It was my cousin who gave Rebecca the idea.

Meera had spent two weeks at an ayurvedic retreat in Kerala, India  and returned extolling its benefits. 

My wife thought we should make the trip as well. 

Kerala looks a lot like Malaysia except it’s like 19 degrees in the morning after which the temperature climbs steadily to 33 degrees by noon. As there’s little cloud cover, it’s a dry heat that can make your head spin. 

Even so, the temperature begins falling after 4; but then again, it was January – we are told it gets brutal in July. 

The place encompasses 14 acres, a lot of which is still being developed. When we got there, the guests were mostly foreigners (Ukrainians, surprisingly). By the time we left, the guests were mostly Indians but from various countries – the US, the UK, Malaysia and the like.  

The place is meat and alcohol-free; only vegetable salt – 10 times less sodium than table salt – and hardly any oil are used in cooking. 

Anything processed is a no-no and only ancient grains like millet are usesd in lieu of flour. Milk, even yoghurt, and other dairy products are frowned upon. 

Nothing is mandatory so, after two days, we skipped the early-morning martial-arts exercises and went for walks around the place. We were almost always accompanied by the retreat’s dog – an amiable mutt called Princess – and two courteous guinea fowl that seemed determined to make up for an ill-tempered goose that was prone to homicidal fits of rage if approached closely. 

On those walks, we noticed that the place grew its own food. Or tried to.  

Certainly, there were all manner of fruit – papaya, jackfruit, mango, banana, breadfruit, watermelon, etc.  

The meditation and yoga classes  before breakfast were always interesting because, at the very least, it stimulated our appetites. We also learned how to “breathe” properly.  

Every day, we had our weight and blood pressure monitored by a doctor – there were three in attendance.  What was surprising was that both began dropping, after two days in my case.  

Indeed, I went off my regular BP meds on the doctor’s advice because my readings became too low (95/65). For the rest of my stay, I was entirely off meds and my readings were either normal or slightly low. 

Rebecca has always had low blood pressure so it wasn’t a problem.  It’s a family joke that when she’s stressed in her job, her BP climbs to “normal.”  

Through a screening method that seemed inexplicable to me, we were given different modes of detoxification which, to put it delicately, necessitated numerous trips to the bathroom. 

The results were amazing, Both of us lost a significant amount of weight: Becky lost over 3 kg while I lost about 4.3 kg. One suspects a lot of that might have been water but we both looked and felt better. 

The record weight loss in two weeks there, however, belonged to a guy from Tamil Nadu but it was pointed that he had a stomach the size of a small country: you could say it was the base effect.  

Neither of us are early sleepers but I was generally  asleep by 9 every night there. Becky usually read until 10 or so but both of us were up by 5.30 every morning. For me, anyway, this was a one-off. It hasn’t happened since, 

And, lest we forget, the treatment also consisted of over an hour of daily massage. In my case, it was done by two men who pounded on me using enough medicated coconut oil to float a tanker or two. 

It was only embarrassing the first time but the matter-of-fact manner in which they worked soon dispelled any discomfort.

The hot bath that followed made me relaxed and sleepy and my skin felt a lot better. 

The problem now is maintenance. It’s trying to hold on to those gains in the face of Malaysian food. 

And I think I’m losing.

ENDS

I belong to a chat group comprising high school classmates of our Form Five Class of ’72. The conversation there is pretty much ho-hum, run-of-the-mill stuff.

This morning, however, it perked up after one guy posted a video of an anxious porcupine scurrying through a residential  neighborhood in the night. 

Apparently there’d been talk of porcupine-sightings in the neighborhood but it was the first time the animal had been caught on film. 

It seemed to know it – it began scurrying faster and looking around for threats. You could almost hear it thinking: I needle little time to figure this out. 

But back to said chat group. Being Malaysia, the conversation inevitably shifted to what it might taste like. Zainal said he’d had its soup when he was in Penang although these points had to be tasted surreptitiously as the species was protected by law. 

