to go to school, how can Theresa and I travel? We have to wait for her school holidays.

What WOULD I do? I think I’d still go to work. Yes, wake up early every morning and go to work. So I guess the 22 million dollars wont change very much of what I do day-to-day.

Speaking of waking up, isn’t it about time for daylight savings? This delaying of daylight savings because of Commonwealth Games business is annoying. Isn’t it bad enough we have roads closed all over the city, we now have to live with pitched dark mornings because of some third rate Games? The Commonwealth Games is third rate, is it not? Especially now that Ian Thorpe would not be swimming and Paula Radcliff would not be running? Who else isn’t coming? I wonder if Asafa Powell now regrets showing up. He must be thinking he’s not in the “happening” party.

I can imagine the Sydney-siders sneering at us Mexicans now. They had the 2000 Olympics and we have the Commonwealth Games. They have the Oscars and we have some Malam Anugerah something – that’s the comparison, I guess.

Someone told me yesterday, that the Malaysian contingent had their boxes of Maggi Mee confiscated. I guess no one told them about the Australian quarantine rules. And no one told them you can get Maggi Mee pretty much anywhere in Melbourne where Coles or Safeway is, which is pretty much anywhere in Melbourne! But why Maggi Mee. I often wonder why self professed food lovers like Malaysians stick to our diet so much.

I recall being in Rome once with Theresa and her father. We missed Chinese food so much (read: rice and three dishes, preferably all cooked with varying degrees of dashing the soy sauce) we walked for over an hour all over the cobbled streets of Rome, looking for Chinese restaurants when the rich Italian cafes and cuisines are begging for sampling.

Thus when I found myself alone walking the streets of the La Ramblas in Barcelona, I happily sampled the tapas, paella’s and sangrias. They were wonderful. Even the oily battered deep-fried prawn cutlets of some smoky English pubs are to be preferred, when on a holiday.

Perhaps when I get my hands on 22 million dollars, I’d take my Theresa, her parents, my parents and of course kiddo, and go somewhere exotic like Burkina Faso, then pay some Chinamen to whip up our rice and 3 dishes. That would be truly liberating, wouldn’t it?

 

Kiddo has another one of those show-and-tell sessions coming up this Friday. It is to be on a book she read. She has chosen Tolkien’s Hobbit. The props include a sword, a treasure box, and a key. We went shopping last weekend but what do you know – these aren’t everyday shopping items! So we asked around and got a toy sword from Justine (a Hooi’s son), and she put together some jewellery and coins to make up the treasure. I got tasked with making a sword. I don’t have a hammer, don’t have a furnace and certainly don’t have the muscles to whack a piece of metal to shape a sword. So I got a piece of cardboard. It is the one Vicroads used to wrap our new number plates in. After doing a few sketches of how the key should look and got kiddo to agree (it has to look ancient), I drew a shape of the key on the cardboard, cut it out and wrapped the thing in foil. It looked passable for a large key, large enough and looked close enough to one of those to unlock medieval castle dungeons. I thought the job was done but last night she reminded me of the finishing bit – I had to print runes on the key! Those elvan letters which Tolkien dreamt up (and he didn’t do pot) somehow must end up on a foil finished cardboard key, and I’m Mr Smith! Schools in Melbourne can be fun you see, and not just for the kids either!

I guess that has been one of the highlights of our move here – the involvement with our kid’s school work and their lives generally. We have talked so much more, every morning at breakfast, and then again before we left home, when we’d say a quick prayer together. We talked again when we got home from work, when we do the cooking. We’d talk some more during dinner, and we’d talk again as we unwind for the day and watch some tv.

Often it takes effort. We’d be tired both in the morning as well as at night but we make ourselves talk to kiddo, listen to her (and make her talk slower) and try and understand what her day has been. When we make the effort however, it is often good. The talk itself can also be painful, as when we work out some problems, but we are communicating and that’s something we did a lot less in Malaysia. I guess we were just too occupied with too many activities when we were there.

This is the second day of the second week I have had to struggle to fill up my time sheet. That is the bane of professional practice. The time sheet has been many lawyers’ most hated piece of office stationery since legal practice became sufficiently institutionalised to warrant a tracking of how lawyers spend their time in the course of a workday. Of course Mr W Gates has taken the time sheet from the top of our desk and put it on our desktop (or in my previous firm in KL, on the laptop/notebook) but that only meant an empty time sheet can be seen not just by the idle lawyer but also by his employer, and at the same time!

As a law clerk gaining accreditation credits, I can only do work which is given to me. I cannot actively solicit work from sources outside the firm. Even if I can, as a new migrant, that is a serious obstacle. I know very few people in Melbourne, certainly very few who can be sources of legal work.

The formula is simple. Give me more files with substantive work and you will see a well buffed time sheet! I have been telling the boss I need more work but it is almost like being asked to make bricks without straw. No, the boss is far from Ramses number whatever as the evil Pharaoh – he’s actually very ambivalent for a law firm principal, frequent “outbursts” notwithstanding. But I hate empty time sheets as well. I want to see mine filled. But I can’t weave magic. I need straws. I have been doing a steady stream of simple property transfers, accident claims, traffic summonses and other equally exciting stuff like these which don’t make strong bricks. A couple of substantive commercial litigation matters have run into a lull period.

