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BUT SO WHAT IF I SIMPLY SHOOT?
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
You are driving a van full of passengers along a lonely road, where there is nobody else in sight. Suddenly, you knock into a motorcyclist from the rear. He is only slightly hurt, but his motorbike is wrecked, and he is hopping mad.
How will you dissolve this situation by asking only 3 questions? Think about it. It might come in handy one day.
As for me, these will be my 3 questions.
First question:
Is it your fault, or my fault?
Second question:
How many people do you have, and how many people do I have?
Third question:
Now, listen carefully again. Is it your fault, or my fault?
I’m a bloomin’ genius.
How will you dissolve this situation by asking only 3 questions? Think about it. It might come in handy one day.
As for me, these will be my 3 questions.
First question:
Is it your fault, or my fault?
Second question:
How many people do you have, and how many people do I have?
Third question:
Now, listen carefully again. Is it your fault, or my fault?
I’m a bloomin’ genius.
Monday, April 26, 2004
20 years ago I watched in awe
As my dad drove up the driveway
More than proud to have a brand new family car
30 miles to the gallon
Zero to 60, sometimes
I remember putting down the backseat
And lying on the hatchback
Looking at the sky, watching trees go by
I was the son of a preacher
And he was a rich, poor man
No AC, no FM
And no regrets
In my Chevette
The winter cracked the highway
And we tried to dodge the potholes
He never promised us it would be a gentle ride
He never had a problem though
Keeping it on the narrow road
--Audio Adrenaline--
White and unpolished, bird poo still on its door.
Holes on the sides of the roof, allowing a leak.
Both side mirrors are non-existent, instinct required when changing lanes or doing side parking. A fire extinguisher sticker slapped on the passenger side’s front view, obstructing vision.
Enjoys petrol like free dessert, drinks lots of water to keep cool.
Left back boor dented and unattended.
Accelerator gives engine a roar when stepped on. Who needs a modified exhaust when the original thing sounds louder than the modified one.
Car brake’s hydraulics fails from time to time. Tyres way past its peak of glory. They don’t screech they have to make a sudden stop. They slide to a halt.
Seatbelts don’t make a difference. Always left unbuckled, because they don’t really function anyway.
Loved by car thieves, who visited for three times already.
The radio sits pretty, even thieves don’t want it.
Old and battered, but it still gets me there.
And that’s not all. There’s more: Air cond works only on the right vent, and its shafts are always falling all over the place. Clutch has a similar feel to a bass drum stepper. Risky left window may fall right down and never come up again if carelessly wound. Boot rubber partially sticking out, looking like a tail or flappy rudder.
Unpolished, with some bird poo, like me. Not the best-looking hunk in the world.
Holes on the anterior, like me. Left unattended, evident because of neglect.
Blinded on both sides, like me. Can’t see nuts without aid.
Consumes carbon compounds, like me. Always consuming like it’s free.
Have taken a few knocks, like me. Some still unrepaired.
Loud exhaust, like me. Loud with rubbish, good and bad. Unabashed with criticism, sometimes funny, sometimes not. And proud of it, original and unmodified.
Hard to brake, like me. Once started, always hard to stop.
Unbridled by safety belts, like me. Goes for broke – to make it, or break it
Loved by thieves, like me. They can take anything from me, but one thing they can never touch – heart.
Radio sits pretty, like me. Can’t really dance, and can’t really sing.
Feels old and battered at times, like me. But still knows where it wants to go.
And that’s not all. There’s more. The unenviable, regardless to say, are known and obvious.
But despite all that…
A few still like to ride in my car.
As my dad drove up the driveway
More than proud to have a brand new family car
30 miles to the gallon
Zero to 60, sometimes
I remember putting down the backseat
And lying on the hatchback
Looking at the sky, watching trees go by
I was the son of a preacher
And he was a rich, poor man
No AC, no FM
And no regrets
In my Chevette
The winter cracked the highway
And we tried to dodge the potholes
He never promised us it would be a gentle ride
He never had a problem though
Keeping it on the narrow road
--Audio Adrenaline--
White and unpolished, bird poo still on its door.
