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Taxi! in Life in General
16 Apr 2012 | 24 Comments

I really do not like catching taxis but once a week it becomes a necessity for grocery shopping. The route from our condo in Marina Bay to Great World City is straight-forward with just five corners to turn off main roads and it should cost less than SG$7 (AU$5). However, taxi drivers here in Singapore tend to think, when picking up an Ang Mo, that you’re a tourist and don’t know where you’re going so if I should make the mistake of picking up my iPhone, before I notice it, I’ll be on the scenic route in the opposite direction. And I must remain alert the entire journey, as just when I think it is safe to look away, I’ll find myself somewhere that begs incredulity. Needless to say, this simple weekly task which takes a mere 10-15 minutes causes me angst in anticipation, and I had to ask myself why; and why I can’t instead enjoy the journey on the detour as apparently that is a sign of a truly happy person.

Firstly, I believe it’s a question of time. Time is the most valuable commodity we have; once it is spent, it can’t be recovered. For every weekday, I segment the working hours into units and allocate these precisely to ensure I achieve everything that needs to be done that day (sad, obsessive, yet true and a sign of conflicting priorities). So a detour in a taxi can make a mess of my schedule, not to mention it is scenery I’ve seen plenty of times when I intended to see it.

Secondly, I don’t like to be ripped-off. No one likes to be taken for a ride (pardon the pun) so when it happens, it is an affront to ego—someone has assumed we’re too stupid to know better. I don’t like to think I have an ego but obviously I do because an incident in Morocco in 2010 still haunts me when it really shouldn’t. As is often the case with tours, we were taken to a local spice shop in Tangier and I ended up paying significantly more than I should have even though we’re only talking about $40. Still, it annoys me that I didn’t question it even though I knew it was not right and was strangely silent (must have been the spices). Again, I have to ask myself why this would bother me so much since it is not a significant sum—it must be a question of ego, and that’s disturbing; the presence of ego means an absence of humility.

How do you react when ripped-off? Do you think it’s a question of ego or something else?

Regards
Leigh

Leigh K. Cunningham on Facebook and Twitter.

The trouble with Leigh is... in Life in General
13 Dec 2011 | 24 Comments

My name, Leigh, means meadow, which is a curious meaning to apply to a person although I do like the outdoors. Leigh and Lee are the same and traditionally, Leigh was for boys and Lee was for girls, but that does not seem to apply anymore, and obviously, I have the boy's spelling and I am not.

I have never thought much about my name—it’s not an unusual name, and it is recognizable in the west, but in Singapore, it presents some problems. The locals have no idea how to pronounce ‘Leigh’ and I am usually called Leg, Lay or Layjj, and other interesting creations. My solution to this problem was to switch to the other spelling of my name, Lee, which I figured would be easy for the locals as Lee is a common Chinese surname. This however, was a mistake.

In Asia, a person’s surname appears first so when I switched to Lee Cunningham, it was assumed that Lee was my surname and Cunningham was my first name. Asians also tend to have two first names, for example, Kong Weng or Wei Peng so my ‘first’ name(s) became Cunning Ham. I was therefore welcomed or introduced as “Cunning” or “Ham” for example, “Good morning, Cunning,” or “Hello, Ham”. At one place, I devoted considerable time patiently and clearly (with perfect diction) explaining that Cunning was not my name; my name was Lee, but the next time I visited, I was once again welcomed as Cunning.

I have reluctantly reverted to Leigh and now accept whatever pronunciation it inspires with a silent D’oh!

Back when I was employable and working as an executive, people would call and ask to speak to “Mr Cunningham”. My secretary delighted in never correcting the caller so when I answered the phone with “Leigh Cunningham speaking,” they would again ask for “Mr Cunningham”. When I repeated that I was Leigh Cunningham, this was often greeted with silence then “You’re a girl,” to which I would think, 'well thanks for letting me know.'

My middle name is Kayrene, a name my mother created by combining her nickname and my aunt’s name ie Kay (officially Catherine) plus Irene = Kayrene.

I have several nicknames. My childhood name, still used by Steve, family and friends, is Leighzie. Steve has several other nicknames for me, but mostly he calls me Leo, which originates from The Paul Hogan Show. Leo Wanker was an inept daredevil stuntman (see Leo in action), and I have no idea how Leo the stuntman became associated with my good self—you would have to ask Steve regarding the commonalities he obviously sees.

Steve also calls me Baldrick or Balders for short. This originates from a British sitcom series, Blackadder, starring Rowan Atkinson as Blackadder and Tony Robinson as his dogsbody, Baldrick. Since I am now a fulltime writer, and unemployable :), Baldrick/Balders reflects my current station in life. I don't believe there are any other similarities between myself and the 'real' Baldrick, although we do make Cappuccinos the same way.

Basically though, given the aborted efforts at my real first name, I will answer to just about anything.

Do you have a problem name? Do you blame your parents?

Regards
Leigh

Leigh K. Cunningham on Facebook and Twitter.

