Blame it on the sub-conscious. It must have been resentfully absorbing the various twists and turns of two words for ages. Then recently all the pent up feelings burst into the consciousness triggered by the head honcho of Selangor. And then there was hell to pay, for myself that is.

You see Selangor Menteri Besar Dr Mohd Khir Toyo had used the word, 'thankful' in reference to his state being a whisper away from becoming the first to achieve developed status, and, my, my, she's 15 years ahead of her sisters.

Therefore, the residents of this most blessed state should be thankful.

You'd notice, among our politicians, it's either thankful or its big sister, grateful: the latter being the more popular. So the sub-conscious stirred both together and flung me into a wild swirling ride.

Suddenly there I was clinging to two feet with tears pouring copiously down my cheeks. I was shocked. Stunned. Unable to fathom my behaviour. Then my eyes slowly scanned upwards: and horror, the legs belonged to a vaguely familiar figure.

That's not the end of it. More horrors were to follow. I was spilling words I could not believe were issuing forth from my mouth.."Pleasepleaseplease, stand for elections, please," I was pleading, almost wailing in fact. Oh, the shame of it all!

Echoes came crashing onto my ears, startled, I looked around. As far as the eye could stretch there were scores of other supplicants like me: all in all a very muhibbah crowd, indeed. I was sweating profusely when I broke out of that nasty trance-like state. Wouldn't politicians simply love to be in that situation?

I mean I've never heard of or seen anybody anywhere pleading with anyone to become a candidate for any election. So why the slow drip drop Chinese torture of be grateful, be thankful? Why should we?

That's the occupation they chose freely, and if they don't like it the exit door is always at their service.

Rest assured, Sirs, the country won't fall apart in your absence.

Politicians owe a great debt of gratitude to the public, for allowing them gainful employment, that is, a chance to court power: that seductive treacherous mistress who has lured countless members of the high and mighty tribe down the slippery slope to perdition.

The meter reader

Among the faceless paymasters of politicians was the water meter reader who came visiting the other day. Clad in blue with a haunted look in his eyes and sporting beads of sweat, he announced his arrival by way of the door bell.

Before I opened the gate, he said: " Baca meter air boss, anjing sudah ikat ke ? (Read water meter, is the dog tied up). " Sudah ," (done) I replied.

" Semua rumah banyak complain, boss. Air kotor (A lot of from complaints from households. Water's dirty)," he said shaking his head.

"PUAS (Perbadanan Urus Air Selangor Bhd) ke?" I asked. " Ya, boss ." " Tak, puas eh ? (not satisfactory)". The puzzled look flashing across his face morphed into a wide grin as the bulb lit up over his head.

Once he had keyed in the details in his handheld computer, he turned to the printer. It didn't work: couple of practised thumps in quick succession persuaded the machine to cough up the piece of paper with a deathlike rattle.

Looking woebegone, he handed over the bill together with these parting words: "Sudah mohon banyak kali. Tapi tak ganti. (Applied many times. But still no replacement)."

I looked at his retreating back as the sun beat down on his bare head, and pity washed over me. That Selangor was just a snap of a finger away from developed status would be of supreme indifference to him.

In fact life must be such a grind that he wouldn't care a satay stick for such lofty intangible notions. They would, of course, be closest to the heart of those who tread the corridors of power which don't appear that safe anymore.

As I turned away from the gate, my gaze fell on the meter with a water filter attached to the pipe leading to the house. In the kitchen we've a couple more, one to handle the drinking water, and the other for the washing machine so what goes in does not come out dirtier than before.

Ah! for the days when we could drink right out of the tap. Now for whole generations it's absolutely normal to have filters in the house with bottled mineral water part of the accessory when leaving for work or play.

Then, of course, there is the other notorious fact of urban life. Vehicles that sound like Jamaican steel drums as they rock and roll over the haphazardly patched up potholed municipal roads.

At the next heavy downpour, the potholes would magically reappear; mute testimony to the value of developed status.

I'd better leave out the crime rate for time being. That'd be too overpowering.

The 'bodek' culture

That term 'gratitude' in the BN context looks forlorn and lonely. All by itself: attached to nothing. It has the feel of being part of a meaningless by rote ritual or a tag to reaffirm ones membership of a particularly circle.

"Look,'' it says silently," we've given you so many good things so look away when we do anything wrong." It's the long suffering taxpayers' right to point out the warts growing on the government's face. Or the snot hanging from their nostrils.

Gratitude is a bastard child of the bodek

culture as evidenced even at this early period of the Abdullah Ahmad Badawi or Pak Lah administration. The ardent adherents of that culture could swing into action without breaking stride during the changeover of administration.

They swing the incense pot and light candles before the replacement idol in the same shrine where the previous object of adoration sat, with the same enthusiastic undiminished ardour. Just read the newspapers and observe the wealth of adjectives that are poured on Pak Lah when a little over a year or two ago he was a grey figure for most: the poor man should fairly drown in embarrassment.

When the next general election is over and, presuming Pak Lah chalks up a convincing victory, these proponents of the political mainstream culture will find it next to impossible to adapt to a radically changing environment. That is assuming that the present course set by the PM holds steady.

They would be disorientated. Having dug themselves into the deep dark hole of self-censorship, how are they to crawl out into the light?

There are the party bosses and advertisers to please as well as the PR work for merchants and big businesses, never mind the readers, the suckers. Like the meter reader, lesser mortals are too busy, picking their way through the daily hassles or being distracted by them, to pay much heed to piteous cries for gratitude.

For some strange reason, the image of the meter reader with his nose tip decorated by a drop of sweat glistening in the sunlight has lodged itself in my brain. In a separate reality there are those who sweat it out in genteelly comfortable and exclusive surroundings. So, have the two words been purged? Hmmmm. NO.