Sunday, April 30, 2006
Going Global
It is all too easy to be dissatisfied with our lives, all too easy to wish for more, to desire to be stronger, smarter, prettier. Generally this dissatisfaction arises from comparison- we look around and see the success of others, and suddenly, all our talents and blessings pale in the face of others'. We find ourselves terribly wanting and all at once, every facet of our lives is tainted with discontent. What was formerly deemed as a gift mocks us with its imperfection. Little blessings are brushed aside. Small shortcomings transform into glaring inadequacies. Happiness, as we then discover, is relative.
But is it really?
If we step back and take a more global, more holistic view of things, we realise how much we have been blessed with. We don't have to live in constant fear of persecution, don't have to worry about next month's rent, don't even have to give a thought about where our next meal is coming from. We have proper sanitation, clean water, nice houses, proper education and even enough to spare for the occassional pampering at spas or indulging our gastronomic passions.
We are blessed beyond measure.
But it's so easy to forget though, isn't it? Especially in the midst of our exams, in the midst of our "sufferings", how blessed we really are.
And so this reflection serves as a timely reminder-whether it be a happy, carefree day, or a long, exhasuting one, I must remember to be grateful.
But is it really?
If we step back and take a more global, more holistic view of things, we realise how much we have been blessed with. We don't have to live in constant fear of persecution, don't have to worry about next month's rent, don't even have to give a thought about where our next meal is coming from. We have proper sanitation, clean water, nice houses, proper education and even enough to spare for the occassional pampering at spas or indulging our gastronomic passions.
We are blessed beyond measure.
But it's so easy to forget though, isn't it? Especially in the midst of our exams, in the midst of our "sufferings", how blessed we really are.
And so this reflection serves as a timely reminder-whether it be a happy, carefree day, or a long, exhasuting one, I must remember to be grateful.
Thursday, April 27, 2006
New love
I'm beginning to like Anaesthetics more and more. It's this balanced combination of physiology and pharmacology that really appeals to me. It's stuff that really makes sense and I love the resus part-- bringing pple back to life based on your experience and knowledge is just such a meaningful thing to do.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Random thoughts
Some feelings are best left unearthed; they are better left underground to fester, then once the festering’s done they might just disintegrate to nothing. No traces, whatsoever. That’s a hope.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
The intricacies of conversation
i'm such a poor listener. part of that stems from the fact that i'm so distractible and absolutely can't multi-task. problem is, conversation just has so many bits and pieces one has to grapple with to make it flow. one has to listen, process the words, comprehend it, mull over it, formulate several possible answers, choose an appropriate one and articulate it. and through all this one has to be aware of one's body language, read the other's, read between the lines, modulate one's expression and tone of voice. And as i struggle through all this, there are always things in the background fighting for my attention-- music, people, other conversations or the niggling feeling that I have just said the wrong thing and the need to put it right.
apart from the complexity of conversation, part of my problem of being a poor listener stems from my fixed perspectives. My perspectives are always strict and by and large rather polarised. The world through my eyes are either black or white, right or wrong, with little room in between. In some instances, this works to my benefit, for it makes my purpose defined and my tasks directed.When it comes to conversation, however, a rigid perspective is a bad bad thing. Like when someone comes to me with a problem, my mind immediately classifies their problem into "warranted" and "unwarranted", "solvable" or "unsolvable" and should it fall into either the unwarranted or unsolvable slot, then it subconsciously switches off and i wait impatiently for the conversation topic to change. But I am gradually beginning to realise that what I deem unwarranted or unsolvable does not necessarily have to be so for another. Perspective and morality are actually fluid and subjective as they depend on one's personality, experiences and upbringing. I guess what is needed is to be able to find middle ground, really. To be able to hold on tightly to one's perspective and morality to keep one from going astray, yet keeping a perspective wide enough to accommodate that of others.
apart from the complexity of conversation, part of my problem of being a poor listener stems from my fixed perspectives. My perspectives are always strict and by and large rather polarised. The world through my eyes are either black or white, right or wrong, with little room in between. In some instances, this works to my benefit, for it makes my purpose defined and my tasks directed.When it comes to conversation, however, a rigid perspective is a bad bad thing. Like when someone comes to me with a problem, my mind immediately classifies their problem into "warranted" and "unwarranted", "solvable" or "unsolvable" and should it fall into either the unwarranted or unsolvable slot, then it subconsciously switches off and i wait impatiently for the conversation topic to change. But I am gradually beginning to realise that what I deem unwarranted or unsolvable does not necessarily have to be so for another. Perspective and morality are actually fluid and subjective as they depend on one's personality, experiences and upbringing. I guess what is needed is to be able to find middle ground, really. To be able to hold on tightly to one's perspective and morality to keep one from going astray, yet keeping a perspective wide enough to accommodate that of others.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
A day of food, trains and wine
The day begins at 7 with the persistent ringing of an alarm clock. Through the haze of sleep i roll over and wonder who in the world can be so cruel as to set an alarm loud enough to wake the dead and worse still at such an ungodly hour. i continue my semi-slumber until something in my mind clicks and i realise that today is thursday-- excursion day in Yarra Valley, and that the stupid alarm clock is mine.
As i rouse i hear the click of my housemates' doors opening. I lumber into the bathroom where i join the others there to brush my teeth and get ready to leave.
It is now 7.30am and time to set off for our meeting point on Swanston St. There is the grumpy early morning silence as we walk to the city to meet our tour guide. Occasionally someone breaks the silence by enthusing about the trip (mostly Mel, I think) As for me, I plod on, my only contribution to the scant conversation is to moan about my sleepiness. (i know, I'm a sheer basket case in the mornings)
We meet our driver, Kevin, who is round and jolly and has a knack for conversation. Only it is 8 in the morning and conversation generally only works when the listener is awake.
We reach our first destination: the delicious scone place. Sadly, my mind fails to recall the name of the place, only that it serves nice fluffy scones with delicious cream and strawberry jam. i am now a little more awake-- not enough for any proper form of cognition to occur but awake enough at least to remember wishing for more piping hot scones.
This is us at the little scone place: (front row from left to right) Justin, Mel, Mart, Siu Niang, Kai Jin, Me and Yixin.
After breakfast, it is off to the Puffing Billy train ride. The Puffing Billy is a steam engine that began its maiden journey in 1901 and ran till 1958. It was 1 of 4 experimental lines used to develop the rural parts of Eastern Victoria. Today, it is a major tourist attraction and runs from Belgrave to Gembrook on the same narrow gauge railway track that it did a century ago.
This is Yixin and I sitting on the ledge dangling our legs over the side of the train.
We stop at the first station, Menzies Creek and meet out tour guide to embark on the 2nd part of our trip-- William Ricketts aboriginal sculpture centre. It is at this point in the bus when Yixin announces that she's hungry and Mel asks what's for lunch and Kevin replies "pan-fried chicken, fish and scotch fillet" and everybody oohs and aahs appropriately and counts down the hours to lunch.
Unfortunately, there isn't much for me to write about William Ricketts other than i found his sculptures all too spiritual and the setting of the sculptures in the dense, dark Australian Bush way too eerie and forbidding, so much so that I was more than glad to leave the place behind for lunch and a pleasant afternoon of wine tasting.
As we make our way down from the dandenong ranges to the Yarra Valley, i am struck by the plainness of the Australian Bush. Much as i appreciate the raw wilderness of the bush, the Australian bush just doesn't appeal to me. Perhaps it is because the colour of the bush is just so earthen-- hues of brown and green and not much else aside from that. Being a person who finds beauty in a vivid explosion of colours or the stark contrast of them, the bush just seems too uniform, too monotonous.
