My Lean Mean Machine

So here it is - in its full glory.
I know it's not a great pic - there can definitely be a better one. But this is the first shot I took of my new baby in our dimly lit carpark. There will be more photoshoots and glamour shots to come...

And I'm the proud owner of my very own car!!! I know I shouldn't keep going on about it, because I feel guilty whenever I think about the money I'm paying for this luxury but I had a moment in my car today when Chumbawamba's I Get Knocked Down started playing on the radio and (cheap thrill I know) I got so exhilarated speeding along on the highway in my new motor and belting "I get knocked down, but Igetup again, you're never gonna keep me DOWN" - I felt like Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire when he's speeding down the highway halfway through the film.

After sufficiently embarrassing myself in front of myself, the gravitas of having my own car finally hit me. Yes, I won't have to face peak-hour stress in the taxi, or encounter the typically-rude Sg commuters - but from now on, I'm gonna have to foot the ERP bill, tax, loans and the curse of parking tickets.
It's all my own doing, yes I know.

Work has been going along fine, with some ups and downs. Krabi feels so far away now and I still fondly recall riding at the back of the moped J and I rented to cruise through the little dusty lanes on the island, holding to him tightly while my hair whizzed in the wind and we gaped at the view of the open shore and horizon gleaming before us.

They say a picture paints a thousand words. This just about summed up what I felt...




J and I sometimes wonder what we're in this rat race for - being yuppies in the cities earning the salary, buying the cars, flitting from bar to bar like right socialites, listening to our mates compare salaries, houses, cars....

wouldn't it be more meaningful to throw in the towel and live on a beach somewhere, open a bar and drink with strangers from all around the world, make music on the beach and love in the night?

Sadly, I know myself well. If this was done too early, I'd be bored. It's like a rite of passage I have to force myself through. But hey - the world is our oyster, aint it?

Or - like tash and I used to say, the world is like an orange - that we grip with the brute force of our might. [you had to be there]

In the last few weeks, I had a couple more section pg 1s and my first proper pg 1! It was so satisfying seeing my byline on the front pg - I swear there will be more to come.

I got another byline semi-stolen from me but that's a long story I don't want to go into... besides that, I'm just trying to finish some package skedded for post-Christmas pub [when suddenly news goes dead] and this follow-up story I've been dragging my heels about...

I have lots of catching up with friends to do... apologies if my Christmas cards/greetings doesn't reach you in time [or at all]. Here's wishing all of you a warm, meaningful, blessed Christmas... and a hopeful New Year!

Love you guys!

Paradise

That's where I am right now.














Away from the office, away from the stress, away from it all.







I can see the oceans forever and ever, it is so quiet here that all I can hear is the sound of birds, and the rhythm of the waves.

I know this is supposed to be an internet, computer-free holiday - and it will be after I've posted this - but our 5 star resort is so unbelievably beautiful and in the middle of nowhere (still - free broadband is provided, can you believe it?) that I can't resist posting some pictures.

















(From top: Distant view of our idyllic resort set in the rainforest from our speedboat, next three: view from our infinity edge pool; view from the other infinity edge pool higher up which you can see the gorgeous view for miles and miles..)










Am off to feel the sand on my feet and watch the sunset.











I don't ever want to leave!

The Office

I hate it.

Office politics. My number one pet peeve in the office is people who think they are greater than others, but aren't. And the only thing they're greater than, is in fact little turds floating in toilet bowls, whose sole purpose in life is to decompose in sewage.

There are those who constantly have to lord it over someone, be it a human being, an animal, a scarecrow, or anything that moves... when all it reflects is their own incompetency and insecurities.

Then there are those with too wide a mouth you could fit 100 bananas length to length inside it. They are often those too hasty to judge, too quick to bad-mouth, too eager to be funny, when all they achieve in the end is the extreme contempt - and unforgiveness - of their peers.

There are so many morons surrounding me, I wish I had a magic gun so I could shoot them one by one - not so they're dead, just so I can shoot the stupidity, or bitchiness out of them that their existence might be elevated from that of a mere turd.

How I pity them.

Hello Kitty, bye bye

Some years ago, I saw the ugly side of Sg at its best - or worst, more accurately. This happened at the time none other than the infamous MacDonald's Hello-Kitty incident, when ugly citizens trooped out to invade all of Macs outlets to queue, jostle, fight and pay actual money for the Kitties - which they felt proud to have in their collection.

I think I was still a growing young girl in school then - and even then, at a tender age, when hormones are raging, and we did the stupid, embarrassing things we do as teenagers, I remember being absolutely appalled at some of my friends who joined the country's craze to obtain the silly looking kittens, even if it meant making their mums queue outside with scary-looking Ronald MacDonald, and even more mortified of those who felt proud of being a kitty owner, obtained by those means. I have nothing against those who likes Hello Kitty, I'm even a cat lover. But I do, however, have something against people who have no better sense but to queue up and fight over this, cute as it is, inanimate object.

[The year 2000, Singapore: Two 22-year-old men were jailed for five months and three months respectively for violent and unruly behaviour towards three policemen. They did not manage to buy Hello Kitty collectibles at a McDonald's outlet. One kicked a police sergeant while his friend swung a plastic chair at another cop.]

So when I read my beloved newspaper today, imagine the look of horror to see that Hello Kitty has again graced our nation with its presence. Some toy company paid half a million (yes, half a bloody fucking million) to bring an exhibition and get this - a musical - here to Sg for the amusement and entertainment of every kitty lover!

The sado in me continued reading through the two page spread, even though exponentially mounting disdain within my inner and outer consciousness implored me to leave it, for fear of jeopardizing my own health.

Then this did it for me:

"Hello Kitty is like the iPod. It's simple. It's white. It accommodates every culture, every emotion. Whatever you're feeling, it reflects it right back at you....

There's a capitalist enterprise driving it, constantly reminding the market of the relevance of the product....

Besides, the herd mentality some consumers have: "If everybody is doing it and it's not too exensive, why not?"


Hello Kitty and the iPod? Perhaps the toilet seat would have been more apt. It's simple, it's white, accomodates every culture, every emotion and whatever you're feeling, it helps you to shit better.

I'm staring hard at my ipod mini right in front of me, and metaphorically, rhetorically, literally and even ambiguously, I still can't see the Hello Kitty in my iPod.

I'm so glad I'm not a cow in the herd.

Increase awareness

Work has been tough - which explains the lack of posts - sorry guys who have been in touch. I will reply soon enough!

Been working till 9-10pm every night, usually 8 if things go smoothly. Have to say I'm getting into the whole working groove but it's difficult sometimes when you don't get to see enough of people you want to see.

Anyway, since it's been so long, here're some announcements!

1. I've bought my very OWN first brand new car!!!!! *does a little dance* Not my mum's, not my family's, but my very own!! I know I already did have my own car in England - my really lovely white Honda civic - but that was a second/third/
fourth/goodness-knows-what-hand car... and now I've finally got my very first brand new one. And every single cent is paid with my very own money as well! I'm an ecstatic and proud owner... can't wait to collect it! hee..

I tell you what's shocking though, is that I spent about £2,000 on my first car and now the amount of money I'm committing to getting this one is stupidly high in comparison! J still can't reconcile the amount of money you have to spend to get a car here - but for the convenience I'd pay it. It's been a bitch getting around recently, especially because I travel around lots, and the amount of money I'm paying for taxis is really stupid. Anyway, I deliberated a really long time - I wanted to get a Honda but it was pricey and the model I was eyeing had a small engine. In the end, after surveying a few, I finally got a Sports Mazda 3, which comes with a full sports/body kit... and you can view it in fulll glory here and I managed to get a good price (I think) and upon making good friends with my salesman, he threw in Huper Optik [nanotechnology] solar film for my windows, which give it a super-cool two tone tint..which goes really nicely with the colour - I chose metallic white (similar to my old Honda) - and customised 3M mats. I saw a Mazda 3 Sports with the same metallic white finish the other day, with the tinted windows.. and it looked so amazingly gorgeous, especially at night, like a racer car.. and I haven't even started on the dynamics of driving it!

