Stingy

I leave for Africa tomorrow and have no time to prepare.

Things I haven't done:

• packed clothes - I don't own any warm clothes any more and haven't bought any
• arranged visas - I think I'll be fine
• looked into currency - I do hope they accept Indonesian Rupiah over there
• worried about health - vaccinations
• organised decent good insurance - this morning bought the first one that a Google search returned but I need to check if it's real or not I think it's Danish
• packed my bags - in any way shape or form
• printed out my flights and/or itinerary and/or
• done my washing
• left instructions for my maid

Things I have done:

• bought fake tan (blacking up for Africa, as it were ...)
• bought 3 pith helmets to blend in with the other pseudo colonialists
• bought Malaria pills. "Surely they have malaria in Indonesia," I thought to myself, followed by "and surely they won't ask me for a prescription".

Today while I was waiting for my take-away lunch I popped in to the chemist to buy malaria tablets. They didn't really understand what I needed but malaria is a common word. Before long, she (she with the green cross on her lapel) returned with a package that had a diagram of a mosquito on it. Good enough for me.

The instructions are in Indonesian but with Green's help we figured out that I must take 1 tablet today, then 1 every week "on this day".

The price for this medication came to 40 cents. That didn't exactly fill me with a sense of confidence in the drugs, or in Green's advice.

The mosquito image is compelling though.

I took my first pill whilst still in the chemist and they seemed alarmed that I didn't use water. It's now a few hours later I can feel a wave of something which has overcome me. I don't think it's a sense of protection. Or relief. Maybe it's just some old fashioned poisoning.

Idul Fitri

So today is called Idul Fitri, when the fasting is over and the fun begins.

I asked my boss what he and his family will be doing today and nearly fell asleep during the answer.

So get this: their today will have started this morning in his home town at 6am, or more correctly ... 6AM!!??!!.

The family will go through a whole bunch of bending and praying and apologising. Before now I had only ever heard this combination of verbs used for describing an old trolls in gay saunas, the who came out of the closet in his late 50's.

By 8.30am he and his immediate family will have completed over 2 hours of praying.

Clearly this is "little f" fun.

Next up, they will retire to some room and apologise to each other for any wrongdoings over the past year. To an outsider it all sounds very tedious and boring ... while probably good for your soul ... much like meditation. Or volunteering.

Today in Jakarta all the stores are shut and alcohol sales are almost non-existent. It's like Good Friday. Or "No-Good Friday", as I prefer to call it. Even Jesus would have to accept admit it wasn't one of his better days.

Unfortunately, some of us still have to work and I arrived at a deserted office tower this morning. The emptiness was unexpected and eerie. Tumbleweeds wouldn't have been out of place, like stumbling upon a deserted funpark during a road trip to Kansas.

I climbed over a boom gate (commando style), had my bag loosely checked by a security guard, had my hand shaken by a second, smiling security guard and was eventually led into an empty building by someone in jeans. I caught the lift up to my floor and tried swiping my card to gain access to the office. Nothing. I could see my desk through the glass door.

I didn't know what to do. On one hand, I needed to work. On the other, I couldn't get to my desk. It was just like Sophie's choice, albeit with lower personal consequences (or maybe similar consequences ... I mean ... Sophie was certainly quick about it all).

I eventually took the lift back down and slinked away from the office tower in reverse ... although this time I shook everyone's hand as I departed before finding myself on an empty street, hoping for a cab.

I called my team and told them not to bother turning up and to work from their home or hotel.

The cab dropped me at the Shangri La hotel - where I knew there was free wifi, comfortable lounge seating and decent coffee for the very attractive price of $6/cup.

I spent most of the day thinking about Allah and alcohol. Not necessarily in that order.

When I'm With Her I'm Confused

Fasting is a very misleading word because it actually makes you go slower. A lot slower.

I don't know who invented the word but it was probably those same bastards who put an "s" in "lisp" and placed all those "t"s and "r"s in "stutterer". Lispers and stutterers can't tell you what's wrong with them.

