m y s t j

Moving, and not

2008-05-04T16:24:00.002+01:00

As some of you may already know, I have bought my own domain after much deliberation.
This means, I have already moved to a new site, the address of which is www.myname.com, assuming of course, you knew what my name was.

If you don't, and want to, email me. If you do, and still can't figure out what my new site is, also email me. Or leave a comment.

I have loved writing here for it grants me anonymity, which can't be said for my new site, so I'm not shutting this space down, simply for the fact that sometimes I just need to bitch, good and proper about something, and can do it here with no name attached.

So for all you know, you might still be getting the juiciest bits of writing here. Just that it'll probably not happen very often seeing as how many sites I now have to maintain, with the most important one of all, still in the very-far-back burner.

So till then, it's bye for now!

3am

2008-03-01T18:53:00.005Z

It's 3am and my mind is racing.

Sleeping is impossible. After tossing and turning and feeling my heart beat at about 170bpm for the last hour, I decided I was trying in vain.

So I'll write instead. Again, time seems to be flying by and again my life seems to be a whirl of an intangible mess of "things happening".

Looking at my last post, that nye incident seems a lifetime ago.

Let's see: since then, I have been on a 4-week long course that served to recharge me well; written many stories, some significant, others less so, won story of the month; joined a gym for almost 2000 bucks; went to see The Police - who were legendary. Sting is so bloody hot, even at his age, I hope my bf ages the same way; gambled and ate lots at chinese new year; invested lots of my CPF money; bought new shares in the market; and just tonight, finally caught No Country For Old Men.

It was so Coen brothers, if you didn't know theme or their work, the majority of the meaning of the film gets lost. It was also so Fargo - just in the southern states instead of the north. Made me think back of my film studies days, oh how we would all just sit around and dissect the film, sequence by sequence, and analyse all the social satire brimming beneath the strung-together shots. I kinda miss it. Not many would understand, but for those who do, the conversation is something I would have relished so even more.

So between churning some beautifully-shot sequences, and the macabre-ness of it all, it didn't help that my mind's still racing about my upcoming story.

It's been awhile since I felt that excited or emotionally attached to one story, it scares me while at the same time almost titillates me. I remember the last time I felt like that was when I had the news that no one else had back in London and I had got a freelance assignment from The Times to write about it. Although it wasn't in the end a really fair deal for me, because they gave my story to someone else to write the main piece, getting my name in The Times was enough to keep me awake in anticipation for a few nights.

That now seems so long ago, and how far I've come. I think if I could turn back time I would have demanded that I wrote the main story, but hey it's all lessons learnt.

Where I am now, I can't even begin to describe, only that the sense of fulfillment and unfulfillment overwhelms me at the same time. And it's like there's a vast, black, hole - with promises of the future and tasks left undone - that's hovering above, mocking me.

I have such high hopes for this story. For this year. For everything.

I really should be grateful J and I are doing so well. More than a year ago, back in the UK, our lives were inhabiting such an alternate reality: the dosh, the drinks, the work and the people.

Now, we're but a fraction of the way on our journey and the future, unknown but brimming with unimaginable outcomes, seem simultaneously a miracle and a curse.

I can only hope my story turns out the way I want it to, that the choices J and I make turn out the way that ultimately makes us happy.

There's wanting something so badly that you think about it all the time, and then perhaps you get it, and you knew you would anyway and you think that'd make you happy but it turns out to be a delusion that chains you to the expectations and tardy perceptions of this world.

So, do you, or do you not, really want all that?

I say Yes.

And no.

Happy New Year

2008-01-03T07:34:00.000Z

It's been a funny New Year, in many senses of the word.

For one, didn't celebrate it with J which was a little weird. But he was ill, and I guess we could consider ourselves lucky to be on the same continent. We planned to go for the fireworks party but it didn't work out and maybe just as well, since I heard the minister made an appearance and it wouldn't have been too good for one of my biggest newsmakers to see me thrashed.