I took it on a test drive and it was such good fun because it's got tiptronic (electronic) gears and I can drive it like a manual (I orginally wanted to get a manual car because I love driving/gear-shifting..) and get it to obey whatever I want it to do - which you can't do on most automatic transmission cars. It didn't feel too heavy, accelerated really smoothly and the gears transmission was seamless, and the car stuck to ground on sharp corners too. J came to test drive it with me and he fell in love with it too - it's just such a cool kit that now I'm actually plagued with a lot of middle-class guilt. But hey - indulge me this once! It's not often I pay tens of thousands on a single purchase!

(below: car pics I borrowed from internet. Hopefully, I'll be able to post my own very soon!)




2. I've started getting 'fan mail' from my fellow citizens and it has actually become strangely satisfying. As some would know, I was initially upset about this particular beat I was reporting on - but now that I'm getting used to it, it's actually a pretty sexy beat to work on which influences the life of every single person in society, regardless which class you belong to. I'm learning so much on the beat.. and every person I've spoken to has his/her own story. I recall the desiderata my godmother bought for me once.. and it said listen to the dull and ignorant for they too have their story. If there's anything that will keep me from getting on a high horse or being complacent about my fortunate position in society.. it's exactly this - keeping with the ground level, talking with people that you never would in a normal social circumstance. It's been a learning lesson.. and I even get story ideas suggested to me! Some useful, some not, and some downright hilarious. Like some guy emailed me to go check out the ugly 3-tone colours of the HDB flats here and he suspects that the paint used are ugly colours because no one wants them and it's cheap, but he thinks it's not great for Singapore aesthetics, especially if we're emphasising on good design to make our country look like a first-class global city. The idea's not bad, but part of why it's hilarious was the way he wrote - it was funny and written colloquially - exactly the way you would imagine him saying it. I would share it with you but for the sake of anonymity.

3. I hate the phrase "increase awareness" - it's such an over-used phrase that doesn't mean much, but is still used because there's really not a adequate alternative to describe what it really means. Everyone speaking to news journalists like to talk about 'increasing awareness', regardless of what they're trying to promote, it just sounds so damned cliche I wish people will stop using it.

4. J's been offered a job! And he's on the front page of the Suntimes today - damn it - I can't believe he got there even before I got my byline there. But hey - it was a favour for one of my colleagues and J isn't complaining coz he's been getting texts saying 'oi I saw you on xxx...' - I have to say he's even feeling pretty smug about it. Haha.

5. I'm going on holiday to an exclusive island called Koh Lanta come Dec - present from J for our anniversary. I know I shouldn't be going on a holiday when I've just started work but hey - it's all cleared and frankly, I think we need it! Coming back has been very much all work and not much play, so am looking forward to that!

Existential crisis

Friday - This marks the end of my first week at work and what a tumultous week it has been, emotionally.

I've finally been assigned my permanent desk, extension number, computer and... my news beat - which I have been asked to focus on indefinitely.

And if you ask me in all honesty... work has been a big comedown.

London, to me, had been an exciting year - shitty in the part of where I lived, but nonetheless exhilarating in what I learned and experienced. Thoughts are on collision courses in my mind right now I'm even finding it hard to give structure, or chronology, or expression to what I really want to say. So I'm just going to say it, however disjointed.

I learnt while doing our newspaper that the sexy beats were crime and politics - I was in charge of the business news then and it was hardly exciting, rarely made page one. Companies want to read about other companies and such news exist better in a trade publication. News was about the everyday, news is about the everyman. Sex, crime, scandal, politics.. they made it to the front pages of our newpaper and after much contemplation, I decided being a good general news reporter, like the jack of all trades though master of none, is fine by me. It's what I thought I wanted to do. I want news to change.

Then, we moved on to creating websites and magazines and I was always in some form of control over editorial content. I learnt how to use lots of software, I became the designer, everything was conceptualized from front end, to the back end, by us - always by us.

The newspapers/magazines I worked for in London like The Times and The Independent, had a high professional standard of journalism I really aspired to. The newsroom always had an air of excitement - the Labour Party Conference tommorow, Israel's progress in Lebanon today, Africa dying from Aids, the next upcoming West End production, the scadalous minister... you name it, it was there. It happened. Things happened. And you could report it.

Now everything's different here.

And I know it's unfair to compare as our country's so little in comparison (yet so admirable in what it's achieved precisely because of its size) but I'm now suddenly overwhelmed with this feeling of insignificance, of triviality, of futility... of disappointment.

It's also difficult to compare because of the unique government-press relations that this country has, but it hasn't made me feel any better even after understanding the limitations.

I had two days of IT training and induction this week - learning the new systems, getting back into the groove of things... and then I was seconded to help out with the urgently-rushed production of a particular book before actually reporting to newsdesk. Because our digital archives only went back to 1989, I had to physically type out some stories way back from 1968 till 1989... and in the process, I've read some good work, some alright. But what I've been amazed by, foremost, is the level of expression, or permitted expression, I should say, in the editorial content back then. There's no chance we'd be allowed to write the same way now. There's something that's sorely lacking [with the present]... but I can't quite put my finger on it. If only we were given more freedom. If only we can persist in fighting, in writing despite it.

I can only hope to make a difference with my own work in the future.

So now I've assigned to a beat which I'm not exactly terribly excited about. People, however, have been telling me it's actually a pretty good beat to work on - I have yet to be convinced but I'm definitey give it my best shot. After all, nothing happens exactly the way you want it to be. (Unless you're very lucky.)

Ultimately, I think this entire episode is just a reality check. I had it in my head that I was going to step into a glamourous reporting job, writing sexy news and breaking stories. My idealistic notions of journalism comprised of being in an exciting newsroom, writing quality, intellectually funny stuff of the G2 species. But in reality, not every newsroom, or every job, is going to be pretty.

I have to remind myself even at these Fleet Street papers I was writing the text for the infographics of the war in Lebanon, or interviewing people and doing research, only saving it to serve it on a silver platter for those who were there before me, fighting for a byline which they doggedly refuse to share.

In truth, my existential crisis is probably nothing more than the shattering of my rose-tinted vision, and the realisation that I just have to do my time. My quest for the extraordinary will only emerge through the ordinary, and I realise with horror that what I need is... patience. A virtue I have been often accused of being sorely in lack of. So I shall have to just, in the words of a friend once, suck it up.

Welcome to the working world, oh what growing pains.




(Note: Adding to my woes is that after being a full Mac convert for more than a year now, the very sight of my PC and the Windows operating system actually repulses me. I stare wistfully at my screen and wish for the interface to be the one I've been so used to looking at. I hate the fonts, I hate the colours, I've spent hours trying to change the look of the damn windows but it refuses to be manipulated!

In addition, I'm sitting near this lady who when she does her interviews over the phone, emits a sort of lazy-hazy 'hmmm.... hmm..... HMMMMMMM...' every five seconds that gives me the creeps. It's like a half-formed moan and after about five minutes of hearing this, I feel like I'm inhabiting some sort of alien space between the dead and the living. )

Settling In

I've decided not to go to London for the ceremony - I know it's a shame but it's really a bit silly to fly 28 hours there and back, with the added expenses, to attend something that I don't even know if I'll win ultimately, even though there's the free flow champagne to think about. I guess it's enough that I can add this on my CV...

Am finally settling back home - it felt really weird and strange and I never banked on having the culture shock that I did - there are just so many chinese people around! I always thought we were more cosmopolitan than that - but I guess aside from the trendy/city areas, it's still very much occupied by heartlanders who don't speak good english or speak none at all - I think I preferred it when I was the only oriental in the village.

Our flat's starting to look really nice - before and after pics coming up!

I'm finally starting work this monday - seems like it's been ages but I'm finally gonna start my six-year bond. whoopee. On the plus side, I've just been told that my subbing stint has been postponed so instead of working 5pm-1.30am every day - which translates into no-life, no-seeing-my-friends-family-and-boyfriend, no-joy-and-sunshine - I've been assigned to regular reporting! Which means regular 9am to (most likely) 9pm hours! Yay!

I got my contract yesterday and I'm a bit dismayed at my starting pay. My peers are earning much more in banks... I sometimes wonder if I did the right thing by giving up my place in law school. But hey - you know what?

At least I enjoy my job.

Scream

I've just received an email.

Telling me that I've been shortlisted for the PTC Most Promising Student Journalist of the Year Award!!!!!!!

My head's screaming inside, partly because I'm really happy - I didn't really expect to be one of the ten shortlisted for the award out of the whole country - and I'm screaming because the awards ceremony is going to be held next month at the Millenium Mayfair in London and....