Being hungry also makes you forget meetings, miss deadlines and run late for things. F

I've been doing my own fasting during this period. For example, at lunch time I eat my rice extra slowly, hidden creatively under things like chicken, or a fork. I hardly notice myself consuming it, to the point where I now think smugly to myself "Oh, I don't eat carbs any more." Praise Allah.

In August hunger is the most popular excuse for tardiness, knocking traffic and sick children off the top spots.

The fasting month finishes tomorrow. It be briefly replaced by food, fireworks and a few public holidays.

For the past week the office has been slowing down to a grind. It feels much like Chrismas, albeit a hungrier version. Imagine Christmas at an under-funded soup kitchen and you get idea.

People also are starting to look happier and more relaxed, which is quite a challenge in Indonesia because those boxes are ticked anyway. Gifts are being given. If people weren't so weak there would probably be light dancing.

Everyone except Maria. She came up to my desk earlier and asked if there was any work I needed her to do over the holidays, that she hated holidays. I asked her why.

Maria: "... because i have nothing to do at home ... so if you ask me to go to work ... to do something ... it will be very good ... please Mr Anthony"

-- "What do you mean?"

Maria: "Just that I have nothing to do at home. I rather stay in office.Aat home my mum will ask you to do things like cooking and other things. cleaning things and doing things. so if you just say I have to work then I will work. So is there anything you need?"

-- "No ... but anyway you should have a holiday?

Maria: "No because I have to do the helping. I would rather typing or create a meeting id."

The interesting thing about all this is that when Maria is here, there is scant evidence of such enthusiasm and industry. I do my own typing and create my own meeting id's.

I won't get a holiday this year but am looking forward to some huge differences for a few days. They say there wlil be enough space on the roads to play backgammon. That's what they say.

And tonight we can expect all manner of rabble-rousing. This afternoon Maria warned me to leave the office early, just in case. I received the following chat message:

Maria: "hi, just want to inform you that near 6pm the street going to be crazy"

-- "thanks for the warning. i'll leave later then. maybe about 7.30."

Maria: "well, it's going to be crazy around here till night"

-- "why?"

Maria: "they want to have "takbiran" in the center of jakarta. so the streeet will be full of persons and cars"

-- "what is takbiran?"

Maria: "takbiran means "praise the lord" so they will 'scream' said 'Allahuakbbar" along the street"

-- "i'll look forward to it."

Maria: "yes so i must leave now OK so i don't get trapped here"

-- "ok. i wouldn't want to be responsible for trapping you here. have a good holiday."

Maria: "yes but tell me if you need help ok?"

-- "yes yes ... but no. be nice to your mother."

Maria: "is you mocking me?"

-- "no. i'm serious. be nice to your mother."

Maria: "hahahaha. bye"

Considering that Maria didn't even want any holidays, she seemed pretty eager to get it started.

Here's the thing: the longer I spend with Maria, the more she makes sense. Hers is a very slow, creepy brand of Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe it comes from one of those Stockholm suburbs where the lazy Swedes live, like Malmo. Or Bondi.

Big Bunny - The Eviction

Brunch, Ritz Carlton Jakarta

Sunday, 5 September 2010

We arrive at the front gate and our taxi is stopped by the security checkpoint. 

Thin men in dark blue uniforms inspect the car. Under the bonnet, in the boot, up the exhaust and even using mirrors on long sticks to hunt around the bottom – playing out their sexual fantasies in metaphor while circumventing Indonesia's strict anti-pornography laws.

A German shepherd pokes his head into the back seat and gives me a little sniff.

´Nothing to see here, Rex´ I assure him and reach for a pat. He ignores my hand and I withdraw it with a ´Fuck you too, Rex´ in a cowardly mumble.

We pass through yet more security at the front door and I mumble ´too little, too late´ so quietly that even I can hardly hear it.

We walk inside and are greeted by the restaurant hostess. She is nicely dressed in a well-tailored jacket and crisply-pleated skirt. Her hair is neatly pulled back and she resembles an ad on a billboard.