We spend the entire afternoon visiting 3 wineries. The first, Rochford wineries, is where we have lunch and are initiated into the complicated process of wine tasting. You begin with inspection. Observe the colour of the wine. Red or white, light or dark. Light coloured wines tend to be younger while the darker ones tend to have been aged for a while. Next comes the smelling which starts off with the swirling and swishing of the wine in your glass to aerate it. Then you place your nostrils just over the rim of the glass and breathe deeply. Then you exhale and if appropriate give a contented sigh and inhale again. From these breaths you ascertain the fruitiness and oakiness of the wine and try to identify the many elements that makes it up. Lastly comes the actual tasting. You take a small mouthful and run it over your entire palate appreciating taste and texture. Texture lies in the way the wine treats the palate, whether it is harsh or soft. Taste, on the other hand, is like smelling. It involves discovering how fruity and nutty and oaky it is, identifying the flavours it contains and most importantly, deciding whether you like it or not. I find it to be a most educational time for indeed, I had never known that one could do so many things to a glass of wine. To be absolutely honest, before today, the only verbs I could associate with wine were gulp, guzzle and slosh, which, I'm fully aware, would hardly be anything to be proud about.
As the afternoon progresses we are ferried from one winery to another and i am tickled by how red our faces have turned from the alcohol. Genetics is a funny thing, how it equips the anglo saxon race with more than enough acetyldehyde dehydrogenase to guzzle down half a bottle of wine with little or no effect while the chinese race struggles, red faced, to consume half a glass and still remain standing. But there is no time to contemplate the injustice of this for we are whisked off to the next winerery--Punt point. And thus we continue our afternoon of wine-tasting, mostly in a state of quasi- inebriation, ending up eventually at green point wineries which prides itself in its sparkling wines. We order a glass each of every single wine featured on the wine list and i fall in love with the sparkling chandon pinot shiraz instantaneously. And so I go and buy one- this red, bubbly, fruity, moderately sweet wine with slightly spicy overtones that was soft on the palate- even though it sets me back $24 which means 3 less lunches outside.
This is us with 7 bubbly glasses of wine.
The trip ends with a stroll through the vineyards and we do the last thing we are capable of-- collapse on the grass in a heap and contemplate all the things that made this day a wonderful one.
As i rouse i hear the click of my housemates' doors opening. I lumber into the bathroom where i join the others there to brush my teeth and get ready to leave.
It is now 7.30am and time to set off for our meeting point on Swanston St. There is the grumpy early morning silence as we walk to the city to meet our tour guide. Occasionally someone breaks the silence by enthusing about the trip (mostly Mel, I think) As for me, I plod on, my only contribution to the scant conversation is to moan about my sleepiness. (i know, I'm a sheer basket case in the mornings)
We meet our driver, Kevin, who is round and jolly and has a knack for conversation. Only it is 8 in the morning and conversation generally only works when the listener is awake.
We reach our first destination: the delicious scone place. Sadly, my mind fails to recall the name of the place, only that it serves nice fluffy scones with delicious cream and strawberry jam. i am now a little more awake-- not enough for any proper form of cognition to occur but awake enough at least to remember wishing for more piping hot scones.
This is us at the little scone place: (front row from left to right) Justin, Mel, Mart, Siu Niang, Kai Jin, Me and Yixin.
After breakfast, it is off to the Puffing Billy train ride. The Puffing Billy is a steam engine that began its maiden journey in 1901 and ran till 1958. It was 1 of 4 experimental lines used to develop the rural parts of Eastern Victoria. Today, it is a major tourist attraction and runs from Belgrave to Gembrook on the same narrow gauge railway track that it did a century ago.
This is Yixin and I sitting on the ledge dangling our legs over the side of the train.
We stop at the first station, Menzies Creek and meet out tour guide to embark on the 2nd part of our trip-- William Ricketts aboriginal sculpture centre. It is at this point in the bus when Yixin announces that she's hungry and Mel asks what's for lunch and Kevin replies "pan-fried chicken, fish and scotch fillet" and everybody oohs and aahs appropriately and counts down the hours to lunch.
Unfortunately, there isn't much for me to write about William Ricketts other than i found his sculptures all too spiritual and the setting of the sculptures in the dense, dark Australian Bush way too eerie and forbidding, so much so that I was more than glad to leave the place behind for lunch and a pleasant afternoon of wine tasting.
As we make our way down from the dandenong ranges to the Yarra Valley, i am struck by the plainness of the Australian Bush. Much as i appreciate the raw wilderness of the bush, the Australian bush just doesn't appeal to me. Perhaps it is because the colour of the bush is just so earthen-- hues of brown and green and not much else aside from that. Being a person who finds beauty in a vivid explosion of colours or the stark contrast of them, the bush just seems too uniform, too monotonous.
We spend the entire afternoon visiting 3 wineries. The first, Rochford wineries, is where we have lunch and are initiated into the complicated process of wine tasting. You begin with inspection. Observe the colour of the wine. Red or white, light or dark. Light coloured wines tend to be younger while the darker ones tend to have been aged for a while. Next comes the smelling which starts off with the swirling and swishing of the wine in your glass to aerate it. Then you place your nostrils just over the rim of the glass and breathe deeply. Then you exhale and if appropriate give a contented sigh and inhale again. From these breaths you ascertain the fruitiness and oakiness of the wine and try to identify the many elements that makes it up. Lastly comes the actual tasting. You take a small mouthful and run it over your entire palate appreciating taste and texture. Texture lies in the way the wine treats the palate, whether it is harsh or soft. Taste, on the other hand, is like smelling. It involves discovering how fruity and nutty and oaky it is, identifying the flavours it contains and most importantly, deciding whether you like it or not. I find it to be a most educational time for indeed, I had never known that one could do so many things to a glass of wine. To be absolutely honest, before today, the only verbs I could associate with wine were gulp, guzzle and slosh, which, I'm fully aware, would hardly be anything to be proud about.
As the afternoon progresses we are ferried from one winery to another and i am tickled by how red our faces have turned from the alcohol. Genetics is a funny thing, how it equips the anglo saxon race with more than enough acetyldehyde dehydrogenase to guzzle down half a bottle of wine with little or no effect while the chinese race struggles, red faced, to consume half a glass and still remain standing. But there is no time to contemplate the injustice of this for we are whisked off to the next winerery--Punt point. And thus we continue our afternoon of wine-tasting, mostly in a state of quasi- inebriation, ending up eventually at green point wineries which prides itself in its sparkling wines. We order a glass each of every single wine featured on the wine list and i fall in love with the sparkling chandon pinot shiraz instantaneously. And so I go and buy one- this red, bubbly, fruity, moderately sweet wine with slightly spicy overtones that was soft on the palate- even though it sets me back $24 which means 3 less lunches outside.
This is us with 7 bubbly glasses of wine.
The trip ends with a stroll through the vineyards and we do the last thing we are capable of-- collapse on the grass in a heap and contemplate all the things that made this day a wonderful one.
Simple beauty
Just came home from a comfy night out with the med gang celebrating PS' birthday. she held the party at her little maisonette in arrow heights and we were ensconced in her dining room on the upper level pigging out on all the wonderful food she'd painstakingly prepared. After we'd finished pigging out on the main course, we began our assault on the mouth-watering assortment of desserts-- all homemade, of course. stuffed as i was i just couldn't resist testing the limits of my digestive tract once again. and boy, was i glad i did. Andrew's chocolate and green tea mousse was delicious. i think i just discovered gary-rhodes in the making. (Andrew, if you ever read this, plse know that i wasn't paid to say this, but a little gratitude in the form of chocolate mousse might be appropiate) =)
Food aside, the scenery from PS' 9th floor apartment was beautiful. From where i was sitting, i had a glorious view of the Royal Exhibition Building, also fondly known as the REB. with its stately dome cast in incandescent glow outlined against the dark melbourne sky-- it was quite magnificent. i walk past the building every day on my way to the hospital, but i've never thought of it as magnificent before. Stately perhaps, but never beautiful or magnificent. though that could be because i've never quite had the chance to take a good look at it-- i've only either rushed past it to go to school or rushed into it to take an exam (it's where our semesterly exams were held in our pre-clinical years). Seeing the REB in all its splendour tonight reminds me of the number of things- buildings, scenery, people- i pass every single day without ever pausing to look. And because i never paused to look, i've missed out on seeing the beauty in these ordinary things. so from now on i must remember to pause once every so often just to take in my surroundings-- to look, hear, smell and soak in the moment.