Had such a good time at the countdown with some of my colleagues and even though at the start it was only the 4 of us counting down in this uncrowded, trendy bar housed in a quaint shophouse in chinatown. It was lovely, affordable champagne, a party pack, and we made a lot of noise at the countdown, hugging each other shouting happy new year and going in a round declaring our resolutions. We cheers-ed to that and then promised we'd help each other fulfill our promises for the year. or so we hoped.

A wanted some to do some 'lancing' and somehow we convinced ourselves that going to clarke quay would be a good idea, god knows why and how. i remembered clinic played really good house/trance music and was sorely disappointed to find out it had been turned into a canto-pop club. Why the hell that happened, I don't know. It's a bit sad to think market forces have ruled out the rave in favour of canto - we are just getting infested by too many canto-dancing people on this island and very soon all us who love rave music will only have one little one by one sq m room to dance to, ipod earphones in our ears. how tragic.

The night soon became eventful - the turning point being my momentous decision to put my clutch bag down on a corner of the stage.

There was this crazed looking guy in trying-to-hard-to-be-cool spectacles who came up to me and shouted for me to take my bag off. I tried to reason with him, told him it really didn't matter if I was occupying a teeny weeny corner. He got aggressive. Very. And guess what he did next?

He actually spat at me. I was stunned and shocked. And then almost blinded by anger. Which fucking moron in this day and age spits on anyone, much less a bloody paying customer in a bar. WITH a cover charge. it's such a primal, hunter-gather pre-homosapien thing to do and he should go back to living in the stone ages, that asshole.

I wished J was there so he could punch that asshole for me. But then again it would have escalated into a full blown fight and that's not necessarily a good thing. To cut the long story short, the barmen tried to appease me into not pursuing the matter, and gave me two free drinks in a reconciliatory gesture. I tried my hardest to forget it but how could anyone take being spat on on new year's day lightly?
Perhaps on hindsight I should have demanded to speak to the manager of the place on the spot and get that guy fired. But it wasn't new year's for nothing and after already had 6 glasses of champagne and a few others after that... i definitely didn't have the right head space for reasoning, so I settled for getting him back by throwing a glass of water (or was it gin and tonic?) at him (my friends led us to the dance floor and it just seemed a natural thing to do, you could say the stars were aligned for it to happen) and giving him the 'read between the lines'. Then I took off - went out, got a cab, went home to J.

I was tired and so pissed off by then, I didn't give a shit about what happened. All I knew is at least I had the last laugh. That'll teach anyone to think they can get away with spitting at anyone. Later, A told me the rest had a sort of 'confrontation' outside the bar and some dialogue worthy of a singapore version of the godfather were exchanged. This included, "don't be so rude later I slap you bitch" and "I want to beat you up", but thank goodness nothing more than just words happened or I would have felt so guilty.

After such a long night, I went home and promptly fell asleep and the next morning when I woke the whole episode just seemed like a weird-funny and haha-funny night. I am unsure if I should take the issue up with the management. Somehow, after the drink pouring, I think I've given away any rights to negotiate... But if anything, I'm just glad the guy didn't get away with thinking he could just do what the fuck he wants and that people will swallow up his unbelievably rude gestures just because he has a crazy, I-am-a-murderer look. And from now on, if that place, or that band can get any bad press from me, it most certainly will.

For next year, A and I have concluded we should just stay at home and watch DVDs and drink amongst ourselves. If J wasn't ill we actually would have just gone back to mine for another ipod party and play her cool african rave track to dance the night away - but hey, as i said, the stars were aligned and maybe this was meant to happen, just to give our new year a bit of a kick and for me to contemplate the whole reason for living, resolutions and all that shit we're supposed to contemplate at the turn of the year.

While I could dismiss this as stupendous bad luck that it happened, maybe it happened for a reason and I have wondered why we all insist on going out and getting drunk on the 31st dec of every year and pay over 100 bucks for the privilege of getting spit or stamped on and waiting on the roadside for more than half an hour for a taxi to go home.