I'm not going to be there.

As I'm starting work end of this month.

Sigh.

bye bye blighty

What a manic month. Which I keep meaning to write about... but have not found the time to. (But I will, in due course)

Finally the time has come to say goodbye to yet another chapter of my life and begin another crucial - and probably the most - important one.

For all its faults, I love blighty. And the people I've met. And the people I've grown to love.

Cried like a baby at the last two farewells, I know I was being silly but I couldn't help it. It felt so weird getting on that flight at Heathrow.

It's goodbye for now; know that I love and miss you guys so so much - but I'm only still a phone call away, albeit the seven hours difference.

Here's to the next phase of my/our magical mystery tour!

We won!

Remember the magazine I was ranting about a few months back, which we were working our arse off to produce?

We got news recently that we've won the Student Magazine of the Year Award 2006! (national award organised by the Periodical Publishers Association, Polestar etc) It's really incredible and like I said to J while I was ecstatically happy: I knew we were good. But not that good! :-)

You can read all about it here: "The Pen is mightier than the sword" and more here on the PPA website

Here's a short blurb:
An innovative magazine aimed at prisoners was named New student magazine of the year at this year's Magazine Academy, a competition dubbed ‘the X-Factor’ of the magazine industry. The Pen scooped top prize out of more than 30 entries from 11 Periodicals Training Council (PTC) accredited course providers.

Feel really sad that our whole editorial team didn't get a full mention - after all, we all worked bloody hard on this - some more than others to be fair. But it was hard work... seems a bit unfair only one person got credited, and the others didn't get to attend the ceremony. I'm so tempted to name our editorial team here, but damn my anonymity!

I cannot be more proud of The Pen - it was such a learning experience for us and I recall the amount of effort put into getting our stories, talking to prisoners, ex-offenders, various organisations... and designing the whole thing on Indesign every single day for weeks in that damn stuffy computer room. The prize reward is that our magazine gets published on high-grade quality paper and printed in full colour, circulated in the industry. Oh I can't wait to get my hands on my copy to see our pages in full, glorious colour!

On another note, I started work as a one-day receptionist today. I've never had to pick up the phone so many times... and it doesn't help that the company's name is so bloody four-words-and-nine-syllable long that I occasionally constantly get tongue-tied! But it's so different to what I'm used to doing..and the people are really nice. And frankly, I've never been a proper temp before - so this is novelty for me!

Transitions

I have been beseiged by a flu and cough and it ain't nice sitting around feeling shite, and doing nothing.

What makes it worse is I have only myself to blame for the lack of self-control and hedonism I have recently indulged in... my body is hating me.

So two weeks have passed since I have finished my dissertation and you'd think I'd be writing more. But there is this incredible inertia arising from nowhere and the wheels of my brain are rotating rustily, in order to find some clarity among the chaos, some direction among the dark.

If there's one thing I've learnt, it's keeping transitions short and sweet. How many times I have prolonged the interim period in hope of finding exciting things to do, prolonging goodbyes and postponing the inevitable; at the end, the memories of the past and the anticipation of the future only serves to fill you with a gaping hole. That's right, filling you with a hole.

I woke up this morning to the soft hum of the fan, smell of the bed... and the phelgm in my throat. Somewhere at the back of my mind, it reminded me of home. The fan, the humid air, the white walls... the future. I cannot articulate the exact emotion but I was metaphorically standing right in the middle of that hole wondering what to do with myself. Don't get me wrong, it's been a blast catching up with mates, being a lady of leisure, partying for 24 hours in a row... but it's the in-between that scares me – especially when I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling thinking of the move and what it entails.

I hate waiting for J to finish with work - I wish he could finish right now and we can move on and bang out all the errands/visits/last-minute plans we have to do and just get on that bloody plane.

Realisations

I don't know if it's just me, but I've always thought the Indy sometimes had a strange way of reporting things... for example,
Steve Irwin's tragic death.

His death (very sad, by the way) was described by the Guardian yesterday as the equivalent of Australia's 'Diana'... and typically, in a report about someone's death, especially an international figure like Steve Irwin (whether people found him irritating, or not) would definitely include a quote about how sad and tragic it is, (especially when it is tragic), and how mournful the general mood is.

But no. In this Indy article, there was absolutely no pervasive mood of mourning or regret... they even used this quote from Irwin's friend and producer who said:

"He died doing what he loves best and left this world in a happy and peaceful state of mind," he said. "Crocs Rule!"

Crocs Rule!??! You watched your friend die in front of you in a freak accident and all you can say is 'Crocs Rule?!!!'

Understandably, he might have been trying to remain cheerful... but in the context of how the whole story was written, I think it was a highly unbalanced and probably down to bad sub-editing of the original AP story.

I just feel sad, generally. For his wife and young kids, especially. The boys were making fun of his death yesterday, there was apparently an email circulating about a mock BBC report making comedy out of Irwin's death by stingray. The girls were saying it was far too soon to be laughing about someone who just died, but the boys replied 'it's already been 48 hours!'

Boys and their 'humour as defence mechanism'. We were truly disgusted.

***

I've finally finished my dissertation! It was one helluva' nightmare and I did another infamous J-style all-nighter again, barely slept two hours that fateful night, was still writing my conclusion on the train down to London.. and even on the bloody tube from Baker Street to Canada Water to get my connection.

How incorrigible am I.

My dissertation was half an hour late but they didn't seem to make a fuss so presumably it was all good. I think the first half of my thesis was brilliant, and the second half, I have only myself to blame for the drop in quality. On the bright side, I definitely have passed my Masters anyway... so Yay! I am now a fully qualified, post-graduate student! Wait. I was a post-grad student... what do you call a post post-grad student???

***

Celebrated in style in the weekend... went to a legendary Wise Terrace party, got really wasted and didn't sleep the whole night through. J and I danced from 11pm till 9am and it was so beautiful. The night was a happy blur and I vaguely remember dominating the dance floor in a rather embarrassing fashion... thank God the camera was in my bag and no one took photographic evidence of my antics, although I really don't think it was that bad. I took as many photos as I could in my inebriated state... and felt really sad, thinking that this is probably the last blow-out J and I will ever have of this scale. I thought about the few months we lived in that house, all the memories and how time truly eludes you the moment you think you have it truly in your grasp.

J and I slept from 1830hours to 0830hours the next day... how's that for a sleep-a-thon!

It's now definitely countdown time for us... we sat down and drew up a massive plan for our remaining weeks and it suddenly became all too scary. Accommodation, flights, bookings, seeing people, packing, sorting.... arghhhh!

I heard a podcast the other day and heard the infamous Singlish accent in its fullblown glory for the first time in awhile (other forms of Singlish I'd recently heard were diluted forms) and for some reason, my goosebumps immediately rose and I cringed. Not that I have anything against it... but I can only take mild forms of it ever since I left four years ago. Like bitter medicine. In small doses. Full blown Singlish accents seem to incite an internal allergic reaction. Like an unseen rash. Very scratchy, want to get rid of it, but really can't.

How on earth am I going to cope come October, I don't know. Maybe if I focus on speaking to J all the time, I'll be fine. Or maybe I should embrace it. Either way, every cloud has a silver lining... at least I'll be able to feast on all the yummy food I've been craving for all these years.

The value of things

I had a restless sleep last night. My body was aching and in my subconscious, I was very, very, scared about the amount of work I've left to do in my last two days before the deadline.

But I got rudely woken up to the terrible realities of life by J – who declared that he was going to drive all our unsold car boot stuff to the charity shop at bloody 0715 hours in the morning.

We did a car boot sale on Sunday and earned about 180 quid from selling our worldy possessions for ridiculously low prices. All the stuff that's been with me the last however many years were bargained over, their value hassled down... and try as I might, to remain unperturbed about the whole event, it finally got to me this morning.

When I could get a quid here or two for things that were mine, but sold. I could accept it. But yesterday, I said to J there were a few things I wanted to salvage from our leftover car boot heap, which we were going to give to charity shops.

But it didn't register.

I got abruptly woken up to him driving the van away with all my precious stuff in it... and I got up, looked around, really disorientated and I realise to my horror that all my beautiful coats, my lovely books, videos, cds, personal paraphenelia, clothes, shoes... everything. Was driving away from my grasp before I could retrieve it. Or prepare myself for it. Or mourn for it.