This issue is a recurring one and would never ever go away. That was a reason why I have always veered towards in-house work, even when I was able to source my own work and fill those wretched sheets. I cannot stand being dictated by those columns and rows every single hour of my working week. I cannot go on working this system with 100% conviction that I am doing the best thing with my life. I abhor charging 6 minutes for 1 minutes’ work. I abhor measuring my productivity and usefulness in 6-minute blocks for the entire day. I hate it when people dread calling me on the telephone because they can hear the stop watch clicking “start” when they do, and they hurry telephone conversations along as the ticking of the stop watch gets ever louder and rip ever bigger holes in their pockets. I have noticed friendly clients stop calling me after they get their first bill, when they realised these telephone conversations with me, which they had enjoyed, cost them a fortune. It is almost like dialling one of those commercial call-in services. Sort of puts a twist of being called the world’s second oldest profession.

Having said all that, I guess I will soldier on, cop the lean weeks, and let the boss decide what he must. I have come to trust God for my needs and I trust He will provide. He will either help me fill my time sheets, or let me contribute in some other ways here, or find me somewhere else to do work in. While I will do what I can to avert dire situations, I know no matter what I do and how hard I try, I can only truly succeed if I trust in God completely. That success can come in or out of a law firm, or in or out of an in-house legal department, or in or out of a business venture. It is all up to Him to lead. I will pursue what I think I must but I acknowledge His sovereignty.

 

Someone I know is somewhere outside London now, trying to lay the foundation for a better future. He’s a Malaysian Chinese just like me. He has just relayed to me his thoughts and concerns about how this future will unfold. I feel his anxiety, I know it. What is it about Malaysia which drives its people away, to rebuild something which has taken years to successfully create, in Malaysia? What makes Malaysians give up and throw everything away to rebuild elsewhere?

I was recently reminded, that I once got into an argument with someone over a parking lot. It was in Klang, just a couple of minutes drive away from my old house in Berkeley. I was probably 1/10^th of the distance closer to the empty parking space compared to my counterpart. I signalled and turned into the lot before I even noticed him. He thought he saw it first and after I parked, he muttered something unpleasant. I looked at him, shook my head and walked away. He turned louder and abusive. I turned back, walked towards him, looked at him and said, “Sorry brudder, there are no bumi quotas for parking spaces”. I then walked away, not at all expecting him to do anything. He looked like one of the newly rich bumis who think he gets first bite at everything. He was in a posh luxury car, had what I thought were designer sun glasses and yeah, generally very off-putting.

My point? I don’t know if given the current rate of development in Malaysia, there would soon be introduced bumi quota for parking spaces. Or places for overseas education even. I don’t know. I often think these mongrels are capable of the most stupid and unfair policies, as decades of policies have proven. Yes, it is painful but I guess Malaysians who are tired of fighting stupid battles like these will go, perhaps to save their future generations from such strives.

He won Best Director for Brokeback Mountain, but Brokeback Mountain did not win Best Picture – went to a movie called “Crash” instead. I guess Hollywood not prepared to give a gay picture Best Film Oscar yet.

 

Another disappointment for Aussie fans – Heath Ledger (also Brokeback Mountain) didn’t win Best Actor.

 

Elysia should be pleased  – Wallace and Gromit (which she watched when in Malaysia, apparently) won for Best Animated Feature Film.

 

Ok, now I have a ready list of movies to watch for the rest of the year…

My brother in Malaysia wrote me an email yesterday, just generally updating and chatting. I think it was the Shah Alam floods last weekend which made him write. He lives there, but not in the affected areas.

He has been affected, for some time now, in a different way and has been looking for a house elsewhere.

It’s the smallest thing but I guess it’s important to them (he and his wife).

You see, they have 2 dogs. Pesky little things but I feel so only because I have always been one for bigger dogs. They have two Pomeranians and though they are lovable, the darting around and constant yelping is not my idea of how dogs should behave.

Anyway, it seems somehow dogs and Shah Alam are a bad mix these days. Neighbours don’t like it, it seems. Because of the overwhelming number of dog averse residents, no more keeping of dogs allowed for intermediate units (houses in the middle of a block, with both sides each sharing a common wall). End or corner units may have dogs but only with the neighbour’s permission.

I guess the majority is flexing its muscles. I guess it is also a reflection of the times. Tolerance is no longer fashionable. If your neighbour is different, get rid of him. Want to live amongst us? You better be like us.

But does making you more like us make you less yourself? Don’t I lose out if you are less yourself and more like me? I’m not God – why would I want you to be more like me?

How much like me do you have to be, or how much less of you need you be, before I accept you? What is the problem with me accepting you, dogs and all, or burkha and all? I guess the answer is a lot more complicated than many would like to think.

But in the mean time, a decent normal Malaysian has to move (after living in that house for 7 years) because his neighbours don’t like dogs, but he and his wife do.