Paradise (Not For Me)

Autour de moi
Je ne vois pas
Qui sont des anges
Surement pas moi
Madonna

It's still January. And already I'm feeling the tedium. Being shipped to the land of nothing happening for a week can do that. Helped along by a 3 hour postponement to my return flight (be thankful it's not an overnighter), thanks to Air Delaysia.

But oh, just when I thought I've made it back when along came the cab ride from... well, heaven.

We had barely left the airport when the cab driver turned to me and asked me how I performed my evening prayers in the plane.

Like... what?

My brain, all addled with lack oxygen, struggled to determine if I heard him right. After he repeated himself twice more, I realised his mistake.

"Oh, no... no...," I explained, "I'm not a Muslim."

But it didn't matter anyhow. I was in his cab, and I was in his mercy. Or perhaps in his God's mercy. I'm sure that's what he thought, that near-fanatic, chauvinistic zealot (beautiful women are filled with sin, as are singers - I was tempted to ask him about nasyid, but decided I shouldn't encourage him - and footballers; probably there'll be a special purgatory for JLo). I suppose he simply sees it as his duty and blessing to be able to preach to all his customers while they're helplessly stuck in his vehicle, but I'm honestly tired of people who have no respect of other people's beliefs.

Spare me your paradise. I just want to go home.