Dollah claimed to have his grandma cook it for him  back in the  day. Said it tasted like chicken, only it was “more delicious.” 

Everything, apparently, tastes like chicken. The phrase comes from Christopher Columbus. Looking for fresh food in the US, his men came upon “a serpent” which they killed and devoured. Columbus noted that “its meat was white and tasted like chicken.” 

Whether it’s snake, iguana or crocodile, they all taste like chicken, apparently.  And it isn’t anecdotal. It’s true: most of these species evolved from the same forebears ergo the taste similarity. 

Incidentally, the snake and crocodile testimony comes from my daughter, Raisa, who is courageous when it comes to new food.

She charted what I considered a new low when she tried balut  in The Philippines. Balut, the  street food of the Manila barrios, is a fertilized, developing egg embryo that’s steamed or boiled and eaten from the shell. She balked, however, when she felt its feathers. 

Maybe I should not be too surprised –  in Peru, she consumed alpaca and guinea pig. 

Even so, I know she does not get it from me because I’m a wimp in matters of food. I think it stemmed from the time when my father urged me to eat liver. Its intense gaminess and weird texture made me nauseous and I’ve been wary of new meat ever since. 

I’m in a minority in my house though: both my wife and daughter think that liver is the best thing since sourdough bread.

Worldwide though, I’m in good company. Most people would rather give it a miss although the Danish, to a man, consider it a treat. 

Aside for the country-curious reader, except for Hannibal Lecter, most Americans think liver is “gross.” 

Then there are those foods centered around snob appeal. A friend and his wife took us to a 2-Michelin place in Singapore that had rave reviews in the Singapore press.

The prices on the menu made me feel  grateful that we were guests. 

The dishes included mini-thosai tacos (with mutton filing) and oysters with a rasam granita encrustation. 

A granita is like a semi-frozen dessert while rasam is, of course, the sour and spicy South Indian soup that was once touted as a Covid cure and, failing that, can be reliably depended on to clear your sinuses. 

I wasn’t very impressed with the food but was with the beer. 

Story of my life. 

ENDS

The problem with retirement is that you often wake up without the foggiest about the time, the day, or the date. 

The year, you ask? C’mon. I’m not that spaced out. Anyone will tell you it’s 2024. 

So I asked Siri and it obliged modestly, as is its wont.  “It’s Friday, February the 14^th,” it replied, careful not to sound too triumphant. It really was a modest creature. 

That was all I needed. That razor-sharp, A-list marvel of high-octane intelligence that is my brain registered its own recognition modestly, and that goes without saying of course: It was Valentine’s Day.  

It’s a strange day to celebrate, to be sure. I mean, for people like us Malaysians who’d never heard of it growing up.   

I certainly don’t remember thinking, or hearing, about it when I was young. I’m not even sure I remember it when I was in university. Or perhaps it was my penurious state that  prevented me from knowing. It seems to me that the extent of one’s dalliance with VD –  unfortunate nomenclature to be sure – is directly proportional to one’s bank balance. 

I really got to grips with The Day when I began working for Malaysian Business, a bimonthly business magazine that had its staff-desks right next to two women’s magazines that thought The Day had to be extolled as much as, say, nasi lemak, P Ramlee, or penicillin.

The origins of The Day go back to Saint Valentine who was martyred by the Romans around 8 BC: they took a dim view of his preaching of Christ’s teachings in England.

It took a poem by Geoffrey Chaucer to add the romantic element to the day despite the fact that the poem came out 700 years after the martyrdom of said Valentine. Even so, it was, is and remains a made-in-England tradition. 

Trust the Brits to market The Day through their American cousins. Today, there is a movie called Valentine’s Day and Hollywood has made the occasion so desperately relevant that any partner, boyfriend or husband is made to feel like a leper if they forget any of these three things: the day, the chocolate/flowers or the  booking of  their favourite restaurant. 