How we all get attached to our worldly possessions...

I jumped out of bed and threw on my jeans and jumper and literally, for the first time in my life, ran down the streets to look for him in the wee hours of the day. I knew which charities he'd be heading for – he wanted to donate them all to RSPCA because he likes animals better than human beings. But I wanted to donate it to cancer research because my real father died from blood cancer. In the end, in my bewildered, flustered, and hair-all-over-my-face state, I located the van, gave him a bollocking for just driving off without giving me any warning, and started to pick at the loot that he had carefully placed outside the charity shop (it was RSPCA in the end, he won).

I looked so dodgy picking at charity stuff outside the shop – but it was my stuff after all. I took a few jumpers back because it was getting cold, a pair of shoes, one book. I looked around at all the stuff and I suddenly came over all sad. I don't know why.

J said he couldn't bear to look at the heaps of precious clothes he had bought for a crazy amount of money, sitting like golden rubbish outside a shop. He went back to sit in the car because he said he 'didn't want to think about it' while I just stood hopelessly, helplessly, staring at all my things. Easy for blokes to just 'switch off' and 'not think about it'.

I stood there staring at stuff, but couldn't bear to extract anymore of my possessions, with J sitting there staring at me. I decided enough was enough and picked up the few pathetic items I had managed to salvage and we drove home sullenly.

Halfway home, I realised that the one thing that I really wanted to get back – my lovely soft-as-a-bear furry topshop coat – I had left behind.

I got really upset with J. It's not like I didn't want to be charitable – we were going to give all our stuff, which was worth hundreds of pounds, to the charities anyway before we left... but, he didn't even accord me the grieving time I needed, the luxury to look at my things one more time before saying goodbye to it forever, alongside with all the memories that it carried. It wasn't so much the value of things that really affected me, but the memory associated and the period in time of my life that it had come to represent.

I threw a tantrum back at home and almost cried about all the stuff that I was robbed from grieving over. But when I calmed down, I almost felt ashamed at the extent of the value I had attached to them.

I can buy another coat, can't I? I can read all those books again if I really needed. And all those little personal things, bits and bobs... like J said, if we had sold it at the car boot, would I really still miss it?

I'm thinking about my furry boots that I used to podium dance and rave with – I still want those. They were my first pair and they were mad stuff, representing all the good times I had dancing my tits off and getting inebriated with my friends in my university days.

But they're sitting outside a shop now and I can't go back to get them again. I suppose I could go back there and buy it off the shop again – but how stupid would that be. Or worse, the charity shop might have just thrown it away.

So now I'm sitting here, and I should be thinking about my dissertation, and all I'm thinking of, is being robbed of all my memories. Robbed of my chance to grieve. Robbed of my chance to hold on to things I knew I eventually had to let go of. Of that little pipe I bought in Amsterdam, of that coat I left there, of those furry boots, of the stuff that I actually wouldn't mind taking back with me.

But maybe this is my lesson. If I died tomorrow, I couldn't take it with me, could I? Perhaps somewhere else, some other person would put those things to much better use. Someone who perhaps isn't so well off, and can only afford charity shops. Someone who isn't like the rich, middle class twats we see so often, and whom we should always resist becoming. Someone who understands the true value of things.

Sometimes we need to lose our possessions to understand certain aspects of ourselves. I suddenly, weirdly, recall Ed Norton in Fight Club where his schizo other self (played by Brad Pitt) sets fire to his entire house – swanky, cool, wordly, middle-class possessions – and it turns out to be the most liberating thing he has ever done for himself.

I can only hope that in writing this, and forcing myself to forget about all those things I'd left behind, I will finally be accorded my appropriate grief and can finally let go.

Here's to liberation.

Research

I'm sitting here staring into space again and I don't know why why why I just can't seem to get my arse in gear especially since my deadline is one week today!

I guess it must be the curse of being a journalist (any excuse...), but since I've been faffing about for the whole day, I decided I shall share something really hilarious that I came across while doing my research.

To put things in context, my thesis is largely based on the digital age. The impact of new media on old media – or what some pundits choose to call it – 'we media' versus 'elite media'. Citizen journalism versus tradition journalism, bloggers versus professionals.

Which reminds me... Janet Street-Porter from the Independent on Sunday wrote this very sharp, slightly scathing, but nevertheless insightful article about blogging. In her words, "bloggers are those who, at the end of the day, can't get published."

But how about people who can get published but blog too???

Speaking of which, today I realised the very fine line between being officially published, and trying to blog anonymously. I created a blog the other day in my name and stupidly forgot to take it off my usual profile. Someone from News International apparently googled my name and came across my profile, which led to this blog, and the one with my real name on it. Doesn't take a genius to marry the two together, and I realised with one sick feeling that my frivolous posting, my blogging, without a care to sound like my published self, has been discovered by someone who was trying to find out something about me. There's something really eerie about knowing someone out there's googled your name, maybe in innocence to find out what stories you've written etc, but stumbled onto your personal life instead, in all its full frothy, flippant glory. What if I know that person in a professional context? What if I said something really silly and embarrassing; that has nothing to do with my published self! Still, but still, we persist in blogging details of our life to varying degrees. And publish it on the web. Not fully comprehending that anyone in the world could read it anytime and anywhere. (Unless of course it contains explicit porn, or paedophilic content, in which case, your site will be banned from most ISPs) Why! Is the question.

Maybe Porter was right, if you get published, don't blog. Leave that to those who don't. But then again, there's something so therapeutic about inane blogging – don't we all agree? Who cares who reads it? As long as I get the satisfaction out of it. But – and here's the danger – in the seemingly anonymous world of cyberspace, everything is deceptively hidden, but nothing really is. So once again, I have to remind myself, keep my published name, separate from my blogging self – rants and frivolous posting aside, I need to maintain my professional image. Can't have a potential newsmaker/client/mere acquaintance find out my innermost fears, hopes and desires, now... can I?

There's something very egotistical about blogging which everyone indulges in, but I just can't seem to find the guts to post a picture of myself online, with my name, and my personal life in beautiful detail (odd, for a – as my friends wrongly claim – rather egotistical person like myself. I prefer to call it confidence. ) I either display my name in relation to official stuff, or strictly business-only content. Or blog behind a pseudonym, revealing my other self in all its self-censored revelry. Maybe one day I'll finally be able to reconcile it in my head and do it. Just. do. it.

It can really be a headfuck. Take for example, Zoe Margolis, author of the blog Girl With A One Track Mind whose anonymity was recently exposed by The Sunday Times. I was working at another newspaper and happened to come across, at the photocopier, a piece that she had written for the paper (due to be published that week) and in that piece, she talks about being confused; how she's become a laughing stock in her profession and the vulnerability of it all – having your life exposed to anyone. who reads.

But she must have seen it coming. A few people in the newsroom were discussing how naive it is to think that one can write behind a mask, publish a book and chart her sex life in pornographic detail – make fame and money from it, and still expect to emerge unscathed.

Maybe my inability to reconcile the 'publish' side of myself, and the 'blogging' side of myself is a result of my cynicism and skepticism towards anonymity – that one day perhaps all the lewd (only at times) and brutal details I've ever written will come back to bite me on my peachy bum.

Do I really want to deal with the actualization of that reality?

It never pays to be naive.

***

But I digress.

The really hilarious thing that I was gonna share at the start, was actually this podcast from The Mr Brown Show.

Context (mainly for my English friends): Mr Brown was a (satirical) columnist in a free newspaper in Singapore; he still is a prominent blogger in the Singapore community website. And he was mentioned in the recent Prime Minister's Rally Speech because of a controversial article he wrote. Without getting involved in what the controversy was (this is part of my dissertation and you can read it when I've finished if you want to), Mr Brown responded with his own podcast, an...er, adaptation of... er, part of PM Lee's speech.

It is all good harmless fun. Very, very funny. I absolutely pissed myself when I heard it. I still click on it now and then just to make myself laugh.

***

Tick Tock, stupid clock

Yes, I know. I should be doing my reading, or writing my dissertation. But that strange inertia that always overwhelms me whenever I know I desperately need to do something is washing over me again, in repeated waves, so whenever I try to get my arse in gear, my determination is always foiled by some great unseen force.

So in a bid to drag out the time ticking on the stupid clock, I've decided to indulge in some mindless blogging before plunging headlong into (what I hope is) a frenzy of work.



