The Fight

Dear Xander,

So we sort of had a fight, you and I. As father and son, these things happen. In the history of you and I, these things usually happen. But I’m noting this one down as unique because of how this ended, and because you’re only 3 3/4 years old now, I want to make sure you know what happened.

We had just gotten off the bus near your grandma’s house when you saw a food stall. I knew you were hungry because you hadn’t had dinner yet, but I also knew your grandma usually cooks for an army when she hears you, your mother and I were coming over, so I told you, “No. Grandma cooked for you already, so we need to have dinner there. You can’t snack before.”

Naturally you started throwing a tantrum. You got angry with me for insisting, you shouted at me, you even hit me with your right fist. And I have taught you before, if you beat anyone, you must expect to be beaten back. Your father is no exception.

I understood that public displays of parental discipline tends to attract unwanted attention, particularly in an old HDB estate with a number of feisty elderly residents, so I removed ourselves from the bus stop into a quieter corner and proceeded to “time-out” corner you. Your mother was not around at the time, so I took the opportunity to see if I could resolve this situation with you by myself, where previously she would have stepped in to reason with you.

You were stubborn, as expected. As you stood there, I tried to reason with you, but as a man, I know I don’t tend to go soft and my voice was coming across as stern chiding more than compromising. Your anger got worse, and you hit me again a couple more times before I took your right hand and slapped it.

Of course, you cried. Loud. Then you said the words any three-year-old boy would say to unintentionally break the heart of any parent.

“I don’t like you any more! I want you to go away!”

Of course, it wasn’t the first time I heard it, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t mind it. I replied, “Fine. Let’s go find mummy now and I’ll just leave you with her for the night so you don’t have to see me. Will you be happy then?”

You didn’t answer. I started packing up the bags we had so we could set off to grandma’s house.

Then you bolted. And you were heading towards the main road.

I dropped everything and went after you. Times like this make me very glad you’re only three, because my legs were much longer than yours. I caught you by the arms and swept you back into the same place we were before. Then I looked you in the eyes and said some things that almost immediately turned the tables on our disagreement.

“Don’t you ever run away from me like that. Look at where you are. We’re right next to the main road. Look at all the cars. What’s going to happen if one hits you? I don’t care if you’re angry with me, or I’m angry with you, I will protect you. As long as Daddy lives, if you run away from me like that, I will catch you, because as long as I live, I will do everything I can to make sure you do not get hurt, do you understand? Even if you’re angry with me, or if I’m angry with you, I will still love you. Even if you beat me, I will still love you. Even if you say you don’t like me any more, I will still love you. Do you understand?”

You remained silent. But you were no longer angry. Your eyes softened as you looked at me, and I knew you understood every single word I said.

I started picking up the bags again, and this time you didn’t run; you just continued to stand there, looking at me. When I was ready, I turned to you and asked, “So? What do you want to do now?”

You took a step closer to me and said, “I want bao-bao.”

With one laptop bag slung to my side, and your 2 schoolbags on each arm, I lifted you up on my chest and you clung on me like a koala bear. And we Walked the rest of the way to grandma’s house.

Now I know you understand parental love.


Singapore as a Cycle of Life: A National Day Special

Dear Xander,

At the time I write this letter, you have made it known to your mother and I that you have a love-hate relationship with Singapore. At the time I write this letter, though, you associate the word “Singapore” with the National Day Parade. That justifies an explanation to you about what National Day really means. And to simplify the explanation, I’m going to use the human life cycle as an analogy for highlights in Singapore’s history from independence to present day, because the things that happened every decade that this country sees through reminds me of the milestones I see you going through.

1965: Birth

20120731-172411.jpgThe birth of every child begins with crying. It is a moment where harsh reality hits your fragile, naked body, an activation of all senses to the sudden reality of your surroundings, a sudden onslaught of pain from the air, the light, the sounds around you. But as much as a newborn baby’s very first moment is a reaction to the confusion, it is also a call of survival, a cry that informs everyone around you that you are in fact alive, and you’re planning to stay that way.

1965-1975: Infancy

This was the decade when a tiny, vulnerable country learned about the world, and how to deal with it. Just as a baby develops its immune system through nourishment and love, Singapore looked within to build its defences.

It was only natural that we would try to cover our bases and build a foundation. I believe this was the time a popular analogy was created; that if all the people from any one of our neighbours were to come over and each person so much as spit on us, our island would drown.