The day makes you realise what the guy who said “living is like licking honey off a thorn” meant. Buying flowers and splurging for a dinner usually ends in a pleasurable outcome but it can set you back some ways. Now you know what the poet Ogden Nash intimated when he had this to say about seduction: “Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker.”  

Is there a moral to this tale? 

You betcha. 

This Valentine’s Day business is nothing more than poppycock, balderdash, and bunkum. We might add bollocks and humbug with a “bah” prefix to the mix for good measure.  

It’s nothing more than a British colonial caper aided and abetted by America’s military-industrial complex to lure the unwary to splurge on flowers, chocolates and expensive dinners for no other reason than an overweening desire to demonstrate a global superiority in marketing. 

And what do I plan to do tonight?

I thought I might have dinner with Rebecca at this Italian place. It has a good selection of  white wines and pasta to die for. 

ENDS

Michelle, ma belle,

These are words that go together well. – Michelle, the Beatles  

I began to be fascinated by graffiti and word-play after I read this in the Readers Digest when I was in high school.

Q. Is there intelligent life on earth? 

A. Yes, but I’m only visiting.

And this one, only better.

To be is to do – Socrates

To do is to be – Kant

Dobedobedo – Sinatra

And what about this sign in a women’s restroom, the Zen of relationships, perhaps: “You’re too good for him.”  

Ahh, the sheer pleasure of being amused by words that go together well. When words and ideas are used inventively to create humour, as graffiti does, it’s almost always appreciated.    

On the other hand, this sign in a Japanese hotel wasn’t meant to be amusing:

To avoid robbery, certainly rock the rocker room and keep the rocker key with you all the time. Also, we will not take any responsibility for the robbery.

And this sign just before a ramp turnoff along a California highway should give any driver pause: Soft Shoulder; Blind Curves – Steep Grade; Big Trucks – GOOD LUCK!

Now here’s a classy sign at a church:  Autumn Leaves, Jesus Doesn’t.

And there’s this less classy, but no less funny, one from a different church: Staying in Bed Shouting, Oh God! Does Not Constitute Going to Church. 

And here’s some information for the thoughtful churchgoer: 

Q: How Do We Make Holy Water?

A: We Boil the Hell Out of It. 

For some clerical advice for the foolhardy driver, we have this:  Honk If You Love Jesus; Text While Driving If You Want To Meet Him. 

Here’s a sign to make burglars run, screaming into the night. WARNING – PIT BULL WITH AIDS – NO TRESPASSING.

Talk of a toilet upending the rules of poker: A Flush Always Beats a Full House! 

Here’s a sign of clear intent. “In honour of Earth Day, anyone asking for help today will be treated like dirt.”

How does a pet grooming business advertise itself? Get to the point, succinctly: Dirty Dog’s Done Dirt Cheap.  

This self-explanatory sign was on a desk in a reception area. “We Shoot Every 3^rd Salesman. The 2^nd One Just Left.”

The guy who designed this bumper sticker clearly wasn’t enthused byThe Wizard of Oz. “Auntie Em. Hate you, hate Kansas. Taking the dog. Dorothy.”

A sign for a furniture store: SOFA SO GOOD. 

One for a barber: Scissor’s Palace.

And a sign outside a cabinet maker’s truck: Counter Fitters. And, finally, this on a shoe-repair business: The Sole Provider. 

Now here’s a classy sign mocking the stereotyping of Chinese-speak in the US. This was in a Chinese-owned pet store in New York: “Buy one dog, regular price, get one flea.”

Here’s a plaintive, pro-pot protest sign: “Can’t we all just get a bong?” 

There was this sign at a Las Vegas hotel famous for organising quickie marriages: Eat, Drink and Remarry. And Steven Tyler would have loved the name of this Chinese restaurant in England: Wok This Way.

And what do you think the sign was at the shrimp place? Our fish come from the best schools. 

You could sea that coming a mile away.  

ENDS

The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once. –  Albert Einstein  

If you think life is inherently fair, that what goes around will, indeed, come around, than this observation by Lucy, of Peanuts’  fame, is right: 

“There must be one day above all others in each life that is the happiest.”

