One morning the young mother came to see me again regarding a matter concerning her recently-deceased son. I was rather irritated with her entreaty. At first, she just made a request, then she moved on to making a proposal and finally she begged by kneeling down in front of me to ask for a special favour: to provide her poor son with a place in the high burial ground set aside for the elite.  

My husband had a one-week business trip planned with his colleagues to Vientiane. We had only been married for a short time, so even a few days apart felt like a struggle for me. When he saw how upset I was he hesitated before saying: "Maybe you could go with me? Consider it a holiday? I don't think anyone on the delegation would have a problem with that."

"Hurry up! Yesterday, you were thirty minutes late. You don't want your wages to be cut, do you?" urged the young man's colleague ‘Phuc the Fat'. "Yes, I know, I know. It'll only take me five minutes to get there. Five minutes to get through the next intersection…," thought the young delivery boy. Hardly had he finished his statement when a speeding bus nearly hit the handle of his motorbike.

"Sorry, we're fully booked as of yesterday. You should have placed your order much earlier. We'll be happy to serve you next Christmas; you should call at least one week in advance," said the public relations officer. His tone was polite and sympathetic. The receiver in Quyen's hand seemed heavier than usual. It was her thirty-first call, which was also the last possibility on the Gift Services page of the telephone directory.