To her left is someone in a large white bunny suit. It's a little late for Easter but I still look around for eggs because in Indonesia all religions are ripe for a local interpretation.

The bunny suit is threadbare but clean; the result of a lifetime of being tossed into the washing machine by careless laundry ladies. Maybe the Ritz laundry is like a scene from Prisoner Cell Block H, where several bunny suits are imprisoned in muted lighting and occasionally molested by the prison lesbian hegemony. Washing machines hum in the background and a Ritz logo is on full display (product placement).

The suit is baggy around the arse and seems uncomfortable to wear, giving Bunny the vibe of an infant whose lazy parents have forced him to keep wearing diapers long past a dignified age. 'Just go in your nappy!' they hiss at his teary face before turning back to hunt for discounted diapers in aisle 7.

The Ritz hostess steps forward to show us to our table. As we pass Bunny I give him a sympathetic nod and I notice a slight flinch under his malting shoulders. Waves of hostility emanate from the suit.

We sit down to an enormous buffet of unlimited food and booze.

About an hour later I notice Bunny wandering aimlessly around the restaurant tables. Most of them are empty due to Ramadhan fasting. He appears disoriented and I assume he is very hot in that suit. Or hungry. Or drunk.

As the meal progresses, a second, furrier animal arrives on the scene. I suggest we call him ´Bunny 2´ but my brunch companions insist that he is a lion cub so we settle on ´Gladys´. Our lengthy argument (bunny vs cub) is a sure sign that we've already drunk too much; or not enough. Gladys seems less hostile than Bunny. Maybe she is more drunk, or more sober.

One of the tables which is hosting a children's birthday and a cake arrives. Singing starts. Bunny and Gladys reluctantly veer towards the relevant table and, on arrival, make no effort to engage with or entertain anyone. They seem to be happier to stumble around the edges and bump into chairs, startling the occasional child.

It all feels like a cheap version of Disneyland, where cost cutting has reduced the quality of costumes and reduced training.

Gladys makes a break from the kids and approaches our table.

I start to film her and the waiter decides that enough is enough and the last 2 seconds are priceless.

Bagian favorit saya adalah 2 detik terakhir ...

A Large Audible Sigh Of Relief

... is what I just breathed.

Over this.

I think this proves that God is not a complete fuckwit. As earlier suspected.

The Bowtie

Exciting news.

Last night I found out further information - first hand - about the Brazillian bowtie.

Firstly you are shown to a cubicle where you are greeted by a stripperella (their term). Said stripperella gets down to the business of waxing with all the efficiency and charm of a ... err ... stripperella.

This involves some general chit chat along the lines of "I haven't seen your friend Sarah here for a while?" and "Oooh - it's been a while yeah?". References to jungles are not uncommon. Each sentence from the stripperella is usually followed by a swish, a ripping sound and a muted gasp. Ergo her questions remain largely unanswered.

Once the waxing is complete, the bowtie cross-sell kicks in. When Stripperella has completed her task, you are discarded on the bench - the skin is raw and tender, with pores exposed. This is when she makes her final move. As it was being explained to me, metaphors like "prey" and "Serengeti" popped into my head.

As you lay there in a mild state of shock, Stripperella suggests that you may like a temporary tattoo of a bowtie to mark out the ground she's just cleared. Clearly, nothing would please you more.

But How Do You Make Her Stay? And Listen To All You Say?

Friday Prayer (followed by lunch) is an important weekly event. The Prayer and the Lunch support each other in some sort of symbiotic time wasting relationship. The two are inseparable, which is why I call itPrayerFollowedByLunch.

I have already learnt not to schedule meetings during this period. I have also learnt not to rely on Maria for anything on a Friday afternoon. She may not be Muslim but she certainly avails herself of Islam's benefits.

If I need to do anything at this time I make sure it's not with locals. I have blocked time out from my calendar every week to ensure that I don't forget.