There’s only one problem with that and it’s obvious.

“What if you’ve already had it?”

 Alas, there’s the rub. There always is – in a world bordered by linear time. 

When I was young, time was relative – it moved excruciatingly slowly during the school hours and fairly zipped through the holidays. I was right about it too because all my classmates agreed. 

Then I hit adolescence and couldn’t wait to grow up and meet girls – somehow female classmates weren’t considered in that light.  In my case, it was pretty much a constant preoccupation during my university days: I wasn’t successful at all but that, again, is another non-story. I have even rationalised it away: glory may be fleeting but obscurity is forever. 

Ironically, I consider that time in the 70s to be among the happiest periods of my life. I’m not sure why but it may have to do with making friendships that have lasted decades, meeting the girl who became my wife, and growing up in an environment that asked nothing of you but to pass an annual examination. 

You can have an awful amount of fun in between. There was but one rule: don’t put off till tomorrow what can be enjoyed today. 

OK, it sounds like “the good, old days” syndrome and there are those who would say that the main reason for that tosh is a “bad memory.” But that’s the beauty of nostalgia: it softens the hard edges, the grimmer aspects of those days so no one’s the wiser.   

Things keep moving though. Suddenly, you’re in your thirties and before you can yell Mahathir Mohamad, the years begin flashing past. 

They should have warned us, all those years ago. That sometime in our 30s, the Great Programmer would quietly press fast forward on the cassette deck of the rest of our lives and we’d spend most of that time playing catch up. 

And maybe we are playing catch-up if anyone remembers a 1960s cartoon series called The Jetsons.

It was about George Jetson and his family who lived in a future where space colonisation was a given: where capitalism and competition thrived in a future where man lived in aerial colonies.

Except for its flying cars, everything else on that 60-years-ago-show has come to pass: robot servants, talking video screens, mobile phones.  

Surely flying cars and talking dogs can’t be far behind? 

Nothing should surprise us where time is concerned. “The world is moving so fast these days that the man who says it can’t be done is generally interrupted by someone doing it.” 

The statement was uttered by Harry Fosdick, an English clergyman ahead of his time.  He predicted it in the 1930s. 

Where we’re concerned, we might as well take a leaf out of English comedian Benny Hill’s book: “Live each day as if it were your last…because one day, you’ll be right.” 

ENDS

I have a friend who generally reacts to a joke he’d heard before by way of a quip. “Same dog, different lamp-post,” he’d say.

No one likes a critic. Indeed, writers generally regard critics with the same enthusiasm lamp-posts  reserve for dogs. It explains Mark Twain’s burst of spite after his newspaper columns were panned: “No one’s ever put up a statue to a critic.”

Twain may have had the last laugh: there are multiple statues of him in the US but none to a critic.

Even so, Western education highly prizes critical thinking. One of the key books for General Paper in our Form 6 examination was John Doraisamy’s Understand and Criticise. It signaled the shift away from rote-learning to a more evaluatory approach to education.   

In any case, criticism’s good for the soul. “I like criticism,” said basketball great Lebron James. “It makes me strong.”

Occasionally, however, book, film or theater reviews can be vastly entertaining. “This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly,” said poet Dorothy Parker in a review of a book sent to her for that purpose. “It should be thrown with great force.”

Or take this laconic review of the film Ben-Hur. “Loved Ben, hated Hur. (The name of the unfortunate actress who played the female lead in the movie escapes me).

The Italian conductor Arturo Toscanini was said to be temperamental. Once, after a recital, he turned on his hapless orchestra: “Assassins!”

Comedienne Joan Rivers can be acerbic but this put-down of actress Katie Holmes borders on the cruel. Holmes played the wife of John F Kennedy in a role that Rivers described as “so bad that he shot himself in the film.”

The music critic Bennet Cerf gave a thumbs-down to a performance he attended. “The Detroit String Quartet played Brahms last night….Brahms lost.”

