Tuesday, December 28, 2004

pain & happy, part 2

When I got back from the hospital, I couldn't even climb the stairs to go upstairs to sleep. Ended up sleeping on the couch in the hall. Which isn't really bad besides getting my whole leg eaten by mosquitoes. Leg still bandaged, I had a nice sleep.

In the morning, as was planned the week before, we were all supposed to go renew our ICs (Identification Cards - all Malaysians over 12 must carry one) My dad, brother, sister and brother-in-law were all on leave and this was the perfect opportunity to get it done. I was not about to postpone it again, since I would be going back to the UK damn soon. So, with a bandaged foot and a pair of mould infested crutches, I went to the IC office.

Now, the thing with the IC office is that its quite simply.......fucked up. We got there at 7.30am, a good half hour before it opens. The queue by then had already stretched from the doors of the office on the first floor, all the way down the stairs, through a corridor, and out onto the car park. I reckon the first dude in the queue must have been there at 6am.

My parents, being senior citizens, along with my disabled brother could go up straight to the office to get "special numbers" which meant less queueing. My sister and my brother-in-law were definately not going to get special numbers. Me? I wasn't too sure. On one hand, I was handicapped. I couldn't fucking walk, and I was standing on one foot. Any idea how fun it is to do that? But on the other hand, I wasn't a "born" handicapped, as some bastard would later tell me.

So, not too sure whether I was entitled to a special number, my parents and my brother went up to the office, while the three of us queued downstairs. When the office opened, my mum asked whether I could get a special number while explaining the situation. The lady at the counter was about to give her a number for me, but there was this Taliban motherfucker (must be the woman's boss) who hissed in Malay : He's not handicapped. He has to take an ordinary number. "But he can't walk," my mum insisted. "Tell him to come back another day."

Mum called me to tell me that I had to continue queueing downstairs. Slowly but surely, the queue made its way out of the car park. When we reached the stairs, I took the lift up to wait for my sister at the landing. There was another Malay lady there queueing up as well. She asked me why I was lining up and told me that I could get a special number. When I told her about the Taliban fucker, she looked pissed offed and started complaining loudly about how those guys were discriminating handicaps.

Another woman nearer to the counter overheard and she called me over. She let me line up in front of her and try to get a special number. When I got to the counter, the lady who wanted to give my mum the number earlier took a look at me and hurriedly gave me the special number before her fucking boss came back.

For the record, my number was 73. My sister and my brother-in-law got number 640-something. While my parents, my brother and myself finished at 9.30am, my sister and her husband went out to do some chores and only finished at 3.30pm. If my foot wasn't in a bandage, I would have had to kill myself out of boredom.

Hmmmm.......for my flight back to the UK, if I am still in my bandage and on crutches, maybe they will upgrade me to a first class seat for free. Just maybe.

This was written a couple of days ago. I am now off the crutches, but still limping everywhere. I still can't drive, and its a bitch walking up and down the stairs.


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