Some sneaky phone pics of the Royal Albert Hall. Lynne and I went to watch a Mozart piano concerto last week and it wasn't fantastic but I enjoyed it anyway. I still retain that Mozart is boring – I do recognize his genius, but most of his music is a bit too placid for my liking.

RAH was huge. Loads of people promming in the centre... I don't think I could stand for an entire concert; not if I wanted to really enjoy it.

J and I are thinking of going to the BBC Proms for this, which includes Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue which I so love. The concert is going to be slanted towards Jazz so I'm really excited about going! Will have to work out if it's doable on Bank Holiday weekend, I'd hate to be stuck on trains. Anyone in London fancy it?

***

We've also moved out of the legendary Wise Terrace house and forsaken the very big, very chilled, but also very dirty house to move into an immaculately clean, mint, tidy house at the top of town. It's lovely and new – we're living in a massive ensuite room... like in a 5-star hotel. But somehow, it still doesn't feel like home.

I guess I'm really sick of living out of suitcases. For the first time in my life, I really want my own house. I even catch myself walking into furniture shops to goo and gaa over nice oranaments and pieces of wood! I mean, furniture?! I used to hate going home-shopping with my mum and now I'm willingly wandering into homey shops to fuel day dreams about my own place.

I suddenly feel quite old. But at the back of my head... I know it's barely even begun.

Interview

I stumbled on a very interesting interview with David Marshall today. It's a little long, but extremely insightful. I wish I had the chance to interview Marshall myself.

My favourite bit (I haven't read the whole thing yet) in this extract:

Our lives are empty. We don’t understand the joy of living is not in the gold coins. It is not in the bank account. The joy of living is in human relations. We are not in appreciation of this miracle of life.

We are giving a lop-sided view, an unfairness to the government! We come out of a morass of imperial subjugation where people were dying of starvation and now?

You know, when I won a case once years ago, I was presented with a lovely porcelain Buddha with a big flowing belly and ears that reached to his shoulders and a chubby face.

I said to my client, “Look, you Chinese got a real feeling for aesthetics. How can you worship something so obscene?”

He said, “Mr Marshall, try and understand. China is a land of starvation where millions of people die for lack of food, and to be able to eat that much, to be that fat, that is heaven!”

***

Now, that is the attitude of our government: to be able to eat that much, that is heaven and you should be content.

Aches and pains

I know about growing pains. But really, this is ridiculous.

I'm currently suffering – from general flu, a bad sore throat, badly-situated ulcers and to top it all off, my tooth is actually hurting like a motherfucker. I'm unsure if it's because I drank too much hot tea, or whether it's just the cherry on the cake, to top off my fully degenerating health. Oh, and the joints in my foot are hurting too – again I'm not sure if it's from walking in heels, or just plain arthritis.

Either way, it's not great. And I've got to go to work tomorrow. When the real work I should be doing is work on my dissertation which I have painfully avoided the last few weeks on the pretext that I'm working full-time, hence too tired for anything else.

Working at this particular Sunday national newspaper is proving not too fruitful. I really don't mean to sound ungrateful, but I think I've done enough time in 'work experience' – and I'm currently fully qualified with a job waiting for me, so it's just a bit much going through that whole experience of doing 'bibs and bobs', coming up with great ideas, only not to be given a byline for it, or expected to behave like they've done you the greatest favour ever to be bestowed on you in humankind history. I'm honestly, worth more than that.

Which makes me even more sorry for myself that I'll have to go to work tomorrow morning. And make inane calls, while nursing a full blown bad throat.

At times like these, I know I should think about third-world countries, and all the poverty and strife in the world – then I'll feel really blessed and lucky. And I know underneath I do... but hey, ranting is therapeutic sometimes.

I want to jump forward in time, to when I have my own desk in my newsroom and am furiously working on my own stories which I know I'll get a byline for. When I've got there, I promise to myself I won't be mean to interns, or try to steal their bylines. But I'm sure every journalist that starts off, goes through the whole initiating process... and swears at the base treatment and exploitation they have to grim and bear at the lowest rung of the ladder... later go on to forget what they've gone through when they've reached a comfortable level... then only think it right that they torture entry-level rookies like they once were, just so they feel avenged for what they had to go through. Somebody needs to break the cycle.

I also want to jump forward in time, to when I finally have a place to call my home. No more living out of suitcases, living at dodgy areas, living with a house full of blokes or living at strange people's houses. I want to be able to come home, see J every day, chill out, listen to my music and be in my zone. I'm not being too boring, am I?

I want to jump forward in time, to when I've finally finished my dissertation and I no longer have anything hanging over my head, and no longer have to feel guilty about doing nothing and having fun.

Most of all, I want to jump forward in time. So that this stupid sore throat will just be over and done with – so I can join Lynne in eating all the yummy (and extremely unhealthy) chocolates and biscuits (which she is doing right in front of me now) and just resume my healthy eating appetitite. Yes, I want to stuff my face. I want to do nothing. I want to get my own home. I want to start work properly full-time (it's a lie). And I want to be freeeeeeeeee!

Happy Birthday to me

So it's that time of the year again.

I'm officially one year older, and hopefully, all the wiser.

In comparison with my last two birthdays, I think this is one of the best birthdays I've had.

I felt a bit sad that J wasn't around, and my family is 10,000 miles away. But mum rang me while at work today and sang me a birthday song, 'Heeeeey Jess,' she said, 'haaaappeee birthdaaaaaay to youuuu... haaaapppeee birthdaaay to you...' I laughed. She’s so sweet. And then I had to whisper loudly down the phone, 'Mum! I'm at work, can't really talk loudly!'

People who cared, and I cared about, got in touch. There were some surprising voices from the past. And those voices I expected to hear from, which I didn't, they truly don't matter anymore.

I had a lovely meal with J on Sunday before coming back down to London and he bought me the loveliest necklace in the world – ever. And also, the loveliest dress. He evidently has very good taste. He also wrote me the sweetest card that almost made me cry.

I finally moved out of New Cross after the most nightmarish year of my life, living in a place I absolutely hated. Ironically, I say I regret it, but I don't, really. After all, it's all an experience and at least I get to say I've lived out of my comfort zone before. It's an extremely difficult feat, which many others underestimate. So goodbye and good ridance to New Cross, I hope I don't see you ever again.


Had a lovely dinner with great company today too, it was so nice to see everyone. Only thing was the food wasn't really what I'd expected; I didn't get my SE Asia menu, which was my specific intention, and the restaurant basically lied to me when I made my reservations. But I had the best cake ever, present from Lynne – my bestest friend. Whom I'm living with now. And I'm so glad I don't have to walk back to New Cross alone anymore, constantly looking behind my shoulder to see if anyone was coming up to stalk/rape/stab/shoot me. We walked back arm-in-arm back to her flat from Paddington station... and compared our tums to see whose was bigger from the massive meal. I realised in retrospective horror from all the photos taken, that I’ve actually put on weight. The creepy, evil thing that insidiously deceives you into thinking you can eat more, but then suddenly hits you one day in the face (or literally, on the face) in full force.

Lynne also bought me matching sunglasses – mine red, hers green. It fitted perfectly and I love it!

Last year, two of my best friends forgot my birthday. Everyone else who mattered, J, Lynne, etc... weren't around. I can't remember what I did with my family but I remember being all sad and melancholic – which I usually do get around this time of the year when I wonder where my life's really heading to. Strangely, I had the sense that I started a new chapter of my life today, especially when I reported for my first day at work at a particular Sunday national newspaper. New beginning, new surroundings, yet everything was uncannily familiar.

I think I've changed quite a lot in the last year. But in other ways, further cemented the original me. Only thing I know, I'm surrounded by great family and friends – I'm truly lucky, in so many ways. I love you all.

My July Holiday

I forgot to mention earlier, that actually the very first visit we made, before driving up to York, was to Fountains Abbey, four miles west of Ripon in North Yorkshire, and is a World Heritage site (since 1987 apparently).

It was really quite a place – a bit magical, a bit ruined, a bit like Stonehenge. It was actually reasonably sunny when we started walking the grounds... but it soon turned quite bleak (cf. ominous clouds in picture), and we didn't get to see the structure's beauty in all its glory. Still, if I wanted to, there are postcards to look at. (Updated photographs available here on Flickr – if you're registered as a friend, you'll get to see much more, obviously!)

