Chapter 2: Of Mannerisms

"You had plenty of bloody time to get here, didn't you?"

"Er...?" was all I could managed. Now it was Mark's turn to slap his forehead in disbelief. I feel that I must explain. You see, I am a bright girl. Yes, sir, I am, and don't give me that oh-really look. You want proof? I shall give you one. I have never obtained anything else than a B- for any of the tests that I have ever sat for (even trivia quizzes about the Beatles). You want more concrete proof? Here it is: a certificate. And not just any certificate, you hear: a certificate from Cambridge University, (Cambridge! The potency of that name!) declaring that I, Frances Crescone, have worked my lights out in the institute in order to be issued this sheet of paper in recognition of my field of study, which is art history. Yes, glorious art and names of painters! All I have memorised and they are embedded in my mind till this very day. I just don't like to mention their names out loud, that's all.

" 'Er?' " repeated Peter White, going very white and thin indeed around the lips.

"Yes, 'er'," quipped Mark unnecessarily.

I sighed heavily and fidgeted with my skirt (yes, pencil skirt for this silly little girl). "Look, Mr. White, I can't even begin to tell you how extremely - "

"Save it," cut Peter White and I was startled at such behaviour. Honestly, I know I was late, but it is very rude manners to - "And just so you should know, there isn't an Etiquettes Squad patrolling London. So don't bother with all the mannerism poop. Just makes you look more like a dingbat."

My jaw dropped, again. Am I really hearing all these atrocious words? I looked at Mark for help, but he seemed to have gone into temporary hibernation; I swear, he looks more completely zeroed out than anybody I have ever come across, even my 97-year-old grandfather, currently residing in the mentals' ward in a hospital right here in London (Then it suddenly hit me that I was charged with the holy task to visit him every Friday afternoon for tea. Oh, shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot!)

But I wasn't going, oh no, to let him get away with such - such crime! "Look here, Mr. White! I shall do as I please! And it will be up to me whether I want to stick to my so-called poop of a mannerism or not. Because it is not poop! It is the gift of civilisation. It is the mark of an educated person! Let there be mannerism! Let it live and thrive in this cold and cruel world!"

Peter White and, unfortunately, my own beloved brother, burst into roars of laughter worse than, I swear, the taxi driver from the embarrassing get-out-and-walk episode. And I wondered how Mark could have snapped back to reality at such inhuman speed, but now was not good time to ask him. I tried to protest as vehemently as I could (you do believe me, do you not, of the pressing need to have mannerism in our daily routine?) but, as is with people who have lost touch with the essence of civilisation, they ignored me. But the funny thing was they could not stop giggling and laughing and even sobbing and I had to sit on the pavement's edge to wait it all out.

"Done laughing?" I asked at last, in the snappiest manner that I could manage.

"Oh please, Miss Crescone," said Peter White, still trapped in the last echoes of concentrated ticklishness but apparently reaching soberity, "don't act as if you're wearing a corset and carrying a lace silk fan. This is a liberal London. Liberated from all mannerism, you hear me?" Then he yelled to no one in particular, "Can I get an amen?"

"AMEN!"

He shrugged back at me. "So you see."

I shook my head furiously. "No, it's not meant to be like this! I'm telling you that you're wrong. And I pity you, indeed, Mr. White, for having fallen over to the dark side, where the true, pure light of all things good can no longer touch your tainted soul!"

"Fran in debater mode," muttered Mark and he duly shrank a bit from my sheer wrath, my alter ego, my evil twin that has only ever emerged during the throes of my debating passion - a profile that has only one aim: to defeat the opponent at any cost.

"Pity?" scoffed Peter White, grinning. "No need to pity me, Crescone. No pity for this liberated Londoner! Can I get another amen?"

"AMEN!"

"Oh?" I retaliated. "And suppose humans do not stay by mannerism? Would Jesus have achieved such widespread popularity in Christianity till now, to this very day, Christians make up a good large part of the world? Would Muhammad the Prophet have ever succeeded to build his holy kingdom, and from there grew the Islamic empire till it becomes, till the modern era, a force to be reckoned with? Heck, Mr. White, had Ashoka himself have gotten himself so well-loved by his people and thus able to bring unity to his colossal nation if he had not discovered noble Buddhism, of which the very basis is all about keeping your head and feet and toe, or whatever, all about you and be polite to others? How would you argue that? Hmm?"

"Yeah!" said Mark.

"Things are different today, Miss Crescone. Today, no one CAN BE BOTHERED!" he said the last three words to me as if I was a stubborn two-year-old. "If Donald Trump had bothered with being nice to one another, would he have had the courage to flatten his enemies and emerge the one-and-only the Donald? Don't need to look far, just look at Richard Branson. Wouldn't you agree that buying one whole island is being no manners, since this will rule out the possibility of that island to form an independent country? But if he didn't buy it, would he have gotten the money to invent the amphibian car? If nincompoops like you made up the majority of the world, nothing new would ever get discovered, all right? Sounds good to you?"