And so the baby grew.

1975-1985: Toddlerhood
While the physical body grows in strength and immunity, your mother and I know to keep you safe and strong, to teach you about avoiding danger and to confront it, to ensure you know how to deal with people, and to take care of yourself.

Our country developed the same sensibilities, went through the same lessons and learned above all, how to take care of itself. We started understanding what to do, developed our 5 pillars of Total Defence, and made doubly sure we could convince people to invest in us, just like how you always ask us for $1 coins to operate kiddy rides.

But some things we still couldn’t understand, and didn’t know how to handle. So we let raw instinct take over. It didn’t turn out so well.
1995-2005: Childhood

We started playing harder. We tried to be artistic, develop a sense of humour, tried to open up a little with opinions. But our “parents” didn’t really like it.

We shut up, for a while, until we couldn’t really stand the silence any more.

2005-Today: Teenage Angst

We learnt how to use the computer, read up on the Internet, knew more, and spoke out more. It isn’t the prettiest of sights, seeing kids grow up this fast, and to be frank, a little hard to accept sometimes. But we were growing wings, and our parents are finding it increasingly hard to stop us from saying what we wanted, doing what we wanted, and essentially, growing up into adults.

Indeed, the 2006 Elections saw a renaissance of social and political consciousness, possibly spurred on by what had happened to one intrepid blogger who thought it appropriate to speak against authority. Sometimes we would have a great sense of humour, sometimes we wouldn’t. But we were always cynical, and always questioning authority – and questioning ourselves.

I don’t need an image to show you the teenage angst, this search for our own identity, the beginnings of understanding who we really are, and coming to grips with knowing our parents aren’t always right. You’re looking at it right now, in your computer screen. It’s the Internet – your Facebook account, government gazetted socio-political websites that don’t really care that they’re government gazetted, bloggers that care, bloggers that don’t, and even bloggers that don’t know what’s going on in the first place.

Just look around.

We’re living in the teenage years of Singapore, and I have to tell you, it’s as interesting and stimulating as the teenage years that I remember.

Happy National Day, son.



Chasing Dreams

Dear Xander,

By this point in reading you may have realized your dad kind of likes to write. The truth is, as with all hobbies, I never thought I could make a living out of it.

In Primary Three, I won a composition contest in school for writing about a dog I didn’t have. I won a small paperback novel with the A-Team on the cover which I never read, and I never thought about it again until I was in the tail end of secondary school. Back then, my mother wanted me to be a doctor. Back then, I just wanted a dog.

I also mentioned my secondary school journal that kick-started my foray into writing. Back then, I never took it as a sign that wordsmithing was a viable career path. Back then, I just wanted to play guitar and charm the pants off girls.

I got influenced by the legal industry when I was a fledgling young adult doing transcription work for the Supreme Court of Singapore. The work required correcting grammar whilst ensuring the meaning of witness testimonials and cross-examinations by lawyers and judges alike were kept intact. Back then, the job didn’t scream out at me that I was good at writing; back then I was just paid to be a grammar Nazi.

I did a Mass Communications diploma and did exceptionally well at my Written Communication module. The lecturer of the day awarded me my distinction and subsequently an academic book prize for top scorer on the module, on the basis that I had a good head on my shoulders, a good heart and a penchant for leadership. When I quizzed him as an aside as to why he would consider me for such an honour, he told me that by my words, I held the power to change the world. I suspected he barely read what I was writing. Back then, my achievement was suspect to me; back then, I turned into my own biggest critic and repressed my own ambition.

Since graduating with diploma in hand, I took on marketing work, business development work, logistics work, computer work, human resources work, renovation work (interestingly, all in the same job and company), and subsequently went back to legal administration work. Everything I did had an element of requiring good writing, but none substantial enough for me to consider doing it exclusively. Back then, I tried everything, gained a lot of experience and led a very fulfilling career. Back then, I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t know why.

It took a simple couple of sentences from your mother, repeated about 2-3 times over the course of the last 3 years (since you were born, actually) to make me get off my arse and find out exactly what was causing this rut that I had been in. She said to me, “I would rather you be well-fed and happy than hungry and angry. When you’re happy, Xan and I are happy; that is the simple truth.”

I traced back her words, and tried to find out what really made me happy. I was always happiest just being your dad, but in the situation your mother and I were in career-wise, being a full-time dad wasn’t going to pay the bills.

Then I thought, what if it did? What if I could find a way to be a dad, and get paid for doing it as well?

