I had an odd dream again last night. It was like a recurring one, except I had not had it for a while.

The real world barges in a lot.


Did you know that once, when I was quite young, my father, brother, and I had to traverse the freeway on foot because there was a lone gunman/shooter who was terrorizing the area? We had to stay in a hotel and then walk home.

I don’t really remember it all that well.

Just flashes/glimpses of it.


Anthea suggested I write a short story about my Uncle, my dad’s older brother. He is a closet alcoholic, and is supposedly beaten up by his 2 daughters (his only children) and his wife.

It would be a story reminiscent of King Lear, but my father is the good daughter, in this case.

It’s a no-go on that idea detailed above. Mom found the very thought of it distasteful. Basically said ‘stick to fiction’.


It’s widely known among my father’s family circle that Uncle had his dead mother’s dog poisoned, as it was the guard dog for the house the siblings (3 to be exact, all of them) are feuding over.

He also had the locks changed to the house without the knowledge or consent of others involved.

My father is of the strong belief that his brother is ‘whipped’ and a ‘pussy’ and therefore all these actions must be the work of Auntie.

I wouldn’t be surprised from what I’ve heard of her, it doesn’t seem that far off the mark.


Last year, she called my father expressing concerns over my uncle’s drunkenness. She then detailed to my father her belief that Uncle was having an affair and possibly a child who would both end up wanting a share of the property.

My father paralleled the story with that of a Tamil king who went through similar trials and tribulations.


Someone’s there.


I first went to England in the summer of 2003. I stayed for almost 1 year before returning home due to the extreme hazing and bullying I received at Haileybury.

Haileybury wasn’t all bad, though.

I had some good friends who I kept in touch with for a long time before growing out of them. Others I found again on Facebook years later.


Anthea said I was like a budding Hemingway.

She said I should probably write more realism, as I am good at it.

She said I have very powerful prose.