Listen to Scottish comedian Frankie Boyle’s defense of Donald Trump. “Trump’s nothing like Hitler…there’s no way he can write a book.”

Could there be anything more scathing than Roger Eben’s review of Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles: “I’ve seen audits that were more thrilling.”

When pressed for advice, actress Tallulah Bankhead had this to say to a young actress; “If you really want to help the American theatre darling, be an audience.” 

When you live in glass houses…. This is what critic Alexander Woollcott said about Bankhead’s performance as Cleopatra on Broadway: “Tallulah Bankhead barged down the Nile last night….and sank.” 

Only Mark Twain would be egocentric enough to put Henry James down: “Once you’ve put one of his books down, you simply can’t pick it up again.”

This is guaranteed to lightly turn the minds of a young writer to thoughts of suicide. “He is a writer for the ages…..for the ages of four to eight,” grumbled Dorothy Parker, that eternal malcontent.

But one doubts if Jeffery Archer would be fazed by this comment: he used to be a politician anyway.

“The last time I was in Spain, I got through six Jeffrey Archer novels: I must remember to take enough toilet paper next time,” groused English entertainer Bob Monkhouse.

We’ll leave the final word to the incomparable Groucho Marx: “From the moment I picked your book up until I laid it down, I was convulsed with laughter: someday I intend reading it.” 

ENDS

It’s amazing how fast later comes when you buy now! –Comedian Milton Berle 

We went to church on Christmas morn punctually, 30 minutes before Mass. But the cars parked there already signaled a massive  turnout.

Sure enough, we couldn’t find a seat inside but had to settle for three seats deep in the madding crowd. All the three halls upstairs – which were live- streaming the service – were packed. And there were many who stood throughout. 

The excess was due to  people like us, who hadn’t been to church after Covid made on-line Masses respectable; those who went to church twice a year; and those who felt compelled to go because the year was ending. The excess was  the majority. 

The end of a year always has an effect on people because an end, any kind, signifies new beginnings, a fresh start,  and such things generally go better – to the prudent at least – with divine help ergo Church on Christmas morn: six days before the New Year. 

Time just zips by doesn’t it? Example: Do you know it was a year ago today? 

Its rapidity, the eternal change, can give you hope. “History is the sum total of things that could have been avoided,”  was how former German Chancellor and eternal optimist Konrad Adenauer saw it. 

Or it can be understood as useless and hypocritical. “What is history but a pack of lies agreed upon,”  snorted the great, if cynical, Napoleon Bonaparte. The Russian writer Leo Tolstoy was equally disbelieving: “History would be an excellent thing if only it were true.”  

Everything’s relative. When I had my first job and living away from home for the first time, there was this recurring thought:  why is there so much month left at the end of the money?  There’s also the question of whether a minute is sufficient. Answer: it depends on which side of the bathroom door you’re on.

Then there is the opposite sensation, the feeling of sudden clarity, the lucidity of powerlessness.

I was looking around at the people in the house during Christmas Eve and realising that these were people I’d known for years, and accepting that time does, indeed, go on and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. 

It may be a great healer, but time’s a lousy beautician. It marches on, and as singer Dolly Parton complained, “sooner or later you realise it’s marching across our faces.” 

2024 taught us that Abraham Lincoln wasn’t quite correct. You can fool all of the people some of the time and some of the people all of the time. And that,  Donald Trump knew, was sufficient. 

So let’s brace for the future and cheer the present. Let’s welcome the New Year with pomp and circumstance, and begin  making resolutions for a Better You that you have  5 days to formulate. If time is any teacher, you will promptly start paving the road to hell with those intentions in the very first week of 2025 but don’t worry your pretty little head about it.

You can always start again next year. 

ENDS 

“Life is like an onion: you peel off one layer at a time and sometimes you weep.” – Writer Carl Sandburg

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

For one thing, my wife’s finally back from Singapore, and my daughter’s home for the holidays. 