When we found out your mum was preggers with you, we bought a lot of books, magazines, scoured through websites that ran content from parenting experts and parents that gave good advice. It took me another year after you were born to realize that all this reading material we were devouring in an effort to find out how to raise you, was produced by people who get paid to write about how to raise you.

I tried it. In a bid to find my voice, I started to write again, first with my own personal blog. I wanted to see if I was good enough to get published, so I started writing freelance for some publications. I wanted to share my writing with you, so I started writing letters to you. Then I wanted to share my experience and research in raising you with others, so I came up with my own parenting blog for fathers. Finally, I looked for a way to get paid for it, and did the only thing guys like me know what to do when they want to get paid for something – I sent out resumes.

It took a good two years of trial and error, carrying the stress of changing jobs, running the risk of unemployment and further unhappiness while doing it, learning from mistakes and training to be patient, but come August, I will be a writer who can feed his family and still talk all day about you.

It’s a dream that took 21 years to compose, draft, edit, redraft, re-edit and finally publish. It’s a dream that took 10 years to chase and 2 years to bring into reality. Most importantly, it’s a dream that had to be chased, because for all the times I never tried something because I was too scared to fail, this dream has taught me that expecting, confronting and experiencing failure is essential to any meaningful endeavour, and MUST be expected, confronted and experience to succeed.

I’m telling you all this because I know at some point, you will be pondering your ambition, and in the process, you will be wondering about your dream. As far as your parents are able, we will help you through anything you want to do, but you have to be happy doing it. And if it means chasing a dream not thought possible – not even by your mother and I – show your conviction and commitment to your cause and no army in the world can stand between you and the life you want to lead.



Note: I do apologies for the slight lack of updates and photos recently; the past 3 weeks, I found out that changing jobs takes up quite a massive amount of time.

The Family Vacation

Note: I understand Nuffnang sent out an e-mail inviting bloggers to First World Genting in July. I’d just like to clarify that this isn’t a participating blog post. We went on this trip before Nuffnang sent out its notification, so this isn’t a tie-in/advertorial/sponsored post (mainly because I didn’t think very much of the place, unfortunately).

Dear Xander,

I’m writing this at 3am, at the lobby of the First World Hotel in Genting Highlands.

The 3-star hotel, together with its theme park, shopping mall and just about every amenity it holds in its autumn-temperature environ, is truly a step back in time – the whole place looks and feels like a not-very-maintained 70’s bourgeois retail complex 40 years past its prime yet still stubbornly hanging on to its vintage grandeur.

Your mother and I, as well as the rest of your mother’s family that are 20 years of age and above, are barely surviving with our sanity intact, having to make sure that the parts of our family that are aged 20 and below are having the time of their lives this school holidays.

You and your cousins have hopefully had the times of your lives this school holidays, though it is evident that through your sore lack of sleep amidst all the fun activities, screaming bouts with each other and crying fits to go home that things aren’t quite as rosy as we would hope.

Experienced parents of pre-schoolers will know and understand that family vacations are as great a gamble as the entertainment that the casinos in this grand dame of a resort offers; we walk into the whole thing hoping for the best, despite understanding the odds, and often don’t quite get the results we expect. Sometimes we win something, sometimes we just get more grief out of trying, but always leave with a little more experience in the pockets we burn in the process.

But the same experienced parents will also have accepted that from the day their first child is born, the word “vacation” will never be the same again. Your mother and I made the commitment that you are now the reason we do what we do and live how we live. We put our own time, endeavours, and lives into ensuring you learn, experience and live in the safest, most enriching and most enjoyable childhood that we can humanly provide. Parenthood for us is knowing, accepting and acting upon the reality that you are the future. You are our future.

Your dad is not a gambler of money; I have never put my finances on any form of high-risk investment game, not even 4D or Toto. But I do gamble with my parenting methods when it comes to being your father, because it teaches me much more about how being your dad works than I teach you how the world works. And unlike the consistency of odds in any casino game, the odds I get better at being your dad get better and better at every single turn.

I’ve walked through every inch of the casino here at First World Genting, and I never once saw a single smiling face. but just coming back to our hotel room and seeing your face makes me smile, as does every other moment spent with you. You’re the biggest gamble I’ve ever taken in my life, and the payout’s been bigger than any jackpot prize any machine in any casino anywhere. Better still, this payout will last your mother and I a lifetime; we just have to keep doing what we do best.