I wonder if the concept of the new year is just that - a concept. What makes the difference going from May 31st, for eg, into June 1st - and that 31st Dec is so special? Companies start and end their financial years at times anywhere during a given year - maybe I should declare 31st July my own financial/personal year so 1st August won't only be my birthday, it'll also be my new year every year. and I can go out and get drunk with all my good friends, and countdown without having to pay overpriced cover charges and when dec 31st comes I can say to the losers out on the streets, hah-hah! I had a better countdown already!

Meanwhile, my mum says it's better to forgive and forget and after listening to the whole story, said that the guy actually deserves my pity and prayers because what kind of sad life, childhood did he have, and how stupid he must be to inhabit that sphere of existence where such an act could supposedly liberate him. Of course, she also said I should stop being such a hot chilli padi and make a new year resolution to calm my life down since eventful things always seem to happen to me.

But would I want an otherwise boring existence? that is the other million dollar question. Sometimes I think to myself I really want a boring, peaceful life and then at other times I think that would really be so dull I rather have the more exciting one with lots of trials and tribulations even though it might mean more pain and unpredictability in the long run.

So in the true spirit of the new year tradition, I have made some resolutions myself and I am going to stick to them by hook or crook:

1. Take more deep breaths, be a calmer person, even if that means listening to 92.4FM (classical songs) instead of 99.5 (hard trance/house)

2. Save more money (worked for more than a year and nothing to show for it except lots of ikea furniture)

3. Sell my car and get a more fuel-saving one

4. Go to the gym and tone up. I'm not fat but I've lost all my muscles it's becoming so flabby.

5. Be healthy - in body, spirit and mind. Stop drinking so much ( I was hungover every single day on the last week of december)

6. Be more adventurous - do more than the same-same, even if you're stuck on this island.

7. And get started on my big project which I've been sitting on for so long...

8. Spend more time with my family, complain less and go to mass more often.

I'll stop at 8 since it's the year 2008 after all, and it's supposed to be auspicious.

Happy New Year my dears, I love you all.

Why I try to be green but still drive a car...

2007-12-12T23:56:00.000Z

Recently, I met an old church friend at a wedding that I haven't seen in ages and he remarked to me he still remembered a story I wrote - all those months ago - about reducing one's carbon footprint, by making some little changes to one's daily life.

I told him my interest in the environment was a fairly recent thing and after some light bantering, and he asked me how that was going, I told the group of friends present I now drive very slowly to assauge my guilt of driving a car. We all laughed.

Then, lately, jokes aside, random criticisms about the fact I drive a car - or in general, criticism about people in environment-related industries who do drive - keeps surfacing at various occasions that now I finally feel I have the need to write what I really feel about the whole issue, no doubt something that recent environment converts must struggle to deal with to a certain extent.

First off, I've never professed to be an environmentalist - or an activist for that matter. I am painfully aware of the limitations of my green credentials. Though I do admit when I first was converted into the green cause, my over-zealousness and enthusiasm for my new found "religion" did cause me to - at several occasions - proclaim quite loudly my disgust for the way certain people around me lived: the obvious selfishness, blatant materialism and I-don't-care-about-the-world-so-what kind of people.

I have since learned to keep my thoughts to myself. And I certainly don't preach, save nagging at my brother for leaving his computer on 24/7 365 days of the year.

Before this year - I think the awareness happened somewhere around February or March - I frankly never really gave the environment much thought. But covering the topic, and meeting the people who care regularly on my jobs, have greatly inspired me to change some bits of my life. I won't go into how I've changed my lifestyle, there's no better person to judge my actions than myself, and I recognise the limitations of what I can do.

So on the issue of cars - and it is a point of contention for many - or my car specifically, I only defence was that I got it last year, at a time where I didn't care very much for my footprint and was none the wiser for the guilt it'll later cause me.

The next idea I'm trying to articulate is a little difficult to explain. Let me borrow NUS's Assoc Prof Lee's words: he told me in an interview before, it's very hard to get people to care about the environment, if it means sacrificing their present way of life. The only way, to achieve mass awareness, or results, is really devising ways - using technology and what-nots - that people can continue to live their lives at current comfort levels, but in a manner that is still sustainable.