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It's easy to remember in Life in General
31 Oct 2011 | 20 Comments

Last weekend I settled with Steve on the sofa to watch the Malaysian Moto GP. Two laps in, a crash took the life of 24-year-old Marco Simoncelli and as I watched his lifeless body on the bitumen, my mind of its own accord saw my brother, Paul, laying on a coasty road in the early hours of March 1979. I was sixteen at the time and have carried with me certain ‘facts’ of the accident. For example, I recall hearing that Paul had died on impact when a steel rail pieced his chest. Since he died on impact, I reasonably concluded that he passed from this life alone, and of course, that fills me with sadness even now, 30+ years on. But a Medium I met with recently gave me different information after ‘connecting’ with Paul. Paul had shown her injuries to his stomach, and he had ‘said’ there were people with him on the roadside before he died, or perhaps they were with his body after he died, I’m not entirely sure. All the same, he remembers them. Obviously I do not know the truth and never will and it is possible that the policemen who knocked on our door at 2am that morning told my mother he had died instantly to save her that additional pain.

Paul, Paulie or Paulo as we called him, was just past his eighteenth birthday when the tire on his motorbike blew out, he lost control and died. His motorbike was a birthday present from my mother. She was reluctant but typically, anything we wanted, she would find a way to make it happen—I don’t know how. I went with her that Saturday morning to inspect the prospective bike at a house in Dean Street—I cannot drive past it without this memory—and I’ve never been able to shed the thought that if she had not bought that bike that day, it would have been someone else’s son and brother who died, not ours. I presumed the tire was faulty but that might not have been the case. All the same, I blamed them for the longest while.

I’ve always been a light sleeper, so I was the one to hear the knock on the door that morning. I called out, “Who is it?” and the answer came, “It’s the police.” I replied, “I don’t believe you,” and was told, “Open the door.” It was an order and I obeyed. I called out to mum and as soon as she saw the policemen standing in our living room, she knew, and collapsed on the couch. Marko (my younger brother) and I stood there not knowing what to do or how to feel, as mum rocked back and forth frenetically like an autistic child, screaming and crying. A neighbor arrived to take control and Marko and I set off, arms around each other, to walk the length of our street in the dark. There were no tears or words and it seemed fitting that the rain should fall as it did—softly as if it was being gentle with us. The glow from each street light was like a misty shroud and I looked in each expecting to see Paul saying goodbye. A goodbye would have been nice, and perhaps an apology for leaving as he did: “I’m sorry for the pain and misery that is to come from this moment, for lives that will be destroyed, relationships that will disintegrate, and for those who will never recover. I’m sorry that for some, the darkness of this morning will never pass.”

And so the darkness of that morning returned last weekend and all I could think of was the pain the Simoncelli family were about to endure.

Regards
Leigh

Leigh K. Cunningham on Facebook and Twitter.

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Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

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What did you marry? in Life in General
29 Sep 2011 | 20 Comments

Well that’s the Singapore Grand Prix for another year, capped off perfectly this year with Linkin Park at the Padang. And living at Marina Bay now makes it all so much easier to get to and from the track—it is effectively in our front yard.

People tend to be surprised that I follow motor racing and not just Formula 1 for ‘the event’ but the sport itself—I know the teams and I know the drivers although not personally :) I also follow Moto GP (motor bikes) and used to follow the Touring Cars when we lived in Australia. But fast cars and motor racing were not interests of mine growing up, and no one in our household—my father, mother or three brothers—had even the slightest interest in cars. In fact, I disliked everything about cars, especially since we lived across the road from a house with a Speedway car. Weekends were disturbed by the sound of revving engines and the smell of burning fuel and I used to wish it would stop. I was also glad that the underneath of our house was not similarly cluttered with the black greasy mess of a mechanics lair. On the occasions I went to the Speedway with my neighborhood friend, Sheryn, to watch her father race, I found the experience unpleasant and actually felt sorry for her that this was her childhood. Today it is a completely different story, but this is what comes from committing totally to a marriage, in my opinion. If you want to enjoy a long, happy life of togetherness, then it’s helpful (in most cases) if you share interests.

When it comes to sport generally, and football codes in particular, we watch most of it (AFL, Rugby League, Soccer and Rugby Union). I don’t go off on my own when Steve is watching sport on TV—we watch and enjoy it together. The only exception to this would be sailing, which I enjoy watching on TV (there’s so much strategy involved) but do not enjoy ‘doing’. The storyline in RAIN (Chapter 51) where Carl enrolls in sailing courses to support Ethan with his love for sailing is pretty much based on reality … although I did not manage to complete the first course I enrolled in, or even return for the second session of the first course since someone vomited on Day 1.

On the other side of the coin, one of my primary interests is interior decorating, and although I only get to do this every five years or so, Steve always contributes whether it is helping me choose between options, driving me all over the countryside looking for a particular piece for a particular spot, or shopping until 10pm every night. And although it is only every five years, it does take a lot of time and energy—with trial and error, the pursuit of the right piece at the right price, or that elusive combination—over several weeks or months until the last item is placed, and he never does not usually complain when I always go over budget.

