Friday, June 3, 2011

Sue the Bastards - Pictures with Stories

Before being called to the Bar, I was a pupil-in-chambers to my Master who was the head of a labour and administrative law unit. This essentially meant litigation work, and I bought the little barrister above in those heady days of assisting my learned friends in court. But I guess ‘I am a lover, not a fighter’ as sang by Michael Jackson, and so I drifted to drafting and corporate work where I still persist to earn my daily bread. So now my principle is “How do we make sure we don’t have to sue the bastards and they don’t sue us?”. Of course the answer is - we can never make sure of that.

My girl Friday returned from an expedition to the Cameron Highlands bearing strawberries which I always love. But she also plonked in front of me a plate of what included (I thought) either a candy, cake or some weird dessert. It must be, because there is no earthly fruit that could possibly bear that tone of green. It looked like an experiment in a radiation lab with its impossibly bright fluorescent green. But no, she said, it was a fruit which the seller said was “Guava Apple”. It was so sweet I saw stars twinkling in front of my eyes as my sugar-level catapulted pass the stratosphere.

I bring Mika to my office once in a while. Sometimes he likes to try my chair and table on for size. I do not however expect my son to fill my shoes and be a solicitor. He can be a lawyer, a doctor, a tax man, a rock star, a farmer or goat breeder. So long as he does something (and it is not criminal), he is happy and doing his level best. Right now I am not sure what his talent is, although he is irritatingly competitive and very financially aware for a 7 year old. I guess that is good whatever he does in the future, whether he wants to run a fleet of taxi cabs or sell the best burger in the world.

I picked up a snooker cue for the first time after perhaps 15 years. As you know, the snooker table is bigger than a pool table. And sometimes in trying to make some awkward shots there is no running away from straddling the table with one leg over the side. So I did it, but I had just about enough flexibility to bring my foot back down to earth again (a really close call). And I don't remember being so appalled by the cigarette smoke in the snooker parlours. Well anyway, my game is still the same after all these years – somewhere below mediocre-beginner. As for my opponent, Heche hit quite a few balls into the pockets, and I am sure some of them were actually intentional. After just one game I took Heche out of the poisonous parlour, much to her relief ("I am way better at pool", she says, "So don't judge me."). I am not telling her but I intend to go back again. But next time I better do some stretching exercises first. So let’s keep this a secret between you, me and the 4 corners of your computer screen, okay?

Have a photogenic day, sunshine.

Pax Taufiqa.

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