Love you.


We Were All Kids Once

Dear Xander,

As you may have experienced by now, your dad isn’t perfect. I mean, sure, I have some level of authority on certain issues. Like how you need to eat over your bowl so if bits of your food drop out of your spoon/fork/mouth, the bowl will catch it and you can try again. Or if you’re going to bounce a ball in the living room, don’t hit the TV, or your mum, or for heaven’s sake, don’t aim for between my legs.

You know, that kinda thing.

But your dad was a kid once, too. And kids sometimes learn things the hard way, or they learn how to get away with learning things (which in itself is a very handy skill for working smart). Your dad’s done his fair share of both:

  • When I was in Primary 5, I was called up to stage by my discipline master during an assembly hall talk for talking too loudly and making a nuisance. After I got on stage, he took out a metre-long wooden ruler intending to carry out an impromptu public caning on me as punishment. I realised what was happening, and proceeded to run all over the stage with him chasing me for a good 2 minutes until he gave up and shouted at me to sit back down with my class. I no longer know nor recognise any of my primary schoolmates, but from the number of encounters I have with some of them, they sure do remember me.
  • By the time I was in my 3rd year of secondary school education, I had a chain of crushes for a grand total of 23 times, with a plethora of girls I never had the guts to say hi to.
  • I once tried skateboarding down a 30-metre road on a 25-degree slope on my way to school. I didn’t make it to school that day.
  • When I was doing my A-levels, I would always reach school between 9.30am-11am; school starts at 7am. I’d avoid the discipline master by jumping across a large canal that flanked the right side of the school, and then scale a 3-metre high wire fence to get in. One time, I got noticed by a class on the 3rd floor as I was climbing the fence, and didn’t know I was being watched until I dismounted – I was suddenly given a round of applause by the entire class watching me from their classroom window – together with their teacher.
  • When I was still living with my parents, I once had to hide my girlfriend in my wardrobe after she spent the night in my room because I didn’t want your grandparents to find out I was dating a girl. Your grandparents found out anyway.
  • In my secondary school graduating year, our English teacher made us keep a journal of our daily experiences which she would mark at the end of every week. I made more than a few entries describing my English teacher in many colorful terms of endearment, as “uptight”, “sorry excuse for a human being” and a “spawn of Satan”. One week my English teacher called me up to her office and said she read everything – and loved it. She made it her mission to groom me in speaking, writing and thinking in English.

Sometimes we might forget you’re just a kid – you are just growing up so fast – and kids can do things that are stupid, brash, and unthinkable. Sometimes we forget that we were once kids, too. I can’t quite speak for your mum (you and I both know she’s always right, right?), but I know I’ve done stupid, brash and unthinkable things before.

But you know what? It’s okay to be stupid. It’s okay to be brash. It’s okay to do the unthinkable. It’s taken your father 34 years to realise that this is a learning process we’ve all experienced, are still going through now, and if we’re fortunate, never grow out of. Because if we survive, we can learn from our mistakes, become more courageous with every leap of faith, and when we set out to do the unthinkable, more often than not we can end up achieving the impossible.

Enjoy your childhood,


Don’t Be Shy, Seriously

Some of you may have heard about this on my Facebook page. I reproduced my post here, with a second part of the incident that I haven’t shared.

Dear Xander,

Daddy’s going to tell you a story.

A blind lady is standing at a crowded bus stop in Clarke Quay. I walk up and ask if anyone is assisting her. She says no. So we introduce ourselves and talk a little while waiting for her bus.

Turns out she’s been standing at the same spot every weekday at 6pm for the last 3 months, waiting for a bus she cannot see, and most of the time, too shy to ask for help.

I tell her, “I’ll try to be here at this bus stop at 6pm every day, to help you get into your bus.”

This should be a lesson in compassion, but it isn’t. As far as your dad is concerned, the act is nothing out of the ordinary; it’s not done out of kindness. If anything, it’s a practical thing to offer for a person in need, from a person who can.

This is a lesson in being thick-skinned.

Today’s world doesn’t support shyness any more. We’re all so comfortable putting our entire lives on Facebook, Twitter and blogs – right down to what you’re eating and where you’re eating it – why not dispense with the shyness and just ask if someone needs help when you see they might need it, or ask for help when you really need it?

There is a second part to this story, with a different moral attached to it.