The other thing that struck me tonight was how pretty T is. She's got a beauty that grows under scrutiny because it's so simple, so unembellished. Her complexion is fair and flawless and her features well-chiselled, yet with a distinct softness to it. We've embarked on this bid to make her even prettier by getting her to exchange her glasses for a pair of contacts, but she gives the same response every time, "dun want lah, so mah fan". And much as it frustrates us that she never listens, it also adds to her beauty-- this non-chalance about appearances, this staunch refusal to get sucked into the race to be beautiful.
I hope she stays that way.
Food aside, the scenery from PS' 9th floor apartment was beautiful. From where i was sitting, i had a glorious view of the Royal Exhibition Building, also fondly known as the REB. with its stately dome cast in incandescent glow outlined against the dark melbourne sky-- it was quite magnificent. i walk past the building every day on my way to the hospital, but i've never thought of it as magnificent before. Stately perhaps, but never beautiful or magnificent. though that could be because i've never quite had the chance to take a good look at it-- i've only either rushed past it to go to school or rushed into it to take an exam (it's where our semesterly exams were held in our pre-clinical years). Seeing the REB in all its splendour tonight reminds me of the number of things- buildings, scenery, people- i pass every single day without ever pausing to look. And because i never paused to look, i've missed out on seeing the beauty in these ordinary things. so from now on i must remember to pause once every so often just to take in my surroundings-- to look, hear, smell and soak in the moment.
The other thing that struck me tonight was how pretty T is. She's got a beauty that grows under scrutiny because it's so simple, so unembellished. Her complexion is fair and flawless and her features well-chiselled, yet with a distinct softness to it. We've embarked on this bid to make her even prettier by getting her to exchange her glasses for a pair of contacts, but she gives the same response every time, "dun want lah, so mah fan". And much as it frustrates us that she never listens, it also adds to her beauty-- this non-chalance about appearances, this staunch refusal to get sucked into the race to be beautiful.
I hope she stays that way.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
The dawning of a new day...
5 things I want to achieve tomorrow:
1) Learn enough orthopaedics so I can do an inch better than scream when I see a shoulder dislocation
2) to engage in conversations that are just a shade more meaningful than the one below:
X: "disturb disturb"
Hilda:"what?"
X:" nothing"
Hilda: "you just disrupted my 'intense studying', so what's up?"
X:" nothing. I'm going to shower now. i disturb you after i come out."
3) shower before the clock strikes 3
4) eat fewer pieces of TeeVee snacks than the number of pages i've studied
5) remember to be grateful
1) Learn enough orthopaedics so I can do an inch better than scream when I see a shoulder dislocation
2) to engage in conversations that are just a shade more meaningful than the one below:
X: "disturb disturb"
Hilda:"what?"
X:" nothing"
Hilda: "you just disrupted my 'intense studying', so what's up?"
X:" nothing. I'm going to shower now. i disturb you after i come out."
3) shower before the clock strikes 3
4) eat fewer pieces of TeeVee snacks than the number of pages i've studied
5) remember to be grateful
Trudging through the English Language
for the past few days i have embarked on this quest to find a precise word to describe my deliberate attempts to avoid studying. i have scoured my brain only to find procrastination, laziness, slothiness, non-activity. but they all don't cut it. my actions don't stem from a lack of drive; on the contrary, they are exceedingly purposeful. from the careful planning of every hour to ensure it is filled with non-academic activity, to my stuffing of all medical books back in their shelves so they stop raging their guilt-inducing campaign against me. Everything I've done is pre-meditated.
2 days ago i finally found the word--Dalliance. the free online dictionary by farlex defines it as "the deliberate act of wasting time instead of working". and i think, eureka! what better word to describe my actions? i almost begin dancing for sheer joy until i read the second definition beneath:playful behavior intended to arouse sexual interest. suddenly any ecstasy i feel disappears. i feel totally and utterly cheated. the english language is just unfathomable. how does it make sense to have the exact same word meaning 2 such completely different things? God forbid what would happen if I were to talk about my dalliances, meaning the former definition only to have it misinterpreted it as the latter.
so i guess it's back to the dictionary to uncover another word to fill in that gap in my vocabulary.
But for now, i guess i'll have to settle for "procrastination". At least that is one word that leaves no room for misinterpretation.
2 days ago i finally found the word--Dalliance. the free online dictionary by farlex defines it as "the deliberate act of wasting time instead of working". and i think, eureka! what better word to describe my actions? i almost begin dancing for sheer joy until i read the second definition beneath:playful behavior intended to arouse sexual interest. suddenly any ecstasy i feel disappears. i feel totally and utterly cheated. the english language is just unfathomable. how does it make sense to have the exact same word meaning 2 such completely different things? God forbid what would happen if I were to talk about my dalliances, meaning the former definition only to have it misinterpreted it as the latter.
so i guess it's back to the dictionary to uncover another word to fill in that gap in my vocabulary.
But for now, i guess i'll have to settle for "procrastination". At least that is one word that leaves no room for misinterpretation.
Monday, April 17, 2006
The funny thing about time
Over the past few days i've spent hours surfing my old classmates' blogs, finding out how and where they are, what they're studying, what they'll be doing in the future. And all that reading about old times, seeing the names of old friends just makes me so nostalgic and makes me yearn to turn back the clock. i browse through the blog with the intention of quickly updating myself on their lives. but i begin reading- and suddenly i am enthralled. i suddenly realise that there's so much about them i didn't know, so many more facets that i haven't seen, so many relationships i have missed out on. it's been such a long time. and as an ex-classmate put it-- i'd forgotten how much i'd missed them.
it's like all you have to do is just close your eyes and turn away for a while, but the world continues spinning and the clocks continue to whirr and then you turn back to look, but it's too late. the scenery has changed, the curtains have descended and another chapter of life has been completed without you even realising. and when i think about it now, it makes me feel so wistful, yet the only person to blame is myself for letting Time slip through my fingers so idly.
A saying that i read sometime ago comes to mind: " do not chase after the wind in the field-- it is futile to find what is already gone."
Just thinking about that saying makes me sad yet strangely determined. it makes me yearn to embrace every single person i never got the chance to know, makes me want to grasp the hands of the clock and forcibly turn back those lost hours. but i can't. the rational side of me says so, at least. perhaps i will settle for a class gathering of some sort in the hols. not the deep and meaningful interaction that i really wish for, but it'd be so nice to see their faces again, to find out about their current lives and ambitions, oh and the most glorious of all, to find out about Boyfriends-- the old, the new and the ideal.
oh, i just can't wait.
it's like all you have to do is just close your eyes and turn away for a while, but the world continues spinning and the clocks continue to whirr and then you turn back to look, but it's too late. the scenery has changed, the curtains have descended and another chapter of life has been completed without you even realising. and when i think about it now, it makes me feel so wistful, yet the only person to blame is myself for letting Time slip through my fingers so idly.
A saying that i read sometime ago comes to mind: " do not chase after the wind in the field-- it is futile to find what is already gone."
Just thinking about that saying makes me sad yet strangely determined. it makes me yearn to embrace every single person i never got the chance to know, makes me want to grasp the hands of the clock and forcibly turn back those lost hours. but i can't. the rational side of me says so, at least. perhaps i will settle for a class gathering of some sort in the hols. not the deep and meaningful interaction that i really wish for, but it'd be so nice to see their faces again, to find out about their current lives and ambitions, oh and the most glorious of all, to find out about Boyfriends-- the old, the new and the ideal.
oh, i just can't wait.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Poodle Jokes
Here I go again... a day spent mooching around at home tidying up this blog, casting around for things I want to do so I don't have to do the things I have to do (aka studying) and the latest-- making stupid poodle jokes that are funny only to me in a most convoluted sense (my latest poodle joke just left 2 of my housemates staring at me in in wide eyed confusion while I guffawed my way through the joke). Oh sigh. The poor dears.
You'd think that by now I'd have learnt from experience, but unfortunately I seem to be inordinately thick-skulled when it comes to that sort of learning. It's the lameness of the jokes, you see, somehow they have this inexplicable allurement that I just can't resist. And time and time again i have done it- imparted the joke on these unsuspecting listeners and watched the metamorphosis of expression-- expectancy, confusion, uneasiness and finally the semi-tortured smile.