Then my brother’s family is down from the US. So are various cousins and their offspring. They will be at our place for Christmas Eve as I am the only Catholic in my family: the rest are either nominal Hindus, serious ones – those who actually understand the philosophy – and those who’ve read too much Richard Dawkins for anyone’s good. 

But Christmas isn’t just a day, it’s a frame of mind. Which most people  instinctively grasp: my family is no exception.

They like and appreciate the scene: the tree, the carols, the pineapple tarts, the wine, dinner, the atmosphere. And don’t forget the beer: that’s why there are carols like It’s a Wonderful Time For A Beer.

As for us, we’re doubly secure  because we’ve assuaged our consciences by going to church first thing in the morning. 

But the ones who most love the season are the children. Raisa bought presents for all 4 of them and they will believe that it’s from a bearded, jolly, fat man with a limited dress sense living somewhere in the South Pole. 

Raisa had no trouble believing the same thing until she was almost seven. Then an embittered cousin whose belief had been shattered by a Grinch-like priest decided to spread his disillusion and Raisa suddenly found out that Santa was, actually, Daddy. 

I was furious with said relative: he was clearly a Rebel without a Claus.

On an ecclesiastical note, Satan can metaphorically be described as the “scarecrow in the religious cornfield”. Pity the dyslexic devil worshipper then: he could end up worshipping Santa.

The season makes you reflective. I look around and I realise I’m a lucky fellow, to have family and  friends in a reasonably happy and secure environment during a period of intense upheaval and suffering in other parts of the world.

So I think, OK, maybe I don’t deserve any of this. Then I think, I have food allergies that I don’t deserve either so maybe, what the hell, that’s just how the cookie crumbles. 

That’s just life. As the Jewish author and humorist Sholom Aleichem wryly observed: “No matter how bad things get, you’ve got  to go on living, even if it kills you.” 

Or as Dr Mahathir Mohamad night have noted: “It’s good to be here…but at 99, it’s good to be anywhere.” 

But I digress, and to get back on point, it‘s good to be here during the Christmas season. My daughter said she began perspiring the minute she stepped out of the airport’s air-conditioned chill into the humidity of Sepang. It had been 7 degrees in Amsterdam when she left.

I’ll take the equatorial  swelter any time. The rains ensure December’s the coolest month in the year, which helps. 

Not quite a White Christmas but a Right One will do nicely, thank you.

At the end of the day, perhaps we should just count our blessings, touch wood, and cross our fingers. Because it could be far worse. 

As  comedienne and actress Lily Tomlin predicted: “Things are going to get far worse before they get worse.”

Merry Christmas everyone. 

ENDS

Man is the only animal that blushes – or needs to. – Writer Mark Twain 

You learn all sorts of things from other people. 

One of the jobs magistrates do is to witness hangings, at least in those days when they were still administered. This was what R told me about the first hanging he witnessed as a magistrate in the 1980s.

He had to be at Pudu Prison early because the deed was always done at sunrise. 

But what really struck him was what the hangman did after the fact: he stooped and washed his hands in the early-morning dew on the grass. 

Of course, R asked. The man, a devout Muslim, replied he’d just “washed the (sin of the) hanging off” his conscience. 

So, the ever-careful R did the same. You never can tell! 

Early in my career, I had occasion to meet Mokhzani Mahathir, then an up-and-coming businessman. His first question was curious: what sort of Indian was I?

I normally try and dodge such questions because I find most non-Indians are puzzled by the distinctions. But he persisted, saying he knew of the differences.  So, I replied I was Malayalee, and my parents were from Kerala. 

He shook my hands, grinning.  “Countryman,” was all he said. He clearly didn’t have any hang-ups about his ancestry. 

In the early-1990s, tycoon Vincent Tan began buying shares in MUI, a public-listed conglomerate that, among other things, owned a bank. The tycoon kept buying the stock until he was on the verge of a hostile takeover. 

It was either that, and a relatively cheap way to get a bank, or greenmail: a tactic where an investor buys enough shares to threaten a hostile takeover, only to force the company to buy back the shares at a premium.