***

The Hunt Harrison Mission (as mentioned before)... originated from an innocent day out in Birmingham, when we went to watch the cricket at Edgebaston. J and I were in this pub before meeting the rest, getting a pint and generally mucking about. From across the room, J looked up and smiled at this guy – when I say guy, I actually meant giant – he was huge, more than 6" tall, had long white-grey flowing hair, was wearing a white vest and jeans, with a black leather jacket on his shoulder. He was more than twice the size of me put together, but he was a really nice bloke, with a friendly smile. J described him as a gentle giant.

This guy, whose name is Harrison, as it turns out, lives in Bristol and owns a Harley Davidson. He was left more than 1 million pounds when an old friend of his died. They didn't know each other before, but Harrison was friendly and happened to meet his old bloke, who happened to have no family to leave it to. I thought such things only happened in films, or in news stories, but it was amazing chatting to someone who, in real honesty, just got very lucky because he was friendly.

J and Harrison really hit it off. Harrison, who plays the drums in a band around Bristol, also owns a dutch barge which he uses as a house boat which he moors there – he liked J so much he told us we should look him up anytime and he'll put us up in his swanky new boat which costs a quarter of a million, and we'd go out drinking in town and the works. So they exchanged numbers. J took Harrison's. Harrison didn't take J's, because J said he would text him. And as it happens, J lost his phone that very same night.

***


Cut to a week ago, we were driving to Bristol and J turned to me and said, "Should you choose to accept this mission... there will be no turning back." What mission, I asked? "The Hunt Harrison Mission", came the reply. I laughed. I'm in, I said. After all, it can't be that hard to spot a giant-like guy who rides a Harley, plays drums in a band, and owns a dutch barge on the docks of Bristol.

Cut a few hours later, we walked into a pub called the Hope and Anchor – the owner, Martin, makes a few calls and says he hasn't heard of anyone who fits the description, but directs us to a green porta-cabin where Tim who knows every boat in Bristol, will definitely tell us where to find him.

Cut a few minutes later, I'm a bit tired. I'm supposed to direct J, we can't find this cabin and we drive around in circles. Finally, someone directs us there and after locating Tim, who swears he hasn't seen anyone like that, we are told there might be a possible barge located at this specific place down by the docks.

Cut again, we drive down towards the docks. I'm getting even more tired, J's not really getting my directions. Tension rises. We can't find free parking. We decide to pay for it in the end, and walk towards the specified spot along the banks... only to find another boat, smaller, sitting in its place. We talk to its owner (who actually lives on that boat with his wife and son, slightly weird, but kinda nice if you actually think about it long enough), who told us to go down to the Marina.

It's still quite a way to walk, but too troublesome to drive to. My feet are tired, I feel skanky, and I finally say, "Mission abort. I'm tired, I want to go to a nice restaurant for a bite to eat. Fuck the mission."

J looks disappointed. How can we fail? We're so close, but no cigar. He looks crestfallen and I'm tempted to say, oh well let's go on, but I don't falter.

"If you really want to, I'll walk on with you – but to be honest, I'm really not bothered walking another few miles looking for a guy who might or might not be there", and I added in my head, who might or might not have told us the truth. Either that or maybe we got some details wrong.

And so it was, that the Hunt Harrison Mission came to an end.

Or has it, really?

I've got a feeling it'll be coming back to haunt us.

Back 2 Reality Part II

For the first time since I started my postgrad degree, I actually went to the library and borrowed three books. My library card record has been a clean sheet due to my dogged resistance to avoid stepping into that building at all costs.

I also actually enjoyed reading all that academic writing on my topic – probably because I haven't done it in awhile, and also, I'm interested in what I'm writing about. But it's all pretty complicated...

On another note, I played the grand piano today – a long time since I've exercised my fingers that way – and I really miss it. I miss playing for mass on the sundays, and being able to play bollocks after everyone's left – my fingers since have lost whatever dexterity it had before to becoming more like clumsy bananas tripping over each other in a race to get up and down the scales. It was saddening. And I would have loved to have a full-on get-my-fingers-running-session on the piano but this room, which was the only one available, was situated where everyone who walked into the main building could hear every bloody note I was playing. For fear of adding to the heat woes of general humankind, I kindly decided to spare the ears of surrounding unsuspecting victims. I need a soundproof room to get my fingers back to the land of the living.

Back 2 Reality Part I

After a whistle-stop tour around England, I am finally back in London, armed with a great tan and a wonderful collection of photographs from our visits to York, Scarborough, Whitby, Bristol, Exeter and Devon (in chronology).

Alas, I am also finally back to reality, which came crashing down when I awoke this morning – blurry-eyed, flustered, and sick with a sinking feeling inside that my holiday is now officially over.

So I've given myself about a month off since my last deadline and the next is looming ever-so-close that I wonder if I'm going to kill myself doing an all-nighter again, except this will have to be all-nighter(s) since it involves more than just academic writing and evaluation – interviews, and so on...

I had a great time on holiday – it's funny to think how many students come to England to study but only remain pretty much in their one area of England. Thanks to J, I've toured pretty much all that's significant in England. And I really am going to miss it when I make my imminent move come October.

Having said that, I think I'm really ready for a change. No matter what that brings. I'll probably be ready for a change in another year. Only this time, I'll have to stay six years.

York was possibly the prettiest English city I've ever been to. I walked the Shambles and its wonky houses on the side of the cobbled streets had such a quaint charm, I couldn't quite put my finger to it. We walked around just looking at the maze of streets and York felt more like a little town than a city. We discovered The Most Wicked Pub of the Century according to Me called the Evil Eye Lounge, which was hidden at the back of a tobacconist and once inside, revealed a spectaculor interior with an Indonesian/Balienese decor. It had rows and rows, shelves and shelves of every single spirit you could ever think of (see above picture), and the biggest cocktail menu I have ever seen. On top of that, it served Malaysian, Indonesian and Thai food. Upstairs, you had soft cushions in little cubicles to cosy up within, and on the other side, an internet cafe. It was almost surreal. The food was the best I've had in ages (to the acquainted, I had beef rendang and nasi goreng!!! I nearly died of food-or-gas-mic-delight. We made such good friends with the bar staff, we stayed out with them till late and partied deep into the night. It was brilliant.

I would go on and on about my holiday, but to keep it digestible, here is a summary:

- After having had two hours sleep, got up very hungover and drove to Scarborough.

- Typical British seaside town, I saw the biggest seagull ever and they were nasty, tried to intimidate me, a full-sized human being, into surrendering my ice-cream, the cheeky bastards!

- Went to Whitby, and more accurately, a little village called High Horsken, to visit J's grandpa. He's 86, but still very mentally acute, intelligent and well-spoken. We sat drinking whisky and listened to his World War II stories – he flew in Lancaster planes as a pilot/navigator and was intricately involved in the British forces' operations during the war – and stories about J's nan. We went to the North York moors where it was so big and vast and beautiful, and so windy that I was literally blown away as I stood at the highest point of the moors to admire the beautiful countryside.

- Drove a massive journey all the way from Whitby (North-east) to Bristol (South-west). Got very car-sick on the way due to ups and downs and constant swerving (J's impatient driving). Sat by a hotel bar at the Clifton Suspension Bridge and had a pint of Magners and some chips. Embarked on a Hunt Harrison mission (more of that to come later) before finally giving up and eating at a very nice but stupidly pricey restaurant on the docks. Met up with lovely friends living in Bristol and went to a local pub where you got the most eclectic mix of people, mostly young and students, in this grubby but very lively pub, drinking and skinning up.

***




(top left, Robin Hood's bay, near Whitby; top right, the North York Moors; bottom left, Whitby harbour; bottom right, Salcombe, Devon)

(Part II coming up)

Packing hell and agony

These two last days, I've been to packing hell and back. See the messy state of my room there? Imagine a chaos ten times that magnitude and that's what I've been living in the last two days.

Richard (my next door Canadian neighbour) walked past my room and shook his head, saying, 'you've got too many objects for such a small person'. Well, I've concluded that I'm not small, but I do have too many things – I sat defeated on my chair about halfway through my packing yesterday and looked at everything around me sadly. You have no idea the agony I have to go through, and it's not so much the physical act of packing, but more of the fact that I had to make a milliongazillion decisions about every bloody thing that I owned which made me go a bit crazy.