Holes on the sides of the roof, allowing a leak.
Both side mirrors are non-existent, instinct required when changing lanes or doing side parking. A fire extinguisher sticker slapped on the passenger side’s front view, obstructing vision.
Enjoys petrol like free dessert, drinks lots of water to keep cool.
Left back boor dented and unattended.
Accelerator gives engine a roar when stepped on. Who needs a modified exhaust when the original thing sounds louder than the modified one.
Car brake’s hydraulics fails from time to time. Tyres way past its peak of glory. They don’t screech they have to make a sudden stop. They slide to a halt.
Seatbelts don’t make a difference. Always left unbuckled, because they don’t really function anyway.
Loved by car thieves, who visited for three times already.
The radio sits pretty, even thieves don’t want it.
Old and battered, but it still gets me there.
And that’s not all. There’s more: Air cond works only on the right vent, and its shafts are always falling all over the place. Clutch has a similar feel to a bass drum stepper. Risky left window may fall right down and never come up again if carelessly wound. Boot rubber partially sticking out, looking like a tail or flappy rudder.
Unpolished, with some bird poo, like me. Not the best-looking hunk in the world.
Holes on the anterior, like me. Left unattended, evident because of neglect.
Blinded on both sides, like me. Can’t see nuts without aid.
Consumes carbon compounds, like me. Always consuming like it’s free.
Have taken a few knocks, like me. Some still unrepaired.
Loud exhaust, like me. Loud with rubbish, good and bad. Unabashed with criticism, sometimes funny, sometimes not. And proud of it, original and unmodified.
Hard to brake, like me. Once started, always hard to stop.
Unbridled by safety belts, like me. Goes for broke – to make it, or break it
Loved by thieves, like me. They can take anything from me, but one thing they can never touch – heart.
Radio sits pretty, like me. Can’t really dance, and can’t really sing.
Feels old and battered at times, like me. But still knows where it wants to go.
And that’s not all. There’s more. The unenviable, regardless to say, are known and obvious.
But despite all that…
A few still like to ride in my car.
Saturday, April 24, 2004
Why I got rid of my locks. Based on a true story.
One day, I woke up and prepared myself to start my day. I checked myself in front of the mirror and told my right hand to perform its usual routine and comb my hair. So, my hand obediently programmed itself and reached for the comb. But just before my hand touched the comb, my eyes noticed a stubble growing on my chin. My eyes thought it would be best to shave first, then comb afterwards. But my hand was too indignant on its prior instructions, and it refused to give way. My eyes tried to convince my hand that it’s better to shave before I comb, because I usually leave right after my hair is combed, and I’ll probably forget to shave. However, my hand was impossible to reason with. My hand insisted on executing its combing motion because it was afraid of being accused of compromising its loyalty to its master. My straight-jacket hand muscles cannot and will not reprogram itself after a command was issued.
Nevertheless, the eyes tried to reason with the hand again. The eyes said that being clean-shaven makes one look more handsome, while having nicely combed hair makes one look smarter. So, the hand instantly concluded that obviously, since nicely combed hair would make the master look smarter, it would be more important to comb than to shave. This was because if the master wasn’t smart, at least by looking smart, it would get him somewhere.
But the eyes rebutted with simple logic. By looking smart, the master will attract abuse from old folks. Old folks somehow like to give chores to people who look smart. However, by looking handsome, the master can attract attention from young chicks. So why let old folks burden the master with donkey-jobs based on a presumption due to his “smart” looks, when his “handsome” looks can attract young chicks? But the hand argued that the master wasn’t a vainpot, and it started to sing the oldie “You’re So Vain”, causing great annoyance to the eyes. “Women are trouble anyway,” the hand retorted. Suddenly the mind interrupted and warned the hand not to pursue that issue any farther.