The markets were agog and the business press were in a frenzy. I asked to meet Tan and, to my surprise, he invited me to lunch. 

 Would he sell? 

“You’ve to understand something about me,” answered the magnate. “Except for the family, everything’s for sale.”

(For the record, Tan sold off his MUI block for a handsome profit.)

I’d asked Ananda Krishnan for a meet but didn’t get a reply. Then out of the blue, he called and asked me to come to his office at 3pm the next day. 

His office took up an entire floor in the Maxis Tower. It was lushly carpeted and full of artwork, so much so there were paintings stacked on the floors. Masses would be an understatement. (“I love art and buy too much. Someday, I’ll create an art museum.”)

AK said he hadn’t eaten the whole day and tea was served. A cake was rolled in and he cut slices while saying it had no butter or fat and was, therefore, healthy.

It tasted like it too, but he ate with every appearance of relish. I’d heard he was a health buff: he swam 50 laps a day without fail. 

It was a pleasant enough interview and when I stood to leave, he said he had a present.  

It was another cake. 

In the car, I asked Hassan, my driver, if he liked cake. He said yes. Enthusiastically too. So, I gave him a present. 

I’d forgotten about it until Hassan rounded on me the next day. He didn’t believe my story that it had been from a billionaire.  

It was terrible, he said, and so he’d fed it to his chickens. 

They sneered at it too. 

ENDS

Wrinkled Was Not One of the Things I Wanted To Be When I Grew Up. – Bumper sticker 

There is a gymnasium in the apartment block where we live so I suppose I belong there.

Let me rephrase that: I don’t belong there at all but I go there. 

I guess the Bible’s right, everything is Vanity. You don’t get my sort of body just like that. It takes years of neglect. 

I admit it: I have finally reached that stage in life which Bob Hope described as “the time when even your birthday suit needs pressing.” 

So my wife decided to get me a physical trainer, to beat me into shape so to speak. I feared the worst the minute I saw him: he looked like Sherman.

The tank I mean, not the cartoon character.   

Worse still, were the  people patronising the place. They were, to a man, trim, fit and athletic-looking. I use the word “man” here loosely, of course. There is, for example, one woman who didn’t need to lift weights at all: she did that every time she stood up. 

The muscly Rahul – that was the trainer’s name – even had his ears ridged in abs and getting into shape was clearly a Holy Grail to him. The man simply didn’t seem to care, or realise, I was pushing 70. 

For the hour he was hired, he kept me on a relentless, non-stop pattern of exercises that, at its end, left me exhausted, panting and, despite the air-conditioned chill of the gym, soaked in sweat. 

If you think about it, we are always being judged on how we look or comport ourselves. First impressions matter. 

I remember the first time I met Rebecca’s father. I was playing a cricket game for the university when it broke for lunch. 

Becky had invited me over for lunch and so I just jogged over as her place wasn’t that far. 

But it still was some distance away. I had long hair to boot so you might reasonably conclude I wasn’t looking my finest when I reached said destination. 

Her father opened the door thinking I was the pizza boy. When I informed him of my bona-fides, maybe I should have expected the reeling away in shock, and the stricken look.

In real life, he was a policeman and a no-nonsense one at that. 

Looking back,  not my  classiest entrance perhaps. Alas and all that, but these things happen. 

It could be worse. Some people actually comment on appearances for a living. And it can be withering. 

Take fashion critic Richard Blackwell’s description of Camilla Parker Bowles back in 2000. Camilla is now the Queen Consort of England. 

“In feathered hats that were once the rage, she resembles a petrified parakeet form the Jurassic age: a royal wreck.” 

Fortunately for Mr Blackwell, he died well before she became Queen. 

Mark Twain was more acidic than Blackwell: “Last week I stated that this woman was the ugliest woman I’d ever seen…I have since been visited by her sister and now wish to withdraw that statement.”

You probably want to know how my exercise regimen is working out. All I know is that I now have aching parts in places I didn’t know I had muscles. 

ENDS