The price of a happy Sunday, in Malaysia, is exactly fourteen ringgit, that is £3.
It was a sleepy layin Sunday morning after an early morning cockroach scare which had us chasing the poor soul and beating it to death at about 1 am. The day, when it arrived, was hotter than Hell, and as bright as the Sahara. Morning tea was Lipton's instead of Earl Grey, and brunch instead of Breakfast. Despite all that minor upheaval, we (my wife and I) emerged into the punishing equatorial heat and made the decision to forgo Banana Leaf in favour of the large won tons sold at the predominately Chinese food court.
Once there and cheerfully parked under a leaning tree whose leaves gave shadow enough, and whose space was miraculously empty, the won ton soup was uninspired and insipid. The won tons themselves, once I decided not to lift them with slippery plastic chopsticks but speared them with a fork instead, were as tasty as ever, especially with the soya sauce and cut chili accompaniment. All appeared fine. Fine that is if you ignored the meal interruption by my wife’s friend who insisted to sit and chatter away in whichever Chinese dialect suited the occasion. It left me with the continuing sense of being a stranger in a very strange land, and suddenly very intent upon my meal.
The meal was paid for. It was at that very point that the cost of a happy Sunday became poignantly apparent. There was a dispute over whether change for the meal was given or not. I didn’t see one way or the other, intent as I was on taking my first food of the day. The change, yes you guessed it, was RM14 (£3).
All changed at that point. Sunny smiles and affable demeanor ceased in favour of scowls and remonstration. The waiter was challenged but chose to deny owing money. Grumbling, groaning and a great deal of frustration ensued, enough to sour what was left of the morning and threatened to extend itself into the afternoon too. I too was beginning to lose what little calm I am able to muster these days, due perhaps to increasing heat outside and a form of moroseness which seems to come with advancing years. Though, in my defense, I am nowhere near as bad as a certain British jazz/rock drummer, once famous for Toad, and who one is asked to beware of.
But as the day progressed, to quote the Bard of Avon, ‘All Well that Ends Well’ and, in time, the triviality of the small theft was put aside, yet the darkened clouds remained for a little while after as poorly exercised mindfulness took its own sweet time to develop for right thought to emerge triumphant over wrong.