You'd think that by now I'd have learnt from experience, but unfortunately I seem to be inordinately thick-skulled when it comes to that sort of learning. It's the lameness of the jokes, you see, somehow they have this inexplicable allurement that I just can't resist. And time and time again i have done it- imparted the joke on these unsuspecting listeners and watched the metamorphosis of expression-- expectancy, confusion, uneasiness and finally the semi-tortured smile.
A Note of Welcome
14th April 2006
I’d never thought this moment would come—the moment when I’d feel brave enough to venture forth some of my weird and wonky thoughts into public scrutiny.
Perhaps it is Time that has planted this seed of courage in me. Or perhaps simply that time has brought about a change in perspective. I had always solemnly promised myself that I would write for no other but myself. My writing would serve only to explore my world within or to see myself with greater clarity within its lines. To write for others would be akin to tainting one's writing because then one's thoughts would have to be more filtered, more halting and much much less honest.
But I see different now.
Writing shouldn’t be stifled into being merely a process of self analysis; writing should also reflect a journey—the journey that traces a thought from start to end, the journey that captures the ever-changing seasons of life.
And it is on this note that I invite you to embark on this journey with me-- a journey which I truly hope you will find to be an enjoyable one.
P.S The blog entries below are a collection of pieces written between Feb 2005 and April 2006-- little fragments of memories I tried to capture in words-- which I never had the courage to post till now.
I’d never thought this moment would come—the moment when I’d feel brave enough to venture forth some of my weird and wonky thoughts into public scrutiny.
Perhaps it is Time that has planted this seed of courage in me. Or perhaps simply that time has brought about a change in perspective. I had always solemnly promised myself that I would write for no other but myself. My writing would serve only to explore my world within or to see myself with greater clarity within its lines. To write for others would be akin to tainting one's writing because then one's thoughts would have to be more filtered, more halting and much much less honest.
But I see different now.
Writing shouldn’t be stifled into being merely a process of self analysis; writing should also reflect a journey—the journey that traces a thought from start to end, the journey that captures the ever-changing seasons of life.
And it is on this note that I invite you to embark on this journey with me-- a journey which I truly hope you will find to be an enjoyable one.
P.S The blog entries below are a collection of pieces written between Feb 2005 and April 2006-- little fragments of memories I tried to capture in words-- which I never had the courage to post till now.
Kind Exhortations
1st April 2006
It's terrible, the signs are everywhere! Exhortations to marry and marry young, proclamations of the benefits of marriage, vigorous endorsements of the institution of marriage... And in all forms too: overt, subliminal, on TV, newspapers, radio... even poetry...Just read this poem by Robert Herrick, poet in the 17th centuary. Seems like this issue of marriage and singlehood is a theme that has transcended time. Here it goes:
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a getting;
The sooner will his Race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That Age is best, which is the first,
When Youth and Blood are warmer;
But being spent, the wors, and worse
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime;
You may for ever tarry.
It's terrible, the signs are everywhere! Exhortations to marry and marry young, proclamations of the benefits of marriage, vigorous endorsements of the institution of marriage... And in all forms too: overt, subliminal, on TV, newspapers, radio... even poetry...Just read this poem by Robert Herrick, poet in the 17th centuary. Seems like this issue of marriage and singlehood is a theme that has transcended time. Here it goes:
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a flying;
And this same flower that smiles today,
Tomorrow will be dying.
The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a getting;
The sooner will his Race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.
That Age is best, which is the first,
When Youth and Blood are warmer;
But being spent, the wors, and worse
Times, still succeed the former.
Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime;
You may for ever tarry.
Pre-Birthday thoughts
6th April 2005 (Wednesday)
It is my birthday on Saturday-- my 21st Birthday. Jiey, with the help of some friends, is throwing me a “surprise” party. I guess you might say it isn’t quite a surprise, considering the fact that I’m not only aware that a party is going to be held, I’m even in the know as to when and where it will be; the Surprise! Element lies in the who and the what, I suppose. Who will be coming? What will the decorations be like? What food will there be? I am told to boot myself out of the house over Thursday evening and the entire Friday, only to reappear on Saturday evening (so make an intelligent guess when the party is?). Amidst all this fuss, I’m walking around under this façade of sublime indifference, but- all truth be known- under all my pretentious non-chalance, I’m shamelessly lapping up every bit of attention bestowed upon me. Haha… It is undignified, I know, but it is after all my 21st, isn’t it? And seeing that you’re 21 only once in your life, a bit of fuss over you is warranted, don’t you think?
On a more reflective note, I just wanted to say that to me, birthdays are never about presents or parties per se- they are about people. They are about people saying- you’re important to me and I wish you well in this new year of life. The parties and presents are about people saying you’re loved and treasured, so much so that they want to make your day unforgettably happy. That’s why to me, the size of the party or the number of presents I receive really is inconsequential. Cliched as it may sound, on my birthday or any other celebratory day alike, all well wishes are uniquely special- because, truly, it is the thought alone that counts.
It is my birthday on Saturday-- my 21st Birthday. Jiey, with the help of some friends, is throwing me a “surprise” party. I guess you might say it isn’t quite a surprise, considering the fact that I’m not only aware that a party is going to be held, I’m even in the know as to when and where it will be; the Surprise! Element lies in the who and the what, I suppose. Who will be coming? What will the decorations be like? What food will there be? I am told to boot myself out of the house over Thursday evening and the entire Friday, only to reappear on Saturday evening (so make an intelligent guess when the party is?). Amidst all this fuss, I’m walking around under this façade of sublime indifference, but- all truth be known- under all my pretentious non-chalance, I’m shamelessly lapping up every bit of attention bestowed upon me. Haha… It is undignified, I know, but it is after all my 21st, isn’t it? And seeing that you’re 21 only once in your life, a bit of fuss over you is warranted, don’t you think?
On a more reflective note, I just wanted to say that to me, birthdays are never about presents or parties per se- they are about people. They are about people saying- you’re important to me and I wish you well in this new year of life. The parties and presents are about people saying you’re loved and treasured, so much so that they want to make your day unforgettably happy. That’s why to me, the size of the party or the number of presents I receive really is inconsequential. Cliched as it may sound, on my birthday or any other celebratory day alike, all well wishes are uniquely special- because, truly, it is the thought alone that counts.
Airport Departure Protocol
15th April 2005
This is part of a letter written to Mum after her memorable departure from Glasgow whereby, having neglected to turn back and wave goodbye at the immigration counter, she left me waving goofily at a blank faced immigration officer.
Dear Mum
Standard departure protocol dictates the following:
1) Tight but brief embrace -- no lingering or shoulder rubbing. Enough contact to convey that the one departing will be missed without being mawkish
2) Nebulous promises to "be good" or "eat less" or "study hard"-- all of which is nothing more than customary. That, however, is left unsaid.
3) Self conscious stride to the immigration counter, knowing that the glass partition provides little protection from the scrutiny of one's blossoming rear end-- the same scrutiny which will be repeated to assess for growth upon re-entry into the country
4) The final smile and casual wave before one disappears from sight.
This is part of a letter written to Mum after her memorable departure from Glasgow whereby, having neglected to turn back and wave goodbye at the immigration counter, she left me waving goofily at a blank faced immigration officer.
Dear Mum
Standard departure protocol dictates the following:
1) Tight but brief embrace -- no lingering or shoulder rubbing. Enough contact to convey that the one departing will be missed without being mawkish
2) Nebulous promises to "be good" or "eat less" or "study hard"-- all of which is nothing more than customary. That, however, is left unsaid.
3) Self conscious stride to the immigration counter, knowing that the glass partition provides little protection from the scrutiny of one's blossoming rear end-- the same scrutiny which will be repeated to assess for growth upon re-entry into the country
4) The final smile and casual wave before one disappears from sight.
Divine Revelations of the Automobile World
8th April 2005
My sister has been wanting to buy a car and has decided to test drive cars this Sunday. A week ago, she asked if I would like to go along and I enthusiastically agreed.