As the bus came and I guided her aboard, she tapped her EZ-Link card and proceeded to the one-person seat right behind the driver (I assume this is her preferred seat, as it is closest to the driver, who can inform her and guide her down when the bus has reached her destination).

Occupying the seat was a rather unkempt old man with a fair amount of bags and belongings. By the time I had tapped my EZ-Link card, the blind lady asked the old man if he could vacate the seat for her. Oddly, the old man looked flustered, and shuffled in his seat nervously, as though he wasn’t quite prepared to move. I was surprised, and as we waited for the old man to get his bearings, he motioned to the other one-person seat opposite his, and motioned for the young woman seated there to vacate her seat instead, to which the young woman immediately obliged.

I didn’t think much of it; he was after all an old man, and by the amount of things he was carrying around it, it seemed more practical to find another passenger who had less trouble moving. As the blind lady got seated and the bus moved off, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see the old man looking at me apologetically.

It took a couple of seconds to realise, the old man had tapped me with the arm he had; his other arm was missing, and by the looks of the bandaged remnant, recently amputated. I quickly smiled and reassured him that everything was okay, then proceeded to kick myself mentally for being blind to the fact that there was more than 1 disabled person on the bus.

There are always people out there who will need help, more people than you’d expect, and more help than you think. While this might sound a little daunting, remember this: you were born in good health, all limbs attached, a good head on your shoulders and a good heart in your soul (your mother and I am constantly trying to make sure of that). When someone needs help, you help. Don’t wait to be asked, because too often people don’t ask. Don’t look the other way, when you know it’s within your ability and power. Don’t assume someone else will do it, because for all you know, everyone else is assuming the same thing, and then no one will do it.

So help when help is needed, and ask for help when you need it. Don’t be shy – it’s a horrible justification to shun a time of need.

And take it one step further – be conscious of who and what is around you, and help when you can, not when you’re asked to. Because sometimes people can’t see that you’re there to help.



What You Should Do When I Die

Dear Xander,

I am 34 years old right now. By the time you turn 21, I will be 52, and when you come to be my age right now, I should be 65.

Thankfully, because of the way this country is run right now, by the time you turn 34, I should still have a good 10 years left before I retire. This means not only that I can still probably provide for the family, I can probably also have paid off the family debt and also for my funeral expenses. What I’m bequeathing to you after I die will depend on how far I’ve been able to save by the time I’m about to croak, so I’ll leave that for later.

Right now though, I want to pass down to you my instructions on the more pressing matter how to deal with my passing.

First: The moment I stop breathing, stay calm and compose yourself. No point crying, feeling sad or grieving for at least the next few days, because I got to be honest with you, your dad can’t help you when he’s dead. You need to be strong for the span of time it takes to do what I need you to do. So man up.

Two: find me a casket, and don’t cheap out. I need a good quality box with clean lines (if Apple made caskets, I want that one) and a cushy interior. Depending on whether I look good when I die, get something with a window. If I died after getting hit by something in the face, then don’t bother. Put a clip-on fan in there as well, if they don’t have one installed; I hate being warm. And make sure you put the pillow I sleep on every night to support my head; if I’m going to rest in peace, I need to at least sleep with the smell of my own pillow. If the pillow doesn’t fit into the head of the casket, cut it and remove a bit of the stuffing. I don’t mind, it’s only going to be there a couple of days anyway.

Three: the way the plan goes, I probably won’t be seeing anyone or anything until you’re going into step 4, so be a dear and get my earphones and a long-life music player (or plug it into a charging outlet together with the clip-on fan), load up some songs into it, put the thing on shuffle and plug the phones into my ears. I like Dream Theater, Rage Against the Machine, Daft Punk, Katy Perry and all the songs from Dishwalla’s first album. If you know where I keep my music collection and the music player can handle the storage, better still.

Four: DO NOT give me a funeral wake – no prayers, no incense, no burning of offerings (if it turns out they have an economy where I’m going I’ll e-mail you and let you know). I want a funeral PARTY – with luck, I will have pre-arranged a booking for one night with a restaurant that has a good 8-course menu, a bar, a good collection of beer, liquor and soft drinks and allows us to put a casket with a dead person in it on their premises for one evening, so all you need to do for the party is get balloons for the kids (if helium still exists by then), and prepare appropriately selected goodie bags. Also, make sure you let the guests know to come in their Chow Yun Fatt/Leslie Cheung Shanghai Night best (suits or suspenders for the men, cheongsams for the ladies); it was the theme your mother and I chose when we did our wedding dinner.