And the clutter. It's amazing how much one can accumulate, and it's even worse when you're doing a job like journalism where every piece of information could be important and I keep everything from newspapers to magazines to press releases and lots and lots of junk. I went through three huge black bin liners and they were so heavy I had to drag them out from my room to the kitchen (where I heard the cleaners complaining loudly in some foreign language in the morning, which I assume has got to do with the rubbish). I even surprised myself at the amount of stuff I could actually store in my reasonably-sized L-shaped room.

And to be truthful, my packing nightmare has been a bit of a revelation – it has been a surprisingly reflective and self-discovering process... at the end of it all, I actually knew myself that little bit better. It was really hard deciding which category each thing belonged to; some things I didn't think were important actually were, and some things I thought were important, weren't really...

Some examples:

1. My silver-blue Wharfedale hifi – it's nice, really good, with speakers connected with fibre wires which makes the sound great. The top panel is even transparent and vertically opens very stylishly when I press the 'open' button. I bought it for a 100 quid in the first year and it's played many-a-tunes, from preparing me for nights out, to chilling me out or, cheering me up in times of distress. I couldn't live without music, and there're so many memories attached to it, but yet, it is quite a big hi-fi, and it would cost me lots to ship it back. After thinking about it for a whole hour, I finally decided to let it go. So I'm going to try and sell it at the car boot sale this sunday, and I hope I get an okay price for it.

2. A very plain pink long sleeved off-shoulder Topshop top – it's the sort of top that could also be like a jumper and I couldn't place it immediately in the send-home category (because honestly, no one ever wears long sleeved tops in a hot country), but I couldn't bring myself to sell it either. In the end, I decided to send it home, only because J said I looked nice in it before, and it's actually really comfy!

3. My orange rug, my moon-shaped lamp, my orange translucent door-curtain-like-things, the vase which contained the first flowers J ever bought for me, my leather jacket, my nice pink pilot jumper, and [most painfully] my black fluffy furry boots which I used to podium dance in at raves... are some of the things which I really hated to let go... but I have done in the end.

I did, however, keep a couple of jackets and my newest pair of Bertie boots, and my leather gloves... stuff that I'll probably use if I do travel.

In summary, this has been a trip down memory lane, although slightly premature (I have another three months before I leave) but I guess it's good that I'm getting things done early (what a change) and I can finally concentrate on getting started on my dissertation (yeah right).

The Weekend That England Failed Itself Again

What a weekend of sports, and losing.


A bunch of us went to watch the Twenty20 Cup between Warwickshire Bears and Gloucestershire Gladiators at Edgebaston at the weekend. I've only been to a cricket match once before in my entire life, and that was last year, at the same place when the Bears played some other team.

This time, however, we managed to get great seats. They were right in front of the wicket, and the sun was shining brilliantly at us, I got an amazing tan, and of course, a refresher course on understanding the ways of cricket – I've always thought cricket was a thoroughly boring and tedious game, but yknow I'm actually beginning to appreciate it. The Twenty20 match is great for cricket appreciation for beginners – the bowlers go for more whacks and the pace is so much quicker. Just a quick summary for the uninitiated – both teams take turns at bowling, and the whole point is to accumulate as many points as possible in the limited number of 20 overs. Gloucester Gladiators went first and got a total of 188 points. Warwickshire Bears then came on and they really underperformed in the first half, like they did last year. But in the end, it got really exciting because they quickly caught up towards the second half. Whenever they got a '4' or '6', the crowd went crazy, and some sort of pop-ish music would start playing and people would get up and start dancing on their feet, waving their placards to celebrate the points. It was actually really funny sitting and observing the different ways people cheered. I've also concluded that without England's chavs, there would be hardly anyone left to cheer for England. For all their faults and social consequences, England's matches would be deadly silent without them.

Indeed, they sing and cheer with such gung-ho that it often doesn't take long before it starts to get really grating on your ears, and your nerves. There are some times that they aren't so bad, like at the cricket, but some other times I wished I had a dumb-gun which I can point and shoot at them, that will automatically make them quiet for the next hour. Anyway, the cricket. We [the Bears] were down to the last ball, and if they hit a 4 or 6, Bears would have won the game. But they came so close... only to lose out at the very last minute. Exactly the same way they did last year. It was kinda depressing witnessing their lost two years in a row... but hey, I don't think I'll be around next year to see if luck turns around for them. Managed to take some pics of the grounds and the action.


We got so silly drunk by the end of the game, I even joined in the lame mexican waves that made its way across the stadium, and the short dancing spurts of celebration when everyone lept to their feet if a ball flew out of the boundary. We went into Birmingham to club and thanks to a mate who wore inappropriate trainers, we ended up in quite a crap RnB club, which was still dancable [there was a very nice DJ who played all the songs I requested] but I soon gave up from tiredness and drink. Can you believe the taxi back was 42 quid?!




*

We prepared ourselves for another day of drinking [when I say drink, I meant I actually had only one pint of Magners which lasted me the whole game while the guys downed close to 10 during the whole period we were watching the match] and had, annoyingly, to find ourselves a pub to watch England v Portugal in last minute because the pub we arranged to go to was filled with those noisy chavs I spoke about. The sniggering and shouting was seriously doing my head in – I wanted to get up and tell them to shut up or give them a smack on their head [disregarding the fact that EVERY one of them was larger than me] but G said, what's the point, it'll take so long to sink in their thick skull the game will probably be over by then.

So we trooped away and found ourselves a nice pub garden to watch it in, which was a bonus. And then there was the match, which was again disappointing in performance – but did have its good moments when I really thought things were looking up. Then of course, the sending off and the penalties. One bad mistake, one bad decision and a few lousy penalties and England's fate was sealed. Lampard has been consistently shit this season. The last match they played was the first he actually had some shots on target. I have no idea why Sven let him take the first penalty. The psychology of winning the first penalty is so important. But Sven's probably secretly plotting for England to lose, what with falling into the fake sheik trap and all that and being disgraced.

When Ronaldo pelted that ball into the net, someone in the pub actually shouted ha! He missed! before realising that the whole Portugal team was fucking estatic with joy for a reason. A huge, incredibly acute silence suddenly descended on the pub. It was really, agony. Not just where I was watching it. Even outside, the cheering stopped. It's like time stood still for that few seconds after the ball went in and all of England's dream of reclaiming the Cup on the 40th anniversary of their only win evaporated along with the muggy heat of the day.

People around me started crying, some kicked the chairs, some threw their pints down. Several minutes later, everyone spilled onto the streets and sat on the pavements numbly, while a group of lads started kicking a ball around mindlessly.

It was national mourning. And a cloud of desperate disappointment, and the air of losers, pervaded the air.

I sat there surveying all in front of me, and even though deeply disappointed myself, I wondered about the amazing ability of such human, constructed, events to influence the emotions of people at such a massive level. Surely every pub in England [except maybe, the Portugese-run ones] must be in tears... I couldn't imagine the same scale of national pride, and disappointment, existing in my home country. Maybe it's something that comes with time, but being proud to be English, is very different from being proud to be Singaporean.

I watched on, musingly, and wondered if we would ever reach that stage.

Having watched two sides lose in two different matches in one weekend, I've concluded that it's not so much about the winning, or losing, but the fact that the game is still there. The years will come and go, and the next World Cup will come around, and all of a sudden, the loss four years ago will be but a distant memory and a country's hopes will be revived again.

In the words of a guy, Tom, whom I met at the weekend,

"Hey, I'm fucking gutted about England. But yknow what? I'm going to look at the material side. I'm still a millionaire, and more people will probably come to my club tonight because they want to cheer themselves up, and I've still got a pretty amazing bed to sleep in tonight... so it really don matter in the long run."

Le Nozze Di Figaro

Thanks to one of Lynne's more (possibly the most) brilliant suggestions of her life, we went to watch The Marriage of Figaro by the Royal Opera House which was screened live from there to Trafalgar Square where almost 5,000 people gathered. I'm not one for big corporate publicity events, but BP did good to make opera for the masses possible.