And so, in the heat of the conflict of interest between the hand and the eyes, things got complicated. The hand was still stubbornly bent on doing the combing movement no matter what, with or without the comb. Due to a miscommunication, the hand picked up the razor and started to execute its combing motion on the head.
Thank goodness the Common Sense Department kicked in soon enough. And it came right on time too, yelling out orders just before the razor made a touchdown on the scalp. The hand was ordered to drop its weapon and spread out its fingers immediately, face down. Then, it was ordered to pick up the comb instead and resume its combing process.
Subsequently, the eyes were harshly reprimanded for causing confusion, inciting domestic turmoil and internal unrest. A punishment was issued under the Internal Security Act, and it was swiftly carried out without a fair hearing with my parents. My eyes were sentenced to cease operations for the next 5 hours as punishment, without any negotiations.
Now the eyes had to undergo their punishment, although it was against my will to have them closed. Reluctant as I was, I went back to sleep with nicely combed hair.
And so you see, I was completely honest when I cited “personal reasons” for my unexplained absence. Since that episode, I decided that sporting short hair would be a better way to go. Keep things short and simple.
One day, I woke up and prepared myself to start my day. I checked myself in front of the mirror and told my right hand to perform its usual routine and comb my hair. So, my hand obediently programmed itself and reached for the comb. But just before my hand touched the comb, my eyes noticed a stubble growing on my chin. My eyes thought it would be best to shave first, then comb afterwards. But my hand was too indignant on its prior instructions, and it refused to give way. My eyes tried to convince my hand that it’s better to shave before I comb, because I usually leave right after my hair is combed, and I’ll probably forget to shave. However, my hand was impossible to reason with. My hand insisted on executing its combing motion because it was afraid of being accused of compromising its loyalty to its master. My straight-jacket hand muscles cannot and will not reprogram itself after a command was issued.
Nevertheless, the eyes tried to reason with the hand again. The eyes said that being clean-shaven makes one look more handsome, while having nicely combed hair makes one look smarter. So, the hand instantly concluded that obviously, since nicely combed hair would make the master look smarter, it would be more important to comb than to shave. This was because if the master wasn’t smart, at least by looking smart, it would get him somewhere.
But the eyes rebutted with simple logic. By looking smart, the master will attract abuse from old folks. Old folks somehow like to give chores to people who look smart. However, by looking handsome, the master can attract attention from young chicks. So why let old folks burden the master with donkey-jobs based on a presumption due to his “smart” looks, when his “handsome” looks can attract young chicks? But the hand argued that the master wasn’t a vainpot, and it started to sing the oldie “You’re So Vain”, causing great annoyance to the eyes. “Women are trouble anyway,” the hand retorted. Suddenly the mind interrupted and warned the hand not to pursue that issue any farther.
And so, in the heat of the conflict of interest between the hand and the eyes, things got complicated. The hand was still stubbornly bent on doing the combing movement no matter what, with or without the comb. Due to a miscommunication, the hand picked up the razor and started to execute its combing motion on the head.
Thank goodness the Common Sense Department kicked in soon enough. And it came right on time too, yelling out orders just before the razor made a touchdown on the scalp. The hand was ordered to drop its weapon and spread out its fingers immediately, face down. Then, it was ordered to pick up the comb instead and resume its combing process.
Subsequently, the eyes were harshly reprimanded for causing confusion, inciting domestic turmoil and internal unrest. A punishment was issued under the Internal Security Act, and it was swiftly carried out without a fair hearing with my parents. My eyes were sentenced to cease operations for the next 5 hours as punishment, without any negotiations.
Now the eyes had to undergo their punishment, although it was against my will to have them closed. Reluctant as I was, I went back to sleep with nicely combed hair.
And so you see, I was completely honest when I cited “personal reasons” for my unexplained absence. Since that episode, I decided that sporting short hair would be a better way to go. Keep things short and simple.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Dear Swifty,
I knew you were mine the moment I saw you. Sitting there on top of the boxes, flanked by all the other models, looking shiny and golden. My eyes had no interest in anyone else. You were the only one left, and you fitted me perfectly. I was about to make you mine, but I hesitated and was afraid you would be too classy for me. But apparently, you showed great consideration for my financial status. All the more, it confirmed that we were meant to be.