In other news ...

This month we have had a lot of people in the office, visiting from different countries. Most of them are working with me and they don't always have access to book our local meeting rooms or conference calls. I asked Maria to help certain people. Then over the last couple of weeks she expanded this catchment area. Maria is even offering her booking service to many of the self-sufficient local people as well; I don't know why.

For some reason Maria makes all these bookings under my name. She has access to my calendar so has decided to use it liberally. This means that *I* receive emails from people all around the world, asking if I can reschedule this or that call or giving reasons why they will or won't attend or asking me what the meeting is about and why they are invited. You gotta hand it to Maria ... ask her for a favour and the punishment is both swift and creative.

I've asked Maria to stop booking them under my name - to user her own name and and on whose behalf. This means that any questions will be emailed to Maria and not me. She promises she will do that, then seems to put the phone down and return to my calendar for more bookings.

Last Friday there was also a problem with my calendar and things were disappearing. Maria had booked a big meeting under my name but many people didn't receive the invitation.

I knew nothing of this until someone who sits nearby me said: "Hey Anthony - are you running the Friday prayer from now on?"\

To provde that this was my calendar's fault, and not hers, Maria sent a screenshot of my calendar to everyone in the group. For reasons of privacy Maria decided to block out details of my remaining meetings, except for one.

This is what she sent to a large group of people that I mostly did not know:

It came with an explanation which read "As you can see from Mr Anthony's calender, this meeting does not appear anywhere".

Of all the things to leave unblocked, why keep the one that makes me look ridiculous? The only think I can be sure of is that this was not deliberate.

I wrote her the following email:

Maria

Please don't send my calendar to people without my permission.

If I want people to have access, I will give it to them.

Thanks

Anthony

I didn't get a response but later we crossed paths in the lift area. She was leaving work for the day and (for whatever reason) dragging a large wheelie bag behind her. I greeted her as we walked past:

A: "Good night Maria. Have a nice weekend."

She turned around, stopped, smiled and said

M: "Mr Anthony your calendar has a problem."

A: "Yes I know. But please don't send copies of my calendar to people."

M: "But then if saying they didn't receive the invitation so I wanting to show them it isn't even in your calendar even when it was before so then the calendar is wrong and they don't think it's another thing."

I felt the swish of bullets as they whistled past my ears.

A: "Next time just tell them there is a problem ... no need for evidence. This is not a court room."

She nodded, quite satisfied with this. At the same time one of the other secretaries walked passed with a friendy "Maria! What is this bag? Where are you going? Somewhere?"

Maria's reply was a curt "Nowhere. Bye"

And with that she waved a perfunctory farewell to the Chairman of Fridayprayerfollowedbylunch, swivelled around on a heel and rattled off towards the exit.

I believe that she was going nowhere. I think the bag is what she uses to haul her sly grog.

Todo Sobre Mi Concha

Indonesia is known as a conservative country.

For one, it's full of Muslims. And Muslims cover their women in sheets. And all that other stuff. Right?

At my gym, the men change very discretely under towels. It sometimes feels like a girl's boarding school from the 1950's, including the leering from the sluttier ones and occasional covert behaviour in the shower room. (I'm not sure what the latter ritual involves, but it's best described as "peeking through the curtains".)

Bloody men, eh?

Last June a local popstar had his laptop stolen from his home and various (consensual) videos of his sexploits were leaked onto the internet. He is now charged under anti-pornography legislation ... supersized by some adultery charges. This could mean 10 years gaol, also known as a decade of non-consensual sex sans video recorders.

One of women in said videos was his girlfriend, a local soap opera star. She must have used all her acting skills to deny this: she claimed it this was a remarkable likeness and has been left alone.

So it's fair to assume that Indonesians are very coy about all that stuff. Right?

Wrong.

Some time ago I posted an entry about a local beauty parlour, which has some inventive ways of markeing its core values. This is their latest offering, just in time for Ramadhan.

I don't know about you, but this gives me a disturbing (and perplexing) visual.