Last Saturday, having somehow wrangled dinner from S and J-displaying my talents, once again, as a self-proclaimed light bulb- our dinner conversation wandered to my sister's search for a good car to buy. J suggested she take someone well versed in the purchase of cars along. He then very kindly offered to accompany her. It struck me as a very sensible idea indeed- to take someone along who could add value to her evaluation and negotiation. If it were me, all I'd do would be to stand there awestruck and go "wah, jie ah, the car so new, so shiny ah... and £2500 only. Good buy, good buy". I there and then decided to relinquish my front seat position to J. He would be an ideal person for the job- practical, frugal, streetwise and pleasant. On top of that J's Dad, being a driving instructor, would have grounded him in the fundamentals of what makes up a good car. For some reason that night, (perhaps it was the look of sheer ignorance painted across my face) he felt obliged to enlighten me. And at this point, I could sense his dilemma. How do you summarise the diverse requirements of a good car over one dinner? Worse yet, how do you summarise the diverse requirements of a good car to an automobile ignoramus?
The tension in his face was apparent as he contemplated the limited possibilities. He must have finally hit the right one because he looked up, smiled, and announced: " the most important thing in a car is-- the ENGINE."
In the face of such divine revelation, I knew that only sheer reverence would suffice lest one be condemned blasphemous. Mustering my most awestruck expression, I looked to the ground and murmured, "Yes, of course, of course."
My sister has been wanting to buy a car and has decided to test drive cars this Sunday. A week ago, she asked if I would like to go along and I enthusiastically agreed.
Last Saturday, having somehow wrangled dinner from S and J-displaying my talents, once again, as a self-proclaimed light bulb- our dinner conversation wandered to my sister's search for a good car to buy. J suggested she take someone well versed in the purchase of cars along. He then very kindly offered to accompany her. It struck me as a very sensible idea indeed- to take someone along who could add value to her evaluation and negotiation. If it were me, all I'd do would be to stand there awestruck and go "wah, jie ah, the car so new, so shiny ah... and £2500 only. Good buy, good buy". I there and then decided to relinquish my front seat position to J. He would be an ideal person for the job- practical, frugal, streetwise and pleasant. On top of that J's Dad, being a driving instructor, would have grounded him in the fundamentals of what makes up a good car. For some reason that night, (perhaps it was the look of sheer ignorance painted across my face) he felt obliged to enlighten me. And at this point, I could sense his dilemma. How do you summarise the diverse requirements of a good car over one dinner? Worse yet, how do you summarise the diverse requirements of a good car to an automobile ignoramus?
The tension in his face was apparent as he contemplated the limited possibilities. He must have finally hit the right one because he looked up, smiled, and announced: " the most important thing in a car is-- the ENGINE."
In the face of such divine revelation, I knew that only sheer reverence would suffice lest one be condemned blasphemous. Mustering my most awestruck expression, I looked to the ground and murmured, "Yes, of course, of course."
Change and social suicide
24th March 2005
All night long there's been a strange feeling building in me.
It's intensity is unsettling.
It feels as if passion, sadness and introspection are all searing through me.
And inexplicably, it creates in me this burning desire to write, to cry and to be alone.
It is a strange yet familiar feeling, like when you spot your old schoolmaster twenty years after graduation and are still instinctively gripped by a sense of fear. So strange a feeling in its circumstances, yet undeniably familiar.
I know this feeling has been in me all this time, restlessly dormant. The duties of everyday life had forced it into oblivion because the inexplicable urge to write, cry and be alone is simply not compatible with the demands of life.
I'm not sure why it resurfaced again tonight.
Perhaps it was when A asked me all those questions at cell group. I think it was the question about how I'd changed in my year here in Glasgow and whether the change was good or bad that did it.
"Both," I had replied, dying in my heart to explain how I'd become more analytical but also more judgemental, more fun-loving but also more disdainful, more extroverted but less introspective. I wanted to share with them how change is a double edged sword. How when you gain you often must lose.
But I couldn't. How could I? I mean, who would understand? I did teeter on a moment of indecision, almost crossed the threshold to the point of no return before reality checked me back to my senses.
"Gosh, you weren't really going to tell them all that were you? How weird would you sound?" was all I could ask myself when I came to.
I felt like a suicidal jumper pulled back from the brink of death-- just in the nick of time. I suppose it was, in a way, suicide -- social suicide.
And like all thwarted suicide attempts, there was a sense of intense relief at the realisation that one is still alive, but also of intense sadness-- the sadness for not being true to oneself, for not having the courage to take the plunge.
Then from that point on, all that dominated my mind was just this need to write-- to express all the thoughts and feelings that lay on my heart-- pent up and throbbing.
And here on this page it finds release.At last, somebody knows how it feels.
All night long there's been a strange feeling building in me.
It's intensity is unsettling.
It feels as if passion, sadness and introspection are all searing through me.
And inexplicably, it creates in me this burning desire to write, to cry and to be alone.
It is a strange yet familiar feeling, like when you spot your old schoolmaster twenty years after graduation and are still instinctively gripped by a sense of fear. So strange a feeling in its circumstances, yet undeniably familiar.
I know this feeling has been in me all this time, restlessly dormant. The duties of everyday life had forced it into oblivion because the inexplicable urge to write, cry and be alone is simply not compatible with the demands of life.
I'm not sure why it resurfaced again tonight.
Perhaps it was when A asked me all those questions at cell group. I think it was the question about how I'd changed in my year here in Glasgow and whether the change was good or bad that did it.
"Both," I had replied, dying in my heart to explain how I'd become more analytical but also more judgemental, more fun-loving but also more disdainful, more extroverted but less introspective. I wanted to share with them how change is a double edged sword. How when you gain you often must lose.
But I couldn't. How could I? I mean, who would understand? I did teeter on a moment of indecision, almost crossed the threshold to the point of no return before reality checked me back to my senses.
"Gosh, you weren't really going to tell them all that were you? How weird would you sound?" was all I could ask myself when I came to.
I felt like a suicidal jumper pulled back from the brink of death-- just in the nick of time. I suppose it was, in a way, suicide -- social suicide.
And like all thwarted suicide attempts, there was a sense of intense relief at the realisation that one is still alive, but also of intense sadness-- the sadness for not being true to oneself, for not having the courage to take the plunge.
Then from that point on, all that dominated my mind was just this need to write-- to express all the thoughts and feelings that lay on my heart-- pent up and throbbing.
And here on this page it finds release.At last, somebody knows how it feels.
The ultimate glutton
21st March 2005
I think the feeding centres of my hypothalamus must have doubled in size overnight.
I have skulked to the kitchen and opened the fridge no less than 20 times today.
And should gluttony be a pathological condition, I am experiencing an acute exacerbation of it today.
I have always wondered how one knows when their gluttony is bordering on pathological. I think I know now. It is when:
1) The mere whisper of “chocolate cake” reflexively sends shivers down your spine
2) You are having a sumptious 3 course lunch and all you can think of is what to have for dinner.
3) It feels like the end of the world has come when you get to your favourite seafood stall a few minutes too late and it’s closed—you cannot comprehend how it is within the realms of humanity to close without waiting for you to arrive.
4) You see a scrumplicious looking chocolate cake in Peckhams and you buy it. As you carry it home, your parotids are revving in top gear and all that fills your mind as you cross the busy intersection is not the cars zooming two inches from your toes but that one sublime, perfectly crafted piece of chocolate cake. When you get home, you lovingly unwrap it, grab a fork, cut a lavish slice and poise the fork in mid-air, angling it to deliver the choice morsel in the only way you know would do it justice. Eating is an art, you feel, and you of all people, should know it. The cake hits your palate and there’s this split second of nervous excitement as the messages from your taste buds travel to your brain. You taste the cake at last, but alas!—it is dry, crumbly and old. The sense of disappointment that wells up in you is acute. You feel cheated, betrayed. You are virtually in tears and all that you can think of the whole week is that one fateful bite—dry, old and crumbly.
I think the feeding centres of my hypothalamus must have doubled in size overnight.
I have skulked to the kitchen and opened the fridge no less than 20 times today.
And should gluttony be a pathological condition, I am experiencing an acute exacerbation of it today.