You bring me great joy before the big day arrives. When I taper myself, you make me feel exactly what I want to feel. Quick and light, fast and swift. You give me confidence that no one else can. You bring me to places that I cannot reach on my own. You make me feel strong and powerful.
I’m sorry we had to miss our debut 3 months ago. It was my fault, my silly mistake. But now I’ve come back, and I still want to go the distance with you. My left calf feels a little tight, and my right ankle is a doubtful starter. That makes me need you even more now.
It is 2 days away from our debut appearance. People will probably stare at you on that day. But who can blame them, for you are attractive to the eye. All the more, it makes me proud to know that you are mine.
No matter what happens on that day, for better or worse, you will still be mine. I will never get rid of you. I promise I will not do what Linford Christie did, who threw her away when she disappointed him.
We still have a lot ahead of us. We still have many journeys to endure,
and many dreams to hope for. And I cannot think of any other way but to do it together with you.
We have a dream that was left unfulfilled. And I still want to see it come to pass as much as you do. But we’ll have to wait until next year. We will make the decathlon, no matter what.
I knew you were mine the moment I saw you. Sitting there on top of the boxes, flanked by all the other models, looking shiny and golden. My eyes had no interest in anyone else. You were the only one left, and you fitted me perfectly. I was about to make you mine, but I hesitated and was afraid you would be too classy for me. But apparently, you showed great consideration for my financial status. All the more, it confirmed that we were meant to be.
You bring me great joy before the big day arrives. When I taper myself, you make me feel exactly what I want to feel. Quick and light, fast and swift. You give me confidence that no one else can. You bring me to places that I cannot reach on my own. You make me feel strong and powerful.
I’m sorry we had to miss our debut 3 months ago. It was my fault, my silly mistake. But now I’ve come back, and I still want to go the distance with you. My left calf feels a little tight, and my right ankle is a doubtful starter. That makes me need you even more now.
It is 2 days away from our debut appearance. People will probably stare at you on that day. But who can blame them, for you are attractive to the eye. All the more, it makes me proud to know that you are mine.
No matter what happens on that day, for better or worse, you will still be mine. I will never get rid of you. I promise I will not do what Linford Christie did, who threw her away when she disappointed him.
We still have a lot ahead of us. We still have many journeys to endure,
and many dreams to hope for. And I cannot think of any other way but to do it together with you.
We have a dream that was left unfulfilled. And I still want to see it come to pass as much as you do. But we’ll have to wait until next year. We will make the decathlon, no matter what.
Wednesday, April 21, 2004
Car got a flat tyre. 3 more tyres to go, and I might just get a new car.
Thought about calling the mechanic, but it may be redundant to call for help if there is a spare tyre, car jack and spanner in the boot. So I checked, and true enough, they’re all there. Blast.
For pride and glory, I got down and dirty. Half the time, I was worried the car jack may not hold, or that it was not jacked on correctly, and the car will come tumbling down. And for the other half of the time, I was unsure if my spare tyre actually had air in it, or if it’s a flat tyre that has been left there and forgotten. Then my efforts will be in vain!
Sweat dripping off my face, resisting the temptation to grunt and groan while trying to do it in style, because you may not know if the neighbours are watching, feeling the tar road on my knees, wondering how the tar road will feel against a car thief’s face. Persistence paid off! Tyre reinstalled. I am reaffirmed. Me…. MALE! Me… MAN!
Thought about calling the mechanic, but it may be redundant to call for help if there is a spare tyre, car jack and spanner in the boot. So I checked, and true enough, they’re all there. Blast.
For pride and glory, I got down and dirty. Half the time, I was worried the car jack may not hold, or that it was not jacked on correctly, and the car will come tumbling down. And for the other half of the time, I was unsure if my spare tyre actually had air in it, or if it’s a flat tyre that has been left there and forgotten. Then my efforts will be in vain!