What could this bowtie be made from? (Pubic hair? Henna? Silk?) Exactly where is it positioned? And why? Is it just for formal occasions? Why does the cat have a mohawk?

Call me a traditionalist, but regardless of its origin I believe the bowtie would go perfectly with a pack of Double Long Shock Sea Horse condoms.

There is obviously a whole stack of cunt references here, but I just don't understand them. Stay tuned. Or help me.

She Has Curlers In Her Hair - I Even Heard Her Singing In The Abbey

The office Social Club recently launched a competition, with entries to be posted on their Facebook group.

I have no idea what this competition is for, but Maria has submitted a video entry.

She is dressed as a famous Indonesian pop star, with hair in flowing ringlets which are moving in the breeze. The breeze is being created by a small fan operated by one of her crew. Maria is heavily made up and lip-synching to the pop star's latest hit.

This video also features 2 of Maria's colleagues, playing characters from the pop star's real life: her current boyfriend and his ex-wife. Apparently, before getting with Maria's character, he caught his wife cheating on him and this eventually lead to their divorce.

The boyfriend is played by a small, thin man from level 18. I think he works in the Security office. His ex-wife works on our floor, in Finance. The only other character to appear is the person holding the fan, who inadvertently wanders into frame a couple of times.

About 3/4 of the way through the video, while mouthing some very gentle and loving lyrics, the ex-wife walks slowly behind Maria and the boyfriend. Even though Maria's back is to this woman, she reaches back and gives her a wallop to the head without even needing to look. Further proof of her Jedi skills.

In other news ... today I also received an email from our finance auditor, asking why my receipts have still not been sent to them after repeated requests. Clearly Maria has not been spending enough time at her desk. This has created an increasingly bad outcome for me. However, after seeing this video I'm pleased to know that her time is not being wasted. My financial well-being is a sacrifice I'm prepared to make, for the greater good.

Goddess Of Love

Ramadhan is on. This means that 90% of this country is fasting. They eat at about 4.15am, starve themselves all day, then gorge again at nightfall. Add a bit of vomit in the toilet and you could be at a private girl's school.

Ramadhan is a time of reflection for many. The night before it started, I received about 5 group messages which said "Mohon Maaf Lahir Batin", which translates into a fairly longwinded "Sorry from the bottom of my heart for my wrongdoings, physical or spiritual, deliberate or not, in the past year". So much easier than confession, which might explain why I even got one from a Catholic.

Many businesses make small adjustments. The gym closes earlier. Bars blacken out the windows (or hang shower curtains) so that people can't see their cheersing heathens from the street. Nightclubs don't advertise - or even hold - any special parties. And as I found out last week, some restaurants start serving beer in coffee cups.

"Could we have two Bintang beers please?"

During the day, when fasting is in full swing, I see some of my Muslim colleagues buying food. They claim that they're buying it for Ron but I'm quite sure they sneak a few nibbles for Now.

I spotted a very overweight colleague in the lift last week. People's weight is openly - non-judgementally - discussed. I asked if he was fasting and he said that yes, he was.

Me: "So what time today do you break your fasting? 6pm isn't it?"

-- [rubs his stomach and smiles] "5:55! Have you seen my stomach? 5 minutes is a long time!"

There is a nearby restaurant called Aphrodite (singular), which is strange because there are quite a few scattered around the space. The Aphrodites are quite nude and tittastic ... except during Ramadhan when they clad and covered all the way up to the Hijab.

"Thanks for leaving my handjob hand free ... after all, a girl's gotta eat."

There are some really nice things about Ramadhan, like allowing the slowness and physical weakness to help you calmly reflect on life - often while avoiding work. Also the ritual of breaking fast with friends and colleagues. And the changes in traffic patterns (or more accurately, traffic jam patterns).

Catch A Nanny By The Toe

Nannies came up in conversation again this morning. Surprise surprise.