If I didn’t manage to pre-book all these things before my passing, put me in a freezer and get everything ironed out before the day. Just remember to thaw me out for a day or two before everything is ready. I don’t want to look like a popsicle during the party.

You might also want to let your guests know to package their ang pows like they do for a wedding; remember we’re doing this in a restaurant, not a bloody void deck.

Five: Try to relax. Feel free to laugh and joke through the night about me, about yourself, about anything and everything; I will leave it to you to freestyle your way through the party, but just make sure it’s fun, okay? My humour was my best asset, and I want people to remember that. Of course, if anyone (including yourself) needs to cry at any point, don’t stop them, but keep it to tears of joy if you can. All I want is for you guys to be happy and have fun.

Six: When everything is over and the last guests have gone, grab yourself a couple of beers and a chair, then come sit next to me. Put one beer on my casket, and have the other beer with me. Talk to me. Whatever you want to say. Anything at all. I know I can’t reply, and I’m sorry. I really really want to, but, you know, me being dead and all. But please, do it anyway. I want to just listen. I just want you to know I will always listen. For as long as you want. For as often as you want. Just talk to me.

Seven: Inevitably, the time will come when my physical carbon-based self will need to be dealt with. Bury me if you can, but if you can’t, cremate me. I won’t ask that you put me at home – that will probably totally freak your visitors out; just put me in a nice place you can always visit. And always visit.

Eight: Now you can grieve. Don’t bother with people who tell you, “He’s gone. Move on.” Grieving is a very important part of emotional wellbeing and must not be slighted. And for your information, you should know better, especially after that talk with me after the funeral party; I am not gone. I will never be gone. You move, I move. That’s the deal I made with you since you were born, and I fully plan to stick to that deal.

Finally, there’s a very good chance your mother will outlive me for another couple of decades, so take good care of her. I’m trusting you with my wife, so don’t screw it up. I will be watching you.

I will always be watching.



Your Web 2.0 Life

Dear Xander,

At 3 years of age, you have yet to understand the extent of the online presence you may have.

3 days after you were born, I saw fit to provide you with the Holy Trinity of the Web 2.0 world of my time; I decided to register a Google account under your name, create a Facebook profile and even a Twitter account for you.

When you turned 3, I decided to register a domain name for your birthday present, and was booked in your honour (as is, in case you wanted to be lazy). That is also essentially how Dear Xander came to be.

Recently, I went one step further to do up a Facebook page for Dear Xander, so as to properly differentiate the network of readers with your own social network of people you’ve met and know.

But why would I do all this?

Some people may wonder if this is merely an act of parental vanity, or a father’s means of commoditizing your life. But I did all this for a few very practical reasons.

While the Google account was primarily set up to reserve a proper e-mail account for your mother and I to receive information directly related to you, just about everything else was created to ensure .

Your Facebook profile was created so you may have a reference point for listing and looking up the people you’ve met and got to know pretty much your entire life.

Your Twitter account, though rarely used, may provide you with a more efficient way to keep you updated with – as well as for you to update – the world.

Your domain name was in large part to provide you with a more traditional (Web 1.0) online identity for you to use as you wished when you grow up; create an online portfolio if you decide on pursuing a creative career, provide information on yourself or what you do on the public domain if you so wish, or just put up anything you want for personal interest. As far as the world wide web is concerned, the possibilities are quite endless.

This blog was set up to make sure both you and I remember how we grew up together as father and son. It was meant for you to remember how much I love you, and for me to remember how proud and happy you made me.

And the Facebook page tied to this blog is for you to hopefully see one day that you are not alone, that you have not only the love of your parents, but the love of a whole community of people spread all around you – some whom you know, and some whom you don’t – all brought together by reading about you and the things you learned, did and achieved.

As well-intentioned as all this may be, however, I do realise that as with all things, the permanence of these online entities is not assured by any means. Twitter may go offline, Facebook may fail as an outdated business model and Google might shut down, and then this letter may not even make sense 10, or even 5 years down the road.

But if the status quo may be sustained for the duration of your entry into adolescence or adulthood, I am going to try and keep all this online stuff of yours alive and running until you find out about it (which I have no doubt you will very quickly, looking at the amount of attention your name has been drawing online).

I’ve hopefully set you up well for you to begin living your life. Soon, I will need your help to set me up for the end of mine; I’m planning out my will to be placed in one of these letters to you.