Sweat dripping off my face, resisting the temptation to grunt and groan while trying to do it in style, because you may not know if the neighbours are watching, feeling the tar road on my knees, wondering how the tar road will feel against a car thief’s face. Persistence paid off! Tyre reinstalled. I am reaffirmed. Me…. MALE! Me… MAN!
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
WHAT THIEVES HAVE DONE TO ME
Case 1:
Broke into my car in Prangin Mall. Took my mega-pencilbox, along my faithful calculator. He lacked brains, because he also took my magnetic clip-on shades, specifically designed for my glasses only. He’s got to attach rubber-bands on it if he intends to use it. His lack of brains was further confirmed because he tried to jump start the car, but to no avail. And he forgot to lock the door after his job. Bodoh.
Case 2:
Broke into my car during Penang Bridge Run. All traces of elation vanished upon discovering the disappearance of my wallet with a few hundred bucks inside, and my handphone. This fellow was a bit smarter than his predecessor. He locked the door back. The wallet, void of its cash, but documents intact, was later found dumped at a petrol station. Well-trained in the ethics of theft.
Case 3:
Broke into my car during the Bavarian Brass Band concert. Took my friend’s bag, containing only some clothes and some toiletries. This one also bodoh, because he may as well have taken my Mojaves. But no… and he also left the door not properly closed.
WHAT I WILL DO TO A THIEF
Case 1: Thief caught in the act, attempting to break into my car.
I will come up behind the thief, open the door for him, grab his hand, put it inside the car, and slam the door shut, jamming his wrist in the door. While he writhes in pain over his fractured wrist, I’d take out his wallet, and run away with it. He’ll probably try to get it back from me, but he’ll have to chase me first. And he’ll have to do it without swinging one hand. I’ll let him chase me, and I’ll run to the nearest police station. When he’s near enough to the police station, I’ll let him catch me, and give him back his wallet. Then, I’ll grab him by the broken wrist and hand him over to the cops. His own feet have brought himself to the cops.
This will be how the story goes: He was caught red-handed, breaking into my car. His hand is maimed because he tried to attack my rock-solid body. Being a gentleman, I ran away because I didn’t want to commit any form of physical assault. But he persisted on inflicting some damage, maybe a few scratches, for his own satisfaction. So, as I tried to evade uncivilized combat, I figured it best to run to the nearest police station. And voila here we are!
Case 2: Thief caught in the act, breaking into another person’s car.
I will come up behind him, give him a hard punch on the bottom of his ribcage from the side. His last rib will probably be broken. Then, I will grab his arms from behind, lock his elbows together so he can’t struggle, and force him down on the floor. Then, I’ll push his face to the tar road, and rub his face against road with my left hand, while my right hand is still locking his arms together. When I’m satisfied that his mother cannot recognize him anymore, I’ll turn him around and give him a few hard blows in the abs. By now, he probably can’t stand straight or breathe properly with a pummeled tummy and a broken rib. Then I will tenderly take him by the hand and lead him to the nearest police station.
This will be how the story goes: He was caught breaking into somebody’s car. The owner caught him, and battered him badly. Then, the owner drove off with his car, leaving him lying pitifully on the floor. Shocked and filled with compassion, I picked him up and led him to the nearest police station so he can lodge a police report. When he starts to accuse me of beating him up, I’ll tell the policeman that the poor guy took too many hard knocks on his face, that he is going into shock, trauma and amnesia. Then I’ll do the cops a favour by calling up the mental institution so the police won’t have to deal with a psycho with a bleeding face.
Case 3: No thief ever caught in the act in anyone’s car.
When I have enough money in my bank, I will set up an Anti Car Theft Syndicate. Anyone who is interested to uphold the law and protect the innocent from car thieves can play a part to make the community a better and safer place to live in. Out of the generosity of its founder, school drop-outs and triads are welcome to become a legally paid employee and will be given a chance to be a service to society. Only 1 year of training required. Training will include physical training, martial arts, and the art of deception. Trainees will receive a retractable dagger upon their graduation, courtesy of ASDCP (Association Of Self Defense And Crime Prevention).