This time I got some fresh insights into the beggar story. Lia claims that she can sometimes tell it's not the beggar's baby. It's in the way it's being handled. Or occasionally the baby is too pale and chubby to cut it as a beggar.

And yes, most nannies are definitely unhappy with their kids. And their lot. And the kids on their lot. And the lot.

Me: "Apart from rentals, are there any other nanny related scandals that have become well known in Indonesia?"

L: "Actually its quite common to give the kids pills."

-- "Pills? Which pills?" [notice the pique]

L: "To calm them down."

--"Like what pills? Valium? Xanax?"

L: "Probably cheap ones. Like the fakes."

-- "How do they get caught? How do the parents find out?"

L: "Well maybe the kids are slow and not themselves."

-- "But how do they know what it is?"

L: "They see the kids are not normal."

-- "Yeah - but what about the proof? How do they work out that it's pills and not some other problem?"

L: "Well they just know it I think."

-- "But do they ask the nanny? Do they go through her bag? Do they find the pills?"

L: "Probably sometimes. Yes they might ask her."

-- "And would she admit it?"

L: "Of course not. Never."

-- "So where is the evidence? Do they ever get evidence? "

L: "Probably not. They just know it."

Indonesian received wisdom is the best - unsubstantiated, yet incontrovertible.

Toddler starts looking tired for a few days and next thing you know the nanny up on doping charges.

Wonder if she gets an apology after the leukaemia diagnosis? Or when they realise it was from tight shoes.

I still believe they drug the kids, mind. If they have the guts to rent babies to beggars, a few pills in the arvo to quell the whining wouldn't even qualify for nanny training wheels.

And as for why the nannies themselves always look so bored - I'm sure they splitting the stash with their toddlers.

Unpredictable As Weather

Like many couples, Maria and I like to spend time together doing things we both like. Our shared interests are not hiking, nor the theatre; or even tatting. We prefer to spend our quality time doing (and re-doing) my expenses.

Once a week (sometimes twice) I get an update from Maria on how she is progressing with my expenses. She usually tells me how she’s either gone nowhere or backwards, and we giggle like school girls.

Take yesterday for example. I called her to my desk for another round of receipts. She’d done something very strange with a bunch of taxis and I had received a stern warning from expenses audit, You’ve really gotta hand it to Maria – for someone so rarely at her desk, she certainly manages some complicated trickery

I imagined the auditors looking up my details when I resubmit the receipts. In my imagination it is a modern, minimalist crib with no windows and muted mood lighting. People walk by glass walls, clutching folders against their Armani suits. Someone is at their desk with a pile of my receipts to one side. They turn around to the computer and punch in my name – it’s just like an FBI databases on tv. My mugshot comes up instantly with a red “REPEAT OFFENDER” box flashing across my neck. There is mention of slippery old Maria though.

I asked Maria to pull up a chair as I went through the detail. This was going to be a long bonding session. She declined – said she was happy to stand. I offered again, thinking she was too polite but she insisted with an “I’m fine here thanksyou Mr Anthony”. It wasn’t until a few minutes later that I realized why she wanted to stand. To outsiders, this must give the impression that she is helping me; or even coaching me. It looks like I’ve done something wrong and she’s dropped in to fix it.

Our conversation was fairly typical. Most of my sentences began with “Why …” and “How …” and “This doesn’t look right at all …” while her replies began with “I wasn’t sure so I …” or “Because Mr Anthony you …” and the like.

Then our conversation took an odd turn.

Maria: “So anyway Mr Anthony you are divorced hey?”

Yes. [pause] “How do you now this?”

M: “Huh?”

— “I know you heard me the first time, Maria. How do you know I’m divorced? I didn’t tell you this.”

M: “Oh the other people.”

It's always the other people.

— “Which other people?”

M: “I don’t know. Just other people. The gossip. Not me. They just tell me things.”

— “Things like what?”

M: “Just when I come down to see you. To check that I know you’re not married and these joking things.”

— “I probably don’t want to know, do I?”

I didn’t get an answer to that. Which in itself was the answer.