I have always wondered how one knows when their gluttony is bordering on pathological. I think I know now. It is when:
1) The mere whisper of “chocolate cake” reflexively sends shivers down your spine
2) You are having a sumptious 3 course lunch and all you can think of is what to have for dinner.
3) It feels like the end of the world has come when you get to your favourite seafood stall a few minutes too late and it’s closed—you cannot comprehend how it is within the realms of humanity to close without waiting for you to arrive.
4) You see a scrumplicious looking chocolate cake in Peckhams and you buy it. As you carry it home, your parotids are revving in top gear and all that fills your mind as you cross the busy intersection is not the cars zooming two inches from your toes but that one sublime, perfectly crafted piece of chocolate cake. When you get home, you lovingly unwrap it, grab a fork, cut a lavish slice and poise the fork in mid-air, angling it to deliver the choice morsel in the only way you know would do it justice. Eating is an art, you feel, and you of all people, should know it. The cake hits your palate and there’s this split second of nervous excitement as the messages from your taste buds travel to your brain. You taste the cake at last, but alas!—it is dry, crumbly and old. The sense of disappointment that wells up in you is acute. You feel cheated, betrayed. You are virtually in tears and all that you can think of the whole week is that one fateful bite—dry, old and crumbly.
Dinnertimes
17th March 2005
There's nothing more pleasant than sitting at home having a meal with good friends.There's always this sense of warmth, of bonhomie, of belonging that hangs in the air even after the aromas of the meal have disappeared.
The dinner we- me, S and TW- had tonight was just like that. I cooked a dish of lemongrass chicken, which turned out okay aside from the overly liberal hand of cornstarch I tossed into the dish. But culinary failures aside, it was a really pleasant time. It was one of those affairs whereby one feels perfectly at ease sitting in absolute silence. Ironically, when one feels that way at a dinner, there never is even half a moment of silence.
I suppose it's coz this feeling of sitting in affable silence can only be born out of a sense of familiarity. And the moment there is that sense of familiarity, you can be assured that all inhibition and caution will be thrown to the wind. Gone is the cautious weighing of words. Gone too are the painful attempts at being impressively polite. People will just be themselves. And unfortunately for my dinner companions, being myself spelt a boisterous time of insanity.But I don't think I'd be being overly optimistic or deluded to think we all had a good time. You see, with time, I've come to realise that dinners (especially the corporate and professional ones) usually fall into two categories-- those where you spend the entire dinner painfully excavating conversational topics from your brain and those where you feel you need to give out one long loud fart in order to stun your fellow diners into silence so you can have just 15 seconds air time.It starts to become a real rarity to have dinners where you can just be yourself.--boisterous one moment, pensive the next- and still have your fellow diners feeling comfortable.
So from now on, I shall remember to treasure them.
There's nothing more pleasant than sitting at home having a meal with good friends.There's always this sense of warmth, of bonhomie, of belonging that hangs in the air even after the aromas of the meal have disappeared.
The dinner we- me, S and TW- had tonight was just like that. I cooked a dish of lemongrass chicken, which turned out okay aside from the overly liberal hand of cornstarch I tossed into the dish. But culinary failures aside, it was a really pleasant time. It was one of those affairs whereby one feels perfectly at ease sitting in absolute silence. Ironically, when one feels that way at a dinner, there never is even half a moment of silence.
I suppose it's coz this feeling of sitting in affable silence can only be born out of a sense of familiarity. And the moment there is that sense of familiarity, you can be assured that all inhibition and caution will be thrown to the wind. Gone is the cautious weighing of words. Gone too are the painful attempts at being impressively polite. People will just be themselves. And unfortunately for my dinner companions, being myself spelt a boisterous time of insanity.But I don't think I'd be being overly optimistic or deluded to think we all had a good time. You see, with time, I've come to realise that dinners (especially the corporate and professional ones) usually fall into two categories-- those where you spend the entire dinner painfully excavating conversational topics from your brain and those where you feel you need to give out one long loud fart in order to stun your fellow diners into silence so you can have just 15 seconds air time.It starts to become a real rarity to have dinners where you can just be yourself.--boisterous one moment, pensive the next- and still have your fellow diners feeling comfortable.
So from now on, I shall remember to treasure them.
To my baby boy Pogo
15th March 2005
We got 2 new dogs-- a lab and a goldie. The goldie I am told is an excitable little thing and the lab is a undergrown, meek mite of a dog. Part of me is happy and excited about having them, part of me just feels apprehensive and reluctant to go through all that sadness at the end of their lives.But most importantly, the Goldie rakes up memories of Pogo. And suddenly I really miss him, all of him-- his stubborness, his anchoring himself in the middle of the road, his floppy, triangular ears, his pink little tongue with it's two black spots on the side, his baby doll eyelashes, his favourite pose with his head between his paws, the wave of coat that kept me hopeful till it stopped just above his shoulder blades...Oh baby boy, a part of me remembers how you died and feels so remorseful because we, your humans, didn't notice the signs in time to stop your cancer from spreading. But I just want you to know that we would have, you know, we would have given all we could to stop your illness and your suffering.If only we had known.
We got 2 new dogs-- a lab and a goldie. The goldie I am told is an excitable little thing and the lab is a undergrown, meek mite of a dog. Part of me is happy and excited about having them, part of me just feels apprehensive and reluctant to go through all that sadness at the end of their lives.But most importantly, the Goldie rakes up memories of Pogo. And suddenly I really miss him, all of him-- his stubborness, his anchoring himself in the middle of the road, his floppy, triangular ears, his pink little tongue with it's two black spots on the side, his baby doll eyelashes, his favourite pose with his head between his paws, the wave of coat that kept me hopeful till it stopped just above his shoulder blades...Oh baby boy, a part of me remembers how you died and feels so remorseful because we, your humans, didn't notice the signs in time to stop your cancer from spreading. But I just want you to know that we would have, you know, we would have given all we could to stop your illness and your suffering.If only we had known.
A Week Condensed
March 12 2005
Tired but happy. Tired but happy. This is the predominant emotion of the week. It has been a hectic week with Tuesday seeing a great lifting of spirits. It was such an enormous pleasure to rediscover my obicularis oris and other "smiling" muscles. (Tells you how great my anatomy of the face is.) I think a large factor for this change in mood was due to human company.
Had dinner with TW and CL on Tuesday night, after which we embarked on the Great Baking Adventure. This began with procurement of choice ingredients. First attempt being Partick Safeway but it had closed by the time we arrived. So we headed for the trusty 24 hr Tesco in Springburn and emerged 45 mins later with our loot. Started baking our banana and walnut cake at 11.30pm and stuck it in the oven 30 mins later with high hopes. An hour later, burnt banana walnut biscuit emerged from the oven. In order to ease our disappointment, we wolfed down the unburnt morsels of that one. Fed up with the lack of success and anxious to get it right as I had volunteered to make a cake for TW's birthday, I suggested making a second attempt. Round two began almost at 1am and ended at 2.30am. What came out of it was dubbed "elastic banana rock cake". Resigned that my cake was bewitched, I went to bed.Wednesday was bak kut teh day with TW and CL again. It was nice spicy soup for dinner and the pillow for dessert. =)
TW's birthday fell on Thursday. S had offered (and I had very gladly accepted; my waist size having personally benefited from her baking) to come over to help with the cake. She suggested making Tiramisu. So after meeting O, K and N at Tinderbox for coffee, I headed to Somerfield to buy this thing called Mascapone Cheese. I say "this thing" coz I had absolutely not the slightest inkling what that was before I bought it. On a sidenote, the meeting in Tinderbox was great. Both N and O used to be in my Secondary School German class and to meet up so coincidentally after all this time... we could only sit and marvel at how small our world actually is.
Anyhow, back to the Tiramisu. We were supposed to start baking it at 6 plus as the final product had to be delivered to K's flat by 8pm. Very unfortunately, S got held up and so she left me hopping from one foot to the other while trying to look for Tiramisu recipes online. If you are a visual person, think of a cat on hot bricks. (and you'd better be thinking of a sleek tabby cat and not a pudgy cheshire one). And at the point where I almost gave up looking and resigned myself to the fact that I might have to make the stupid ol' banana cake or materialise at the party with a Peckhams, S called, said she was on the way and gave me instructions on how to begin. And it would interest you to know that all this was happening in TW's presence, giving me no choice but to tell so many lies I almost ended up looking like Pinochio's cousin. But I'm sure it would please you to know that S at long last arrived, produced the Peckhams cake with me hovering about making futile but nonetheless sincere attempts to help, and saved me from the terrible, mortifying Peckhams fate.