It was one of the less frequent times I actually felt happy and privileged to be living in London. I had gone from bursting into tears on Tuesday when I came back here, to really enjoying the crowd and the buzz tonight. It's strange, but I think we sometimes underestimate the extent of influence habit has on us, and our subconsciousness. Nobody likes to be removed from familiarity. What makes it worse is when one inhabits a physical space that constantly changes, that familiarity, once it begins to feel comfortable, simply eludes one's grasp again. It's not really London's fault that I get upset coming back here. Well, sometimes there are a lot of contributing factors. But I think it has all come down to wanting a more settled place I can call home. I've always loved being mobile. But maybe I'm searching for some stability even in this mobility. Never thought I'd say that. But there you go, you learn something new everyday.

It actually felt like summer today – we've been having such shit weather this summer, (no surprise, Britain) I was almost tripping with joy over the sunshine. Lynne and I bought desserts, chocolates and smoked our menthol lights, while watching the opera, eating and drinking our bottle of Cava from true festival-like plastic cups. Classy. But sitting at the foot of Nelson's column watching the opera was such fun, and the performance was amazing to say the least. I wished I was in the Royal Opera House watching it, then again if I were, I wouldn't be able to do everything else.


As dusk fell, the audience still sat there absolutely captivated by the glorious voices of Rosina and Susanna. I wish I had my camera so I could take pictures to send to TimeOut but I didn't. So yet again, I had to rely on my lousy camera phone for pics. It got cold pretty quickly, but the crowd and summer air made it bearable. The setting of the opera got even more lavish, the arias sang were so tender, emotive, yet dramatic at the same time – I don't think I've been a massive opera fan ever but I'm now a full convert! There's another screening on the 7th July for anyone who wants a great, free, cultured night in London.

I hate computers

After typing the longest post I've ever written in my life, my computer decided it was a good time to restart and I've lost all that I've written, so I'm not going to write it all again.

In summary, I've submitted everything I needed to on Thursday, the day of deadlines. And freedom was sweet, although now, it's only Monday, and even though I've given myself a whole week off, I'm finding that having nothing to do is terribly unattractive.

Which doesn't give me a good enough reason why I shouldn't sit here and type out all that I've written before, since I've got not much to do. But fuck it, I'm going to the gym – at least I get to lose weight, instead of staring at damn computer screens again.

Summer

It's 31 degrees in London today and I have been taking two showers daily, I can't close my windows, or even draw my curtains after my shower to dress - simply because it's too freakin' hot.

I know I shouldn't complain - I always moan about the British weather so this is really pure, glorious, sunshine which I should appreciate. Just that my hair is turning into straws from the number of times I have to wash it, and numerous blackheads are starting to find homes on my face, which is only naturally highly undesirable.

Anyway...... this week is the last leg of my work marathon. We're finally going into the last stages in the production of our magazine, which I must say is looking spanking fantastic. Lots of stuff has been going on meanwhile, including riding in a kit car for the first time (which reminded me of the time I went to Pasir Gudang to race with some Honda-crazy driving nuts), getting lots of sunshine in the park, spending time with J's family, taking a boat for the first time out in Leamington (even though I've lived there one year full-time and this year half-the-time), getting very drunk on some weekends and behaving painfully embarrassing, watching the World Cup and generally getting very excited about summer in general, while slaving away at finalising my portfolio and magazine.

This is me and Karl in his kit car which he drove over from Leicester. It was such a wicked car - only 1-litre engine but so light, it was quicker than the Aston Martin J rode in the week before, apparently. I went on a joy ride round the countryside and Karl was having such fun racing on the A roads. The wind swept up to meet my face with such force that my sunglasses was plastered into my skin as bits of gravel and other stuff I don't want to think about pelted me everytime we accelerated. We reached 100 miles and beyond in no time, overtaking all the cars on the road, and we were only this close to the ground. It was so much fun - like being on a roller-coaster, except that in this car, there's a real possibility of crashing (onto the other vehicles in the road) - everyone was staring at us. It was rude [the car], and also very cool. At the end of it though, because I didn't tie my hair, it was blown to a ludicrous volume – the only time I've ever seen my paltry thin hair, well, not looking like a rolled-over mat. This is why, I finally understand, when we watch American films, the babes riding in soft top convertibles always sport a bandana or scarf over their head.

*

This is little Abigail, who is 15 months old, and growing ever-so-cute. James actually behaved like a proper uncle for once and didn't teach her anything bad (it's only a matter of time). She was lovely to spend time with – she rolled around the field, walked with her knees looking for hidden treasures, and mischieviously popped a daisy into her mouth. She really looked like she enjoyed it, chomping on it with the first few teeth she's got, and giving us flashes of the mushed-up daisy in her tiny mouth – James and I were alarmed but Matt only turned around to say, Oh it's only a daisy, at least it's not stones or soil [which she attempted to taste earlier as well]. She swallowed it and then looked very pleased with herself. I could only laugh.

We also took a boat up the river in Leam. Finally. We've always wanted to see what was up there. But we only hired the boat for half an hour [we were only allowed it for that time as it was rammed] so we couldn't go all the way. But at least I know what a good part of the river looks like now. It was very peaceful, navigating the little byways and watching the ducks swim past you at an arm's length. There were loads of other people canoeing and James would crack out laughing whenever one of them got stuck near a bank and had to row furiously out to dislodge themselves, thus spraying even more water on themselves (and others around). He was very pleased with the fact that he made the wise decision to hire a motor boat because all he had to do was just turn the handles in either direction and navigate the rudder. What a bloke.

*

I'm suddenly thinking of my sailing days and how the sea and beach at East Coast Park used to be my second home – and how I would dread those early mornings, waking up at 6am to go training, which took me more than two hours to get there because I live in the West and the freakin' sailing centre was at the furthest point in the east. And how I used to dread carrying my dead-heavy laser and rig the whole boat up, which took ages and a lot of concentration.

But once I was out there – at sea, with nothing but just me, my boat, the sun, the sky and the wind – I was in a paradise no one could touch. I love the sun. And maybe, that will be the only redeeming aspect of my imminent move away from a country I'm now used to living in.

Still, thank God the temperature's going down tomorrow.

And thank God for air-conditioning.

Royal Opera House

Went to the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden for the first time ever and when I got in there, I wondered why I haven't been taking advantage of the fact that I live in London to visit these amazing places as much as I can.

It was so grand and pretty, it was a shame I didn't have my camera with me. But no flash photography was allowed anyway. I did, however, manage to sneak a [poor-quality] picture with my mobile.

It was Bartok's Duke Bluebeard's Castle and Schoenberg's Erwartung and my, it was gripping opera. The stage was so beautifully crafted and I was in constant awe at the power of the human voices. On a slightly different tangent, an old friend once told me that good singers were fat because you had to be of a certain size to be able to reach a certain volume. I never really believed him, but when I was thinking about it tonight, I don't think I've ever seen a skinny opera singer.

So I haven't seen an opera in ages, and just being there brought back so many memories of the days we used to go to classical concerts in our school uniforms [because I studied O and A level Music] and sit restlessly for hours listening to orchestras. I did enjoy it, but I do vaguely remember being told off once for dozing off because I had been sailing in the day earlier and was absolutely exhausted. I was mortified and embarrassed. But not as much as when I got a coughing fit in the middle of the second opera performance tonight. I felt like I was gonna die, I had to cough so desperately but everything was dead silent and I was getting dagger looks, it really took me every effort to try and calm my cough. I never want to go through that again, honestly.

*

It amazes me how the look and feel and sound of the orchestra always stays the same in my mind, there's something inexplicably soothing, refined, calm and cultured about being near that many instruments.

I loved every minute of it and I've resolved that I'm going to watch as many concerts as I can in the next few months before I leave.

I would write more but I'm so exhausted and my work still looms over my every living second.

Teething

So I've finally [virtually] moved. To my third home after two years at the last one.

It feels nice. Like having a clean slate.

There's a prison slang for this, but it just slips my mind right now. Am working on producing a magazine recently for prisoners and ex-offenders, and as you can tell it's pretty grim but we're trying to make it as fun as possible. What could be more challenging than five middle-class girls writing for a generally uneducated, working class audience whose average person is a 40-year-old robber?
At least we know we've got a captive audience.

I have a few more things to do before this website is finished. I'm still tempted by the idea of buying a domain but I know it'll take me ages to get anything done if it isn't as simple to blog as it is now on blogger.

So anyway, I will press on. Have lots to write recently as deadlines are looming. It's strange that my tendency and desire to blog generally increases when the amount of actual work/writing due increases phenomenally. It's like ironic procrastination. Let's just hope I get it over and done with it soon so my time is finally mine again...