We went back to untangling my expenses for a couple of minutes, before being interrupted by this:

“I'm not getting married.”

— “You’re what?”

“I'm not getting married. Never.”

She added some more firmness to her voice ... that blind resolve that people adopt to mute others from objecting to their shaky arguments ... a là “I just think politicians are all the same so why bother, and that’s what I think!”.

I turned around and looked back up to see if she was joking. She wasn’t. I quickly turned back around, like a school kid caught cheating in a test.

“Why you look at me like that?”

— ‘Like what?”

"Like that. Just now.”

— "Well maybe because you’re Indonesian. You’re expected to get married aren’t you?”

Whenever you ask a single Indonesian if they are married, they do not say “no”. They always say “not yet”. Always. Everyone is either married, or intending to be. Except for Maria, mind …

Maria: “I don’t care. I already told my mother.”

— “Wow. What did she say?”

"Oh ... she starting crying and everything. But I said no. I’m never getting married so get used to it I said no way. Not for me.”

— “Oh. And why not?”

“Because I'm not interesting in being the kitchen. Or the house.”

— “You don’t have to stay in the house just because you’re married."

“Yeah but anyway I don’t want these things so I just say no. I don’t want all the cooking and expected other things. Doing these things for a man or his family and all that.”

— “Fair enough.”

I could have been more encouraging, or curious, but was starting to get bored. So we went back to the taxis. I was in the middle of scrolling through a list of receipts when Maria interrupted again.

“And also I hate babies."

I turned back around to see her smiling slightly. This smile was not Blind Resolve. It was not even Defiance. It was Victory.

“Yes. Hate babies. ”

I wasn't sure if it was a grammatical error or an order. Either way, I could tell this was going to be good.

— “I think I under … me t… why? Why do you hate babies?”

“Loud and naughty.”

Then a pause.

Then this:

“Makes me do something I don't like.”

Dark images of Maria immediately sprung to mind, of her shaking and throwing babies . I froze slightly but maintained my composure. This was going to be interesting.

— “Things ...? Like what?”

Words like infanticide and filicide flashed before my eyes, startling me.

“Just things."

Words like paedophile and sadist lurked around the edges.

“Like all the poo and mess. Babies make too much dirty and I have to clean and wash them and change them. I don’t like that.”

After breathing a sigh of relief, I said:

— “Just get a nanny then.”

“No. It’s not fair. I don’t agree with using other people to look after babies. You should look after them yourself. So I don’t want to look after and I don't want babies and I don't want married.”

I started to get very concerned - not about Maria’s comments, but for me. I must be suffering from a strain of Stockholm syndrome because this was all starting to make perfect sense to me ... .

We finally got to the end of this expenses session. It seemed like the end of an era and I couldn't quite believe there was nothing left for us to do.

— "Do we have any more travel to do now Maria? Is that all?"

"Yes... that's all. Why? You wanna go somewhere else? Say no Mr Anthony. Too much papers and things."

— "No."

And Then A Hero Comes Along

There is nothing about Steven Slater that I don't like.

http://www.smh.com.au/travel/travel-news/raging-flight-attendant-makes-his-own-emergency-exit-20100810-11ul9.html

Nothing.

Nanny Sequitur

My obsession with Nannies is not waning.

Here is a recent photo from the mall attached to my office. (The mall is attached, not the photo.)

This is a very common scene: most mothers meandre around malls with a uniformed nanny in tow. The nanny could be pushing the stroller or carrying the baby or just trailing a few steps behind the happy family.

In posher malls it's unusual to see young children without a nanny. Most will have one each. This is such the norm that I am starting to judge nicely dressed mothers who tend to their own kids. I am starting to scowl at them under my breath with a "What the hell do you think you're doing here without a Nanny?". Or more simply, "Fucking tight arse ...".

Last weekend I thought I spotted a nanny breast feeding but wasn't close enough to be sure. Like most things from 500 years ago, the idea of a wet nurse is gross. As are maggots in pubes.