Today (well more like Friday) was a day of sorts. I kid you not when I tell you that we were running a circus in the geriatric ward. Lost, Mrs X was shuffling up and down the corridors and upon seeing me, she requested I take her to her bed. Also lost (but valiantly trying to hide it) as to who this patient was and what room she'd come from, Hilda looked around for assistance but none was available. So Hilda led Mrs X up and down the corridors,with confused Mrs X all the while asking "Is this my bed? Or is this one mine?" and Hilda could do nothing but give her the most beguiling "I am clueless" smile. Talk about the blind leading the blind. =)
The second episode of the day was a rather educational one. Did you happen to know that fruit can copulate? Well, good for you if you did, coz I didn't till I met Mrs Y. "Mrs Y, I am now going to name you 3 objects, after which I would like you to repeat them after me-- Apple, Table, Penny. Can you name them please.""They are all f***ing fruit," she says."I see" was all I could muster as I contemplated this very foreign idea of fruits copulating.
I guess things-- good, bad and interesting all come in streaks. The third patient I spoke to seemed rather with-it till I asked him what the date today was."The date, the date, the date, what is the f***ing date." he hollered repeatedly as he thwacked the bed along with the rhythm of the sentence.I made the grave mistake of asking him what the month was."The month, the month, the month, what is the f***ing month!" The tune had not only changed its lyrics but had also increased in decibel.Startled by the sheer volume from a man so frail, I bid a hasty retreat from the ward. But even from the outside I could still hear his hollers bouncing off the walls. I had obviously opened a Pandora's box and now didn't know how to shut it. Worse still, even through the glass partition, I could feel the other patients glaring accusatorily at me for unleashing something I had no control over."Oh God, will he ever stop?" I thought desperately. As there was nothing I could do, I simply waited till I couldn't bear it any longer before turning and walking guiltily away from the echoes of his refrain.
Tired but happy. Tired but happy. This is the predominant emotion of the week. It has been a hectic week with Tuesday seeing a great lifting of spirits. It was such an enormous pleasure to rediscover my obicularis oris and other "smiling" muscles. (Tells you how great my anatomy of the face is.) I think a large factor for this change in mood was due to human company.
Had dinner with TW and CL on Tuesday night, after which we embarked on the Great Baking Adventure. This began with procurement of choice ingredients. First attempt being Partick Safeway but it had closed by the time we arrived. So we headed for the trusty 24 hr Tesco in Springburn and emerged 45 mins later with our loot. Started baking our banana and walnut cake at 11.30pm and stuck it in the oven 30 mins later with high hopes. An hour later, burnt banana walnut biscuit emerged from the oven. In order to ease our disappointment, we wolfed down the unburnt morsels of that one. Fed up with the lack of success and anxious to get it right as I had volunteered to make a cake for TW's birthday, I suggested making a second attempt. Round two began almost at 1am and ended at 2.30am. What came out of it was dubbed "elastic banana rock cake". Resigned that my cake was bewitched, I went to bed.Wednesday was bak kut teh day with TW and CL again. It was nice spicy soup for dinner and the pillow for dessert. =)
TW's birthday fell on Thursday. S had offered (and I had very gladly accepted; my waist size having personally benefited from her baking) to come over to help with the cake. She suggested making Tiramisu. So after meeting O, K and N at Tinderbox for coffee, I headed to Somerfield to buy this thing called Mascapone Cheese. I say "this thing" coz I had absolutely not the slightest inkling what that was before I bought it. On a sidenote, the meeting in Tinderbox was great. Both N and O used to be in my Secondary School German class and to meet up so coincidentally after all this time... we could only sit and marvel at how small our world actually is.
Anyhow, back to the Tiramisu. We were supposed to start baking it at 6 plus as the final product had to be delivered to K's flat by 8pm. Very unfortunately, S got held up and so she left me hopping from one foot to the other while trying to look for Tiramisu recipes online. If you are a visual person, think of a cat on hot bricks. (and you'd better be thinking of a sleek tabby cat and not a pudgy cheshire one). And at the point where I almost gave up looking and resigned myself to the fact that I might have to make the stupid ol' banana cake or materialise at the party with a Peckhams, S called, said she was on the way and gave me instructions on how to begin. And it would interest you to know that all this was happening in TW's presence, giving me no choice but to tell so many lies I almost ended up looking like Pinochio's cousin. But I'm sure it would please you to know that S at long last arrived, produced the Peckhams cake with me hovering about making futile but nonetheless sincere attempts to help, and saved me from the terrible, mortifying Peckhams fate.
Today (well more like Friday) was a day of sorts. I kid you not when I tell you that we were running a circus in the geriatric ward. Lost, Mrs X was shuffling up and down the corridors and upon seeing me, she requested I take her to her bed. Also lost (but valiantly trying to hide it) as to who this patient was and what room she'd come from, Hilda looked around for assistance but none was available. So Hilda led Mrs X up and down the corridors,with confused Mrs X all the while asking "Is this my bed? Or is this one mine?" and Hilda could do nothing but give her the most beguiling "I am clueless" smile. Talk about the blind leading the blind. =)
The second episode of the day was a rather educational one. Did you happen to know that fruit can copulate? Well, good for you if you did, coz I didn't till I met Mrs Y. "Mrs Y, I am now going to name you 3 objects, after which I would like you to repeat them after me-- Apple, Table, Penny. Can you name them please.""They are all f***ing fruit," she says."I see" was all I could muster as I contemplated this very foreign idea of fruits copulating.
I guess things-- good, bad and interesting all come in streaks. The third patient I spoke to seemed rather with-it till I asked him what the date today was."The date, the date, the date, what is the f***ing date." he hollered repeatedly as he thwacked the bed along with the rhythm of the sentence.I made the grave mistake of asking him what the month was."The month, the month, the month, what is the f***ing month!" The tune had not only changed its lyrics but had also increased in decibel.Startled by the sheer volume from a man so frail, I bid a hasty retreat from the ward. But even from the outside I could still hear his hollers bouncing off the walls. I had obviously opened a Pandora's box and now didn't know how to shut it. Worse still, even through the glass partition, I could feel the other patients glaring accusatorily at me for unleashing something I had no control over."Oh God, will he ever stop?" I thought desperately. As there was nothing I could do, I simply waited till I couldn't bear it any longer before turning and walking guiltily away from the echoes of his refrain.
Day at the Campsies
1st March 2005
I hiked up the campsies on Sat and it was simply smashing. The weather was excellent and snow wise, the mountain didn't disappoint. PS and I were rolling about in the snow till our butts were soaking wet. And with the aid of the cold, they soon became frozen and numb. And since I had no feeling in it by that time, on our descent, I thoguht I might as well sit on the snow and slide down the hill! Whoopee! Butt Sliding! I think I just invented a new sport, eh? Which makes me wonder what type of butts will be advantageous. U see, big flat butts would offer a large surface area which prevents too much pressure at one point but (or shall I say butt?) would also result in too much friction. Small pointy ones would offer less resistance, but would be slowed down as the butt bone, devoid of any padding, digs into the snow. Oh well, rocket science, eh? Give it some thought.
Well anyhow, back to what we did. After we descended the hill, we sat in the tearoom and INDULGED. Oh manz... Eclairs and cakes and soup and bread and rhubarb and cherry slices. And after all that we were quite quite broke. Couldn't leave them a tip but we did leave them 2 damp patches on their seats. (oops)
We took the bus home and PS cooked dinner while I defrosted my behind in the shower before heading out to the cinema to watch Spanglish. Good show, it was. We thoroughly enjoyed it.