Let this be a warning to all car thieves. Woe befall you if you bump into Joshua, son of Jacob in person. He will maim and deceive, for his own namesake. The sons of Jacob will not be consumed!
Case 1:
Broke into my car in Prangin Mall. Took my mega-pencilbox, along my faithful calculator. He lacked brains, because he also took my magnetic clip-on shades, specifically designed for my glasses only. He’s got to attach rubber-bands on it if he intends to use it. His lack of brains was further confirmed because he tried to jump start the car, but to no avail. And he forgot to lock the door after his job. Bodoh.
Case 2:
Broke into my car during Penang Bridge Run. All traces of elation vanished upon discovering the disappearance of my wallet with a few hundred bucks inside, and my handphone. This fellow was a bit smarter than his predecessor. He locked the door back. The wallet, void of its cash, but documents intact, was later found dumped at a petrol station. Well-trained in the ethics of theft.
Case 3:
Broke into my car during the Bavarian Brass Band concert. Took my friend’s bag, containing only some clothes and some toiletries. This one also bodoh, because he may as well have taken my Mojaves. But no… and he also left the door not properly closed.
WHAT I WILL DO TO A THIEF
Case 1: Thief caught in the act, attempting to break into my car.
I will come up behind the thief, open the door for him, grab his hand, put it inside the car, and slam the door shut, jamming his wrist in the door. While he writhes in pain over his fractured wrist, I’d take out his wallet, and run away with it. He’ll probably try to get it back from me, but he’ll have to chase me first. And he’ll have to do it without swinging one hand. I’ll let him chase me, and I’ll run to the nearest police station. When he’s near enough to the police station, I’ll let him catch me, and give him back his wallet. Then, I’ll grab him by the broken wrist and hand him over to the cops. His own feet have brought himself to the cops.
This will be how the story goes: He was caught red-handed, breaking into my car. His hand is maimed because he tried to attack my rock-solid body. Being a gentleman, I ran away because I didn’t want to commit any form of physical assault. But he persisted on inflicting some damage, maybe a few scratches, for his own satisfaction. So, as I tried to evade uncivilized combat, I figured it best to run to the nearest police station. And voila here we are!
Case 2: Thief caught in the act, breaking into another person’s car.
I will come up behind him, give him a hard punch on the bottom of his ribcage from the side. His last rib will probably be broken. Then, I will grab his arms from behind, lock his elbows together so he can’t struggle, and force him down on the floor. Then, I’ll push his face to the tar road, and rub his face against road with my left hand, while my right hand is still locking his arms together. When I’m satisfied that his mother cannot recognize him anymore, I’ll turn him around and give him a few hard blows in the abs. By now, he probably can’t stand straight or breathe properly with a pummeled tummy and a broken rib. Then I will tenderly take him by the hand and lead him to the nearest police station.
This will be how the story goes: He was caught breaking into somebody’s car. The owner caught him, and battered him badly. Then, the owner drove off with his car, leaving him lying pitifully on the floor. Shocked and filled with compassion, I picked him up and led him to the nearest police station so he can lodge a police report. When he starts to accuse me of beating him up, I’ll tell the policeman that the poor guy took too many hard knocks on his face, that he is going into shock, trauma and amnesia. Then I’ll do the cops a favour by calling up the mental institution so the police won’t have to deal with a psycho with a bleeding face.
Case 3: No thief ever caught in the act in anyone’s car.
When I have enough money in my bank, I will set up an Anti Car Theft Syndicate. Anyone who is interested to uphold the law and protect the innocent from car thieves can play a part to make the community a better and safer place to live in. Out of the generosity of its founder, school drop-outs and triads are welcome to become a legally paid employee and will be given a chance to be a service to society. Only 1 year of training required. Training will include physical training, martial arts, and the art of deception. Trainees will receive a retractable dagger upon their graduation, courtesy of ASDCP (Association Of Self Defense And Crime Prevention).