"Yeah, to you too!"

"Of course it doesn't!" I replied with gritted teeth. "If Mr. Bush had bothered to stay by mannerism, could those poor people in Iraq and Afghanistan and the such be pushed to such extreme levels of poverty and suffering till senselessness? Those people have been robbed of their rights for wholesome lives. It is incredibly, unbelievably rude to do so, to simply intrude into a free country and, in an instant, transform that country into a wasteland! It is a blatant breach of mannerism, a breach of ethics and a total lack of awareness about humanity and what it is really all about. Humanity and mannerism co-exist with one another! Without mannerism, could there be order in the lives of humans? And without order, we would all be barbarians, running around in nothing but as little animal skins as possible! And it's already starting, mark my words! Beginning with you!"

"YEAH, GIRL!"

"SHUT UP!" both Peter White and I yelled at Mark together (actually I said 'KEEP QUIET').

We glared at each other for some time, and I could feel something despicable boiling up inside of me: a certain degree of fury that seethed and writhed and bubbled in a pot filled with stew of short tempers, deliberate annoyance at one another, and the urge to just disagree with whatever the opposite party will say. I hated that feeling, but I couldn't help myself! I just couldn't!

Then Mark, bless his happy-go-lucky soul, actually had the nerve to chirp: "What?"

The tension was shattered. I looked away from Peter White, still enraged and hot and bothered, but I slowly realised what I had just done. I had actually picked a fight with my landlord; and I'd chosen to do it before he handed over the keys, before the contract of tenancy had even been signed! And if that was not bad enough, this particular landlord was a man who was younger than me by, say, 5 years minimum? And women were supposed to mature faster than men! I squeezed my eyes shut and prepared for the worst-case scenario. I could go stay with Mark, I suppose, although it would probably be a bit crowded, and perhaps I should look for another job other than the one that I have now (strictly temporary only until London is no longer the Lost World of Tambun to me!!!) as a waitress in a (quite stylish, I heard) restaurant on the opposite side of the river named Hyacinthe.

Where I am due to report in about one hour's time.

Shite!

"Er, urm, listen, can we, you know, get this done quick?" I glanced at my watch to indicate urgency, "I have to, you know, go to work in an hour, and I, er, need to be early this time, and - "

"So what?" said Peter White (almost as expected, really). "Let them wait, just like I did."

I felt my anger flying back into me quicker than I could think of: 'Blast you', but I suppressed it anyway. Instead, I put on my best smile. "Please, Mr. White, can I sign the papers and receive the keys because I simply will not tolerate being late for a sceond time?"

He grinned in a most annoying way, indeed. "You'll have to do better than that, Crescone."

Now I am done 'suppressing temper'. "You - !" was all I could say before I tackled him, pinned him to the ground (useful skill I'd practiced with Mark as children) and, to put it simply, yanked his coat away from his struggling body and ransacked its pockets while I sat on him, oblivious of my own weight and his rather thin frame. And all the while, Mark was shaking uncontrollably with mad laughter. As I was busy emptying his pockets for the necessary papers and keys, I did not notice that he had stopped struggling, and was now grinning up at an oblivious me, laughing at some points and breathing heavily. Mark went completely out of his mind, trying to both laugh and call my name.

"Fran - Frrrraaann..." he finally croaked out (Mark, that is).

"What?" I barked back at him.

He pointed at where I was sitting on Peter White and turned away, laughing, and that accursed landlord laughed as well, in short breaths, that is. I looked down and yelped. My drawers were all exposed for everyone to see (and none had better view than said landlord) and I was sitting right on his - you know what!

"Shite!" I yelled and quickly leapt to my feet. "Oh my goodness, what just happened?"

"Free service, that's what," said Peter White, getting to his feet and grinning like a maniac. "And I must thank you for making my day, Miss Crescone. Here's your reward." He reached into his jeans pocket and was about to give me something, but I, thinking that it was money or some useless trinket (yes, I am a certified madwoman), flung at his hand so hard and abruptly that the thing flew out of his grasp and right into a grilled manhole.

I saw the glint of metal and the sound of jingling and clinking that only a certain object could possess: keys.

I gasped in horror and covered my mouth with my hand. What had I done? All thought of anger, or shame, or even confusion, fled from me as my gaze flew rapidly between Peter White's wide-eyed face and the grilled manhole. There was only one thing that I felt now: fear.

Fear from losing a flat, fear from losing a job, and fear from... I don't know - losing his interest?

What am I thinking? But it's true: I could see it in his eyes, the look of disbelieving and bewilderment. And I didn't like that to be directed at me.

I was close to tears and sinking to my knees when suddenly, he grinned and, will you believe it, shaking with laughter. I stared at him incredulously. "What? What's so funny?"

His other hand, curled up in a fist, appeared from another trouser pocket and he opened it. Sitting right in the middle of his palm was a set of metal trinkets more valuable to me than platinum.

Something that we also know as spare keys.