9am. The radio cackles with a blaring of static which comes down to a startling halt followed by frequencies of cymbals clanging, drums thundering and an eerily enthusiastic singing voice of a lady with the peak of her career somewhere in the 70s, reverberating throughout my dwellings. Mother begins with an uproar of festive music that wrangled me from my shut-eye, ever relentlessly so. My body flips around in a dazed manner, still trying to make sense of what happened in the glory morning. Its Chinese New Year, my house is decked in chaotic redness, glitzy golden glitter flashing in every corner of my eye, exuding the words “spring”, “prosperity”, “fortune”, as loud as a horribly tacky banner, trying to sell you some kind of extraordinary gimmick.