We’re also fortunate that we like the same music. Linkin Park is a band that Steve followed when they first began; subsequently I do too. Similarly, I introduced Steve to my favorite band, LIVE (now without Ed and effectively defunct for me) and he has attended every concert with me over the years. Apart from Rage Against the Machine (Steve) and my secret enjoyment of Engelbert Humperdinck (don’t tell anyone), our music tastes are pretty much identical.

We’ve been happily married 28 years now (anniversary 17 September) and I think the success of our marriage has a lot to do with sharing interests (with mutual respect being #1 in my view). I also think it has a lot to do with being different in ways you need to be different, and the same in ways you need to be the same, for example, we have different temperaments, but the same values and we're both neat and tidy. This is a theme that runs through my next novel, BEING ANTI-SOCIAL, and here’s a brief extract from the story’s narrator, Mace Evans:

“A part of the problem with Adam and Sophie is that they are alike in the ways they need to be different and different in ways they need to be alike: tidy cannot live in harmony with messy; non-smoker with smoker; athlete cannot live with slob; opera cannot live with Metallica; equestrian cannot live with motor sports; and trades people who like to fill their garages with carpentry, car engines or metal work cannot expect to live in harmony with obsessive compulsive order freaks like myself. Then there are the essential differences: two tempers cannot live together; two attention-seekers cannot live together, two handbrakes cannot live together nor can two accelerators. There must be one of each, and clearly, two lawyers cannot live together for Sophie and Adam are evidence of that."

When we marry, we don't just marry the person, we marry interests and hobbies, and of course, we marry a family, but that's perhaps a whole other blog :)

Regards
Leigh

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Words of wisdom in Life in General
11 Aug 2011 | 18 Comments

Back in 1995, Steve (husband) and I were strolling down High Street, Prahran (Melbourne) when we came across a book stall on the footpath out front of a bookstore. Now, as many of you would know, you can often find some real gems on these bargain tables (I'm saying this to save face when I find my own books on one) as was the case in 1995. I picked up a rather antique-looking book titled, The Marriage Book and for $5 thought it would be an important addition to my collection and perhaps it would even guide me through the vagaries of married life.

It didn't have a publication date but I made some inquiries of a book historian and antique bookseller and was able to establish a release date some time in the early 1950s.

Out of curiosity, rather than a desire to become a better wife, I flicked through the pages to instantly find valuable insights which also confirmed what I've been doing wrong these past 28 years. I'd like to share a few of these with you so they can similarly improve your existence.

Chapter 1, Happiness in Marriage: "Somewhere, when the promise of marriage ends in disappointment, there has been blundering." You can't argue with that. And, "Your husband does not need to hear about the difficulties of your day when he returns home from the office. Be showered and groomed and ready to greet him with a smile." This is definitely one I have failed to practice.

In the Chapter, The Problems of the Growing Child in the paragraph, Good Manners I learned that: "When a small son or daughter takes the opportunity on a rather important social occasion to throw his manners to the winds and to behave like a little hooligan, it is only natural for his mother to feel somewhat humiliated." This is comforting I'm sure for mothers throughout the ages.

There's more important advice on children in the section, Mud Pies: "It is natural when formal visitors call, to feel a little ruffled if a muddy, disheveled object bursts into the drawing room looking like nothing on earth. Perhaps we should prefer not to listen to any attempts to uphold the rights of mud but children revel in it. They are intensely happy stubbing their toes in it, splashing it around and handling it. Mud is nature's free gift to our children for instilling confidence." I had no idea mud could do this.

In the Chapter, Getting to Know Ourselves, it seems, "Men usually have a far better idea of their sex organs than women of theirs." I'm pretty sure I know where they're going with this.

If you've read my novel, RAIN, you might recall that I refer to The Marriage Book in Chapter 10 (1967) and I assure you that I referenced exactly the advice offered in the book. Michael and Helena have just moved into their new home in Orchard Road (yes, named after the famous street in Singapore) and Helena reverts to The Marriage Book to assist with her argument that Michael should not smoke in the house:

"An additional issue arose with regard to cigarettes, which drew nicotine into Michael’s lungs and precious sums out of the domestic purse. They were responsible for the stained tongue and groove walls at Park Lane, which were now tinted orange with no evidence of the military green beneath. To protect the fibro and furniture at Orchard Road from similar mistreatment, Helena had outlawed smoking in the house. In support of her argument she had reverted to The Marriage Book, which had merely reported that although for grown-ups smoking had undoubted advantages, there was an almost unanimous medical opinion against smoking for children. There was no mention of any alleged pernicious effect on chattels, and Michael retorted that he had no plans to share his Marlboros with William, and so the case closed in his favor. It was not however, a closing of all arguments related to money, which would settle on the marriage like nicotine on timber."

So, if you're looking for guidance on any number of important subjects including common questions of married life, well-kept floors, how to explain to a child 'where did I come from' using an egg and a nest, the definitive list of items you must have in your kitchen, dishes for invalids (husbands), dressmaking precautions (don't do it) or household management and accounts (remember to pay the fish monger on time), or any other meaningful topic, please do not hesitate to ask and I will be happy to 'advise' you directly from The Marriage Book.

Regards
Leigh

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