Back to the nannies.

My objection to these nannyless mothers is somewhat Dian Fossey in nature. I understand that their motives are driven by money - or worse, love. I'm just concerned that the nanny race could become endangered.

I casually drop nanny references into regular conversation ... just to give things a kick. Last night I dunked a couple into the following conversation:

"So anyway ... nannies ... right ..."

-- "Why do you keep talking about nannies?"

"I don't know. I think I'm addicted. Bear with me."

-- "Mmm?"

"Have you ever actually seen one hit a kid? Did your nanny ever hit you?"

-- "No. Not personally."

"But it must happen. They look so bored and mean, looking after those spoilt kids."

-- "You saying I'm spoilt?"

"A bit. Did yours ever hit you?"

-- "Not that I remember. I doubt it."

"Is there ever any scandal about these nannies though? Like in the news?"

-- "Actually there are cases where they rent out the babies during the day to beggars."

Srsly.

There is nothing about this story that is not fantastic.

What's not to love about the idea of Indonesia's most indulged, privileged babies sneaking out with their nannies in the morning to play the Prince and the Pauper?

Here's how it happens. The mother leaves for a day at the spa (or whatever) and the nanny swings into action. Nanny heads off into town and cuts a deal some beggars' version of a pimp. The baby is removed from its cotton wool and re-clad in rags. It is then strapped to a fake mother and soon finds itself weaving through cars in bad traffic.

Your see these these beggars all the time, especially at traffic lights. They knock on your taxi window and shove the baby up to the glass, pleadingly.

I never give money to beggars with children - I don't want to contribute to these kids being out of school. Of course, I now have to reconsider this stance entirely.

The scam - like the nanny - usually comes unstuck when the parents start to notice their babies getting darker and weathered. Sometimes inexplicable rashes appear. Of course when the baby reaches for a pack of cigarettes it's ambiguous. Either way, they usually realise that their babies have been sporting something other than the cotton wool in their absence.

It seems like the perfect scam. Beggars are completely invisible to rich Indonesians. So are nannies. The mother would never recognise her baby even if it came knocking on the window, because she would pretend the knocking isn't happening.

I'd like to imagine that in these cases, the babies go a bit Method and mumble"Fucking tight arse" under their breath as they move on to the next car.

The Meeting

"How did the meeting go with XL go?"

-- "We haven't had it yet."

"But we said you would definitely have it yesterday."

-- "Yes originally it was."

"Actually originally it was supposed to ... why didn't it happen? It was already long overdue."

-- "Yes but then I heard that Felix was on leave for the rest of this week."

"Who is Felix?"

-- "He's the new analyst."

"Do you need Felix to hold this meeting?"

-- "No but he was invited and maybe he would like to know what we decide."

"But last time you delayed the meeting it was because Amir was on leave. And before then it was Prakash. We were originally supposed to have this in mid July and finish the project by today."

-- "Oh yes, but maybe Felix will be back Monday and we will have it then."

"Is everyone else available Monday?"

-- "Yes I think so."

"Think so? Did you check with them?"

-- "No."

"Can you check with them?"

-- "Yes."

"Will you?"

-- "Will I what?"

"Check with them. Check with people that they are available to meet on Monday. If not, tell me who is not available ... but we will need to have the meeting anyway. "

-- "Oh. Sure."

"So how can you check that they will be available?"

-- "Well it's Monday and people should all be back by then anyway so don't worry."

"But that is not a guarantee they are available."

-- "No. But hopefully it will be ..."

"Please phone them as well."

-- "OK. I'll send an email."

"And phone?"

-- "Phone?"

"Yes. Also check by phoning them."

-- "You mean today?"

"Yes. Before lunch please. Phone them ."

-- "Everyone?"

"Yes."

-- "But Felix is on leave."

"OK. Everyone except Felix. Call Felix Monday morning."

-- "Sure boss."

Postscript: Monday was postponed to Tuesday because Felix was not answering his phone.