Yeah, so that was my splendidly hedonistic weekend. Come out of it undeniably fatter but wildly happy.=)
I hiked up the campsies on Sat and it was simply smashing. The weather was excellent and snow wise, the mountain didn't disappoint. PS and I were rolling about in the snow till our butts were soaking wet. And with the aid of the cold, they soon became frozen and numb. And since I had no feeling in it by that time, on our descent, I thoguht I might as well sit on the snow and slide down the hill! Whoopee! Butt Sliding! I think I just invented a new sport, eh? Which makes me wonder what type of butts will be advantageous. U see, big flat butts would offer a large surface area which prevents too much pressure at one point but (or shall I say butt?) would also result in too much friction. Small pointy ones would offer less resistance, but would be slowed down as the butt bone, devoid of any padding, digs into the snow. Oh well, rocket science, eh? Give it some thought.
Well anyhow, back to what we did. After we descended the hill, we sat in the tearoom and INDULGED. Oh manz... Eclairs and cakes and soup and bread and rhubarb and cherry slices. And after all that we were quite quite broke. Couldn't leave them a tip but we did leave them 2 damp patches on their seats. (oops)
We took the bus home and PS cooked dinner while I defrosted my behind in the shower before heading out to the cinema to watch Spanglish. Good show, it was. We thoroughly enjoyed it.
Yeah, so that was my splendidly hedonistic weekend. Come out of it undeniably fatter but wildly happy.=)
A Day in the Life of Hilda
1st March 2005
“Oh sheez, I forgot to jot down notes from the patients’ medical files. Again.”
Dragging my feet, I emerged from the research office and began to ascend the stairs, leaving my bag containing my wallet, hp, keys and basically everything else that I carry around other than my skin in the research office. Some "kind" soul came in and err locked up the place, leaving me with just a tiny problem-- Hilda locked out of office and everything Hilda owns locked in. I didn't panic at first but calmly and rationally approached the first course of action.
Security desk downstairs must have the key.
"Excuse me, I just locked myself out of the 3rd floor research office, could you please unlock it for me?"
"Sorry, we don't have the key to that office, but we can ask domestics" Call was made.
"Err, really sorry, but domestics say they don't clean the place so they don't have the key."
Err right. I pat my chest to make sure my heart is still in there coz I can feel it beating in my feet.
" Well, I suppose we could always call the maintenance guys and they'll come and bust the lock", Mr Security helpfully offers.
Right, and get me dismembered by all other users of the office and hung from the door frame by my toenails as a future warning to all who might venture forth from the research office without keys .
Optimism is a learned response from the millions of times I've gotten myself in brilliant, supposedly once-in-a-lifetime fixes. It's okay, Hilda, it's okay. Breathe... You can always call home to see if your housemate is home, right? Then if she is you can just walk home... I almost begin to feel better until I realise I don't have a coat on. I have on a spandex blouse, a paper thin cardigan and my skin to protect me from the 0 degree wind outside.
Rrright, Hilda. No, don’t breathe. No, it is not okay. Yes, bloody PANIC!
I think there’s no other time I prayed as hard as when I ascended the stairs to make a bee line for the phone in the stroke ward. I dialled home and waited, my heart sinking lower with each consecutive ring. Finally, God heard my prayer.
“Hello?”
Oh my gosh… the relief that washed over me was indescribable. “Ahh, lang loi ah… wah lang loi. Aiyoh, Xie tian xie di you’re home man…otherwise I really wu jia ke gui already. So heng man…” relief took the form of uncontrollable babbling.
I walked out of the building sans coat, hat or wallet. Arriving at the bus stop, I checked the timetable and was beside myself to discover that the next bus was due in 5 minutes. And as I waited at the bus stop, every shivering cell in my body willed that bus to appear.It did-- 20 minutes later when my teeth had almost been ground down to nothing with all that chattering.
You know, they say, Murphy's Law, whenever tried and tested, invariably holds true. And boy, am I now a firm believer of that one.
“Oh sheez, I forgot to jot down notes from the patients’ medical files. Again.”
Dragging my feet, I emerged from the research office and began to ascend the stairs, leaving my bag containing my wallet, hp, keys and basically everything else that I carry around other than my skin in the research office. Some "kind" soul came in and err locked up the place, leaving me with just a tiny problem-- Hilda locked out of office and everything Hilda owns locked in. I didn't panic at first but calmly and rationally approached the first course of action.
Security desk downstairs must have the key.
"Excuse me, I just locked myself out of the 3rd floor research office, could you please unlock it for me?"
"Sorry, we don't have the key to that office, but we can ask domestics" Call was made.
"Err, really sorry, but domestics say they don't clean the place so they don't have the key."
Err right. I pat my chest to make sure my heart is still in there coz I can feel it beating in my feet.
" Well, I suppose we could always call the maintenance guys and they'll come and bust the lock", Mr Security helpfully offers.
Right, and get me dismembered by all other users of the office and hung from the door frame by my toenails as a future warning to all who might venture forth from the research office without keys .
Optimism is a learned response from the millions of times I've gotten myself in brilliant, supposedly once-in-a-lifetime fixes. It's okay, Hilda, it's okay. Breathe... You can always call home to see if your housemate is home, right? Then if she is you can just walk home... I almost begin to feel better until I realise I don't have a coat on. I have on a spandex blouse, a paper thin cardigan and my skin to protect me from the 0 degree wind outside.
Rrright, Hilda. No, don’t breathe. No, it is not okay. Yes, bloody PANIC!
I think there’s no other time I prayed as hard as when I ascended the stairs to make a bee line for the phone in the stroke ward. I dialled home and waited, my heart sinking lower with each consecutive ring. Finally, God heard my prayer.
“Hello?”
Oh my gosh… the relief that washed over me was indescribable. “Ahh, lang loi ah… wah lang loi. Aiyoh, Xie tian xie di you’re home man…otherwise I really wu jia ke gui already. So heng man…” relief took the form of uncontrollable babbling.
I walked out of the building sans coat, hat or wallet. Arriving at the bus stop, I checked the timetable and was beside myself to discover that the next bus was due in 5 minutes. And as I waited at the bus stop, every shivering cell in my body willed that bus to appear.It did-- 20 minutes later when my teeth had almost been ground down to nothing with all that chattering.
You know, they say, Murphy's Law, whenever tried and tested, invariably holds true. And boy, am I now a firm believer of that one.
First Ever Blog
21st Feb 2005
A frown for the lingering scepticism I have for blogs. Online diaries make absolutely no sense whatsoever. A diary entry is supposed to be a private recollection and reflection of the day's events, yet bloggers around the world have found joy in letting millions of people be privy to this very personal time and process. Why? Why share our lives with people thousands of miles away, who haven't the faintest clue and would never have the faintest clue who we are? Is this generation so lonely and scared they have to go online to find a witness-- any witness at all, to their lives? Or is it the comfort of anonymity-- of knowing that your next door neighbour for 25 years could be reading your blog without realising it is written by you?
Why? Why then do I write? I could provide a solid, faultless answer or weasel my way through with lame excuses about the lateness of the hour, the paracetamol I've just taken, or simply blame it on the fact that it is early Monday morning and people do strange things on a Monday morning. The truth is, I don't know. I don't know why I've gone through the motions of setting up a blog, nor do I know why I'm sharing this blog with you.
All I know for the moment is what I feel-- and it sure feels great.
A frown for the lingering scepticism I have for blogs. Online diaries make absolutely no sense whatsoever. A diary entry is supposed to be a private recollection and reflection of the day's events, yet bloggers around the world have found joy in letting millions of people be privy to this very personal time and process. Why? Why share our lives with people thousands of miles away, who haven't the faintest clue and would never have the faintest clue who we are? Is this generation so lonely and scared they have to go online to find a witness-- any witness at all, to their lives? Or is it the comfort of anonymity-- of knowing that your next door neighbour for 25 years could be reading your blog without realising it is written by you?
Why? Why then do I write? I could provide a solid, faultless answer or weasel my way through with lame excuses about the lateness of the hour, the paracetamol I've just taken, or simply blame it on the fact that it is early Monday morning and people do strange things on a Monday morning. The truth is, I don't know. I don't know why I've gone through the motions of setting up a blog, nor do I know why I'm sharing this blog with you.
All I know for the moment is what I feel-- and it sure feels great.
