It's All for Charity

We were being charitable, paid our dues, were giving in the spirit of the season. We had wended our way through the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur, in my wife's little red devil car, inveigling our way into the heart of the city. Waze guided us through the evening streets to the grandest of hotels, and our be forested destination. We were quietly optimistic.

In the beginning, the search for relief was frustrated through the casual lack of signage. Once relieved, however, we stood, in what may have been an entrance hall wondering just what on earth was supposed to happen. European regional accents abounded, and one or two from my own country.  It appeared to be mostly an expat get together, a gathering of pale people in the very heart of what had been distinctly non pale colonial Malaysia.

I am generally ill at ease at such functions, perhaps it is through my lack of social graces, or through some bizarre quirk in my psychology. Fishes bereft of wet stuff would have had similar difficulties. But, hey, it was all for charity, was it not.

"Did you just come in through that door?" Well yes and no. Yes I did, but I had already been inside, had my tickets nabbed and been given the lottery tickets too. Her question had an undertone of harsh lights in faces, dimly lit rooms and all kinds of pointed accusations. Had we sneakily snuck in? Were we totally devoid of social graces? Were we charity gate crashers, with no sense of decency? I would not have minded, but it had happened twice within ten minutes. There must be something illicit, or decidedly common, about my face.

It was sweltering. The meagre horse powered air-con simply could not cope as four hundred expectant bodies breathed in and out into that aged colonial building, raising the temperature in more than one way, as waiters slipped by with empty food trays. 

We stopped one Indian gentleman and asked him if it were possible for the trays of minuscule food to come in the opposite direction too, as it seemed some people were getting very well fed at the expense (literally) of others. The wine flowed like water and water too flowed like itself, but fruit juice ran out as if in the Olympics. 

Over time, and it seemed like an age, we devised methods to waylay waiters bearing food. At one point I stood highwayman like, sans pistols, blocking the hallway and practically demanding a waiter to stand and deliver (the food that is). In the eons of foodlessness I became trained, like some Pavlovian guest, to respond to the door opening in the vain hope that a waiter might be bearing a tray of food. However, the tiny bites, even when they did appear, could not keep up with my growing appetite. Eventually, half starved and desperate for nourishment, we left to grab freshly cooked tender tandoori chicken and great garlic naan bread. It was the most delicious meal, ever.

PS And to the continental gentleman who mentioned “Your people used to live here”, I can assure you that “my people”, that is the working class of England, had nothing whatsoever to do with that particular colonial building, nor the fact that Queen Elizabeth II stayed there.