Let this be a warning to all car thieves. Woe befall you if you bump into Joshua, son of Jacob in person. He will maim and deceive, for his own namesake. The sons of Jacob will not be consumed!
It's only 5am, and dem mozzies woke me up. Can't get back to sleep, and I felt like I have to write something.
I am nobody important, neither am I anybody great. And I don’t think I will ever be. But there is something I always call myself to be. I am a Free.
I will always remember my days as a Free. I used to be a house captain, and I fought for my house like it was my own country. My house captain’s jacket is a prized possession that brings back pleasant memories. I was a former Section Leader for the Board Of Wardens, and a former President for the Sixth Form Society and the Swimming Club.
I was proud to be a Free, and I still am. Whenever I pass by the school, I will tell the passengers in my car that this is the school from which I came from, from which my character was partially moulded. Some people have lost faith in my school, saying that the Frees has lost its former glory. Some say that it is no longer what it used to be during its good ol’ days. But I choose to believe there is hope.
The month of April always brings excitement to my bones. It always reminds me of the festivities of the PFS Sports Day. Although I am no longer a student, my sentiments for the school is always rekindled during this season when I am reminded of how I had spent a big part of my schooling life in the field. And I find great pleasure just to train in the same field for the Old Boys’ Race. It feels great to be in the school again, to meet the current Frees, and to see my teachers. It is also a privilege to teach there whenever I can.
However, yesterday, I saw the Headmaster speaking to the security guard pesonally. I was disappointed to discover that I was asked to leave the school vicinity by the security guard under his specific orders. I understand his concerns for the safety and security of the school. And I also understand that he is trying to be impartial towards all foreigners, be it strangers or Old Frees alike. Well, maybe he has no time for sentimental fools. But I can't help but feel disappointment for being asked to physically leave the school just because I am no longer a student under the school’s register, because Free School has never been foreign to me.
Some people say that I may have “letting go issues”. It may be true, because I do love the school. And I feel sad that I am no longer welcome within the school compound. Not many people may share my same sentiment, but I am sure that there is a remnant that still chooses to believe.
I am nobody important, neither am I anybody great. And I don’t think I will ever be. But there is something I always call myself to be. I am a Free.
I will always remember my days as a Free. I used to be a house captain, and I fought for my house like it was my own country. My house captain’s jacket is a prized possession that brings back pleasant memories. I was a former Section Leader for the Board Of Wardens, and a former President for the Sixth Form Society and the Swimming Club.
I was proud to be a Free, and I still am. Whenever I pass by the school, I will tell the passengers in my car that this is the school from which I came from, from which my character was partially moulded. Some people have lost faith in my school, saying that the Frees has lost its former glory. Some say that it is no longer what it used to be during its good ol’ days. But I choose to believe there is hope.
The month of April always brings excitement to my bones. It always reminds me of the festivities of the PFS Sports Day. Although I am no longer a student, my sentiments for the school is always rekindled during this season when I am reminded of how I had spent a big part of my schooling life in the field. And I find great pleasure just to train in the same field for the Old Boys’ Race. It feels great to be in the school again, to meet the current Frees, and to see my teachers. It is also a privilege to teach there whenever I can.
However, yesterday, I saw the Headmaster speaking to the security guard pesonally. I was disappointed to discover that I was asked to leave the school vicinity by the security guard under his specific orders. I understand his concerns for the safety and security of the school. And I also understand that he is trying to be impartial towards all foreigners, be it strangers or Old Frees alike. Well, maybe he has no time for sentimental fools. But I can't help but feel disappointment for being asked to physically leave the school just because I am no longer a student under the school’s register, because Free School has never been foreign to me.
Some people say that I may have “letting go issues”. It may be true, because I do love the school. And I feel sad that I am no longer welcome within the school compound. Not many people may share my same sentiment, but I am sure that there is a remnant that still chooses to believe.