The point is I don't think it's a realistic expectation for people to think that if someone cares for the environment, he or she has to live like a hippie in a makeshift caravan, wear tatty clothes and live miserably. It's never going to be possible, and there will never be enough people who will be convinced. The world's best bet is finding ways to support a certain comfort level that man has achieved, while doing it in a sustainable way. Humans are after all, humans. After fighting for progress and technological discoveries to make our life more convenient, it is not realistic to expect humankind to revert to the old horse-drawn carriage days of yore.

The world will not give up its cars. But hybrid vehicles, cars that run on fuel cells, biofuels etc, can go some way in reducing that footprint and in a decade's time, these vehicles will be the norm. Technology will help us to live sustainably, cities of the future - like the eco-city in Tianjin - will be built in a fashion that does away with the need to drive in the first place.

So for people like me, who live in a non-eco-city and out in the sticks, and whom if without a car, would take one and a half hours to get to work on the bus, it now becomes a toss-up between making a great big loss on a purchase I made before I started to care - and giving up a mode of transport that makes me highly efficient at work.

So the sad truth I've been forced to accept, for myself, is I can't give up my car. So now you know. Work is too important to me. And so is my sanity in this crowded, human-infested island.

Given the circumstances, there are a few next-best plans I can formulate, among them is for me to downgrade to a more economical vehicle, which I am trying to do - or wait till I can afford a greener, hybrid vehicle. Or wait till I can afford to rent an apartment that is nearer work. Or in 4 and a half years time, go live in a little village in Britain where everything is accessible by foot within a mile's radius.

Either way, being environmentally-aware is a work in progress. It's not something that can be achieved overnight. There's always more you can do, things you can save, differences you can make, however small. But I've since learned to kill my zealousness in converting, or at least trying to infect people around me to this cause. Many of them - who refuse to see the goodness in little actions, however small, and who always focus on the negative, as if in doing so, it magnifies their ego and self-righteousness - misinterpret such efforts anyway.

For those disparaging, discouraging individuals - who sit in their ivory towers, who think they are too-cool-for-school for any causes, and with their noses turned up at others - I suggest some navel-gazing at how miserable their own lives must be for them to be so bitter. And for people who encounter such people, don't let them get you down.

So yes, I drive a car. Yes, I'm still trying to be green. I'm not being hypocritical. I'm just human. And at least... I'm still trying.

The Self-Righteous, Moralistic Newsmaker

2007-12-11T16:24:00.000Z

So once again I'm on the afternoon shift and everyday I tell myself I finally have the time to write so I really must make an effort.

But once again the long list of "to-dos" swamp my efforts till finally I think I have to write - if only for a peace of mind. Or I'll end up tossing and turning in bed again like last night, staring into my curtains, quietly illuminated by the faint street night lights outside our home, with my mind in turmoil, wandering to numerous places but never quite finding that peace.

So there's one thing that really riled me this week that I should really get off my chest. And here, I present you, the profile of The Self Righteous, Moralistic Newsmaker.
This is a person that takes cheap shots at people around them to justify their high-minded, idealistic notions when really - they should make more of an effort to know exactly what they are talking about, and take a step back to look at the bigger picture.

The context of this: I was looking for people to interview for a particular story last week, involving a change in policy by a state landlord, who has revised one of its systems to push out some popular state properties in the form of bidding.

After asking around, a helpful colleague of mine gave me a contact to call, so I did. And that was when I made mistake number 1, don't interview someone who is relatively poor and rents a $700 flat, when you are writing about a story involving properties that rent for thousands of dollars. Note for future ref: Interview someone who can relate to the story. (I didn't know he was an unsuitable newsmaker.)

I am not rich myself, and often struggle to pay ALL my bills - having fought for and won my independence to live away from my parents (WITHOUT getting married) - and still have a decent life. So I know how the poor (or the relatively poor) often can feel victimised more so than others in situations where they feel they are compromised, so I can almost forgive this newsmaker - let's call him Mr SR - for being so ignorant.

