Compulsive Clickers

“We’re visiting a museum this evening,” my Korean colleague announced grandly during a recent meeting in Seoul.

“What kind of museum?” I asked, excited at the prospect of perhaps seeing ancient Korean relics.

“That’s a surprise,” she said.

Aha! I thought, we’re going to the National Museum of Korea, known for national treasures like the Pensive Bodhisattva statue and the Gyeongcheonsa Ten-Story Pagoda.

Therefore my disappointment was acute when we entered a building filled entirely with gruesome objects: drawings on the floor, portraits with parts jutting out in an unseemly manner and sculptures in grotesque postures. It is called the Trick Eye Museum, the trick being to place yourself in close juxtaposition to each object and have a picture taken by your companion and then reciprocate the favour by taking their picture. These pictures will capture you doing odd things like picking coins being poured on to the floor by a character in a picture; standing on top of a huge can of Coke; interacting with an animal protruding from the wall; and eating food being offered by some idiot in a portrait. I had myself photographed in a couple of silly situations but on the whole, the Trick Museum left me feeling tricked.

A bright disaster

While I have sometimes been led astray in my shopping – like when a careless flight attendant recommended a watch for my daughter without first ascertaining her age – and therefore made bloomers that have provided merriment to the family, my wife has always had the devil’s own luck in shopping. She manages to buy stuff that, somehow or the other, turns out to be really nice (eliciting responses like “Oooh! What a pretty dress – thank you, Amma!” from our daughter).

But a few days ago, she compensated for years of chic sophistication with one mighty blunder when she had the light in our living room changed. We were expecting guests for dinner and I had dutifully stopped on the way back from office to buy drinks and nuts. It was dark outside when I reached home, but when I entered the door it was like stepping into the afternoon sun.

“Whoa!” I said. I looked up at the ceiling light in the living room and was blinded.

“Hi!” Normally my wife’s voice clearly rings through the house and into the corridor outside. But I barely heard her this time – her voice was so subdued. And thanks to being blinded by the light, I could barely see her too. The vague blur in front of me might have been her or the cupboard.

I took out my sunshades from my bag and wore them. “Ah, there you are. Why the razzle-dazzle?”

“Is it too bright?” She sounded distressed. “I called Achai –” our electrician-plumber-handyman and frequent house visitor “– because the earlier light wasn’t bright enough. He suggested we change to a more transparent lampshade and brighter bulbs.”

The living room was lit up like a football stadium on the night of the Champions League Football finals. I could almost hear the roar of the crowds.