Basically, to cut the story short, literally - my story was about the state landlord selecting some popular properties - like the colonial black & white bungalows highly sought after because of their spacious grounds, colonial architecture and reasonable rents - for a new bidding system, where anyone in the public domain can bid for it.

It had said properties that only cost a few hundred, or the low thousands to rent out, wouldn't be affected because it simply isn't worth the effort and cost to put it through a bidding system. (This, he did not comprehend and immediately talked like the bidding system was a threat to his being able to pay only $700 for a 1-bedroom flat.)

And to be honest, knowing the market, and how some of these lovely big bungalows get hogged by one same family for centuries because they pass it on to their mother, brother, uncle, sister, grandmother and cousin in law of a friend's, I was objectively in favour of it, because it sounded like a fair, good idea - although I know these properties would never be in my reach.

It makes logical sense, in the free market, for whoever really needs it and is willing to pay for it, to be able to live in such a property. The true value of how much the property is rented for, will be decided by market forces in the free-economy. That's how markets have worked for centuries. Unless you were living in North Korea.

So comes Mr SR and his high-minded views, no doubt, groomed by the highly-singular American-centric education, who told me in the interview he thought it was a bad idea.

Fair enough, I agreed. Everyone has their opinion.

But instead of taking his quotes down meekily, and saying bye politely, (as he probably expected me to do) I decided to engage him in some friendly discussion about a pilot exercise of the new bidding system, which has already taken place - which has proven that the bids were pretty much in tandem with the market rate - something he had a gripe with: he insisted that the bidding system will artificially drive up the market.

So very politely, I told him that the pilot has proved his theory wrong, so what does he think?

He had nothing to say, and begrudgingly said, well I guess then.. ok

Excuse me, what kind of a reaction or quote is that? You want me to print that?

After ensuring that I got his details, I hung up and thought nothing much of the whole conversation and proceeded to file my story.

Good intro, background, explanation, one negative voice, one positive voice. Okay, done. I had better things to do with my weekend.

Then I found out on Monday that Mr SR had written a whole blog post dedicated to me in which he accused me of 1. being pushy during the interview and 2. towing the government line and 3. toning down his remarks in my story.

I was livid.

Not only because of the most obvious reason - I was extremely polite to him in my conversation. For him to accuse me of being pushy simply because I was challenging his view really reflected his own insecurities and own self-righteous mental superiority - or rather, his perception of his moral and mental superiority, which in my opinion, was more incredibly flawed than anything else.

But also because anyone who knows me knows I'm the most anti- government-towing reporter ever to breathe, and I always write my stories in a critical tone that more often than not, elicits a request from somewhere up above to "tone myself down".

I tried to forget about it after a brief discussion with T and after defending myself, I didn't give it any more thought. But last night, tossing and turning in bed, this was one of the day's events that kept playing in my head, and the more I thought about it, the angrier I felt.

After so many "toning down" requests, for a puny little American self-righteous prat to tell me I "toned down" his remarks just left me absolutely fuming.

What does he expect me to write, besides the factual truth, which I wrote? Oh, because I didn't sensationalise his objection, that is "toning it down"???
"Mr SR vehemently objected to the change in policy because he's afraid that the $700 flat he lives in might no longer be so cheap". D'oh.

In fact, thinking back, the only insightful quote he offered me was that he thought the bidding system will drive prices up, and price people out of the market. He kept repeating that like a broken record, never really offering any insight to why he is convinced that is the only outcome. Again, I think this has to do very much with the fact he thought people like him will be affected and booted out of a home.

Oh, did I mention also that the new system doesn't actually affect his property at all so all this "I'm so scared of losing my apartment, let's protect the low and middle-income group" crap really seemed like self-centred dribble to me...

So T tells me he's a liberalist and believes in rent control. Hello? Is he stupid? Or just naive? Liberalism and rent control never went together. In fact, American = mother of all capitalist/free market-economy countries = anti-thesis of rent control = against everything that is not controlled or determined by the free market. I was stupefied that an American was saying this... perhaps he should spend his time re-learning the simple basics/ABCs of economics instead of ranting about something he clearly has little understanding of?

I am just absolutely flummoxed by the naivety and ignorance by certain people sometimes who are so quick to judge and jump on their high horse.

On what basis did he have the right to say I was towing the government line.

Because my story was mildly positive?

It wasn't like a chirpy oh-what-a-great-scheme story, but a hey-look, some-people-might-actually-have-a-go-at-living-at-a-colonial-state-property story which was meant to INFORM.

I had no hidden agenda. And I certainly wasn't towing ANY government agenda.

It irks me that so many people have this "cop-out" - oh, ST, reporter, government line. I am beyond trying to engage friendly conversation with such people who only superficially understands the industry. It's just a bloody waste of my time.

So back to the story: if you asked me, frankly, what I thought of the scheme, I would tell you I thought it was a good one - people have more chance at going at these elusive properties. BUT I also thought the scheme probably needs to be refined down the stages to make sure prices are not artificially inflated, or to address any unexpected concerns it might throw up.

But as stated in my story, the new system is only in its infancy stages, with VERY few - read, FIVE properties out of the millions in Singapore - to go online next month, so that the system can be tweaked.
It's not hard and fast. It's not an earth-shattering, Budget-announcement policy change. And it certainly doesn't jeopardize any political idealism one might stubbornly cling on too: It's a freaking property story for goodness sake. Not a let's-look-at-the-underlying-political-idealism-of-this-new-property-system analysis or thesis.

It surprises me that this 29-year-old MR SR can really be so wonderfully quick to point out flaws in our systems, our newspaper, our country - When the fact that he is here, lives here, on CHEAP, RENTED, SUBSIDISED STATE property, means that he is feeding off the 'wonderfulness' of our country to a very large extent.

So Mr SR, if you don't like the country, or the newspaper, you can very well not read it (which I bet you don't anyway, therefore you are SO qualified to judge it).... and do us a favour, fuck off back to America.

I haven't blogged in ages, simply...

2007-10-18T17:00:00.001+01:00

... because I've had no time.

Sometimes I wonder if my life is not too filled with activities by choice and by obligation, that even when I have the opportunity to take a time-out, I don't really do so. Also because I'm not used to it.

In the last three weeks, or since I last wrote, lots of things have happened. So many what I identify as 'blog topics' in my head, and on little scraps of paper - but they're just uncompleted ideas that I have just no time to breathe some words into.

So, since so much time has passed, it was inevitable that I have come to many conclusions, some of which don't make it to be published on this blog, but those that do, is listed here in no particular order:

1. I need to blog more. Writing for newspapers don't really count, because you have to assume the 'professional me' persona and write according to exactly how news or features or online works. Which is not necessarily a useful channel or tool for expression, or necessary relief for one's soul. So I have resolved to blog more. Even if to keep a record of what's going on in my busy life. So when I look back in a few years, it's not just a blank sheet of web background staring straight back at me, tauntingly.

2. I find myself stupidly writing down my events/appointments on my new dopod, when actually I really like writing it down the old-fashioned way in a paper diary. So I now do both - which really defeats the whole purpose, because it's a waste of time. And also because I get confused and sometimes don't record important things in EITHER palm nor diary. As Lee Evans would put it, man has gone through centuries of technological innovation, to come up with something man had already possessed in the very first place: putting a pen to a sheet to record writing.

3. Despite my hectic schedule, I managed to squeeze in a night of clubbing with J's work last week and we went to Mambo night at Zouk. And for me, it was the first time in a very long time. When I got there, I remembered why it's been a long time.
Because, as I've always told my best friends (who stubbornly cling on to the non-existent nostalgia of the venue), the crowd there is so infantile, I was surprised that there weren't any baby strollers there.
Everyone looks like they're 18 years old or younger. Oh, sorry, make that 16.
There are dumb, ditzy ah lians who dress like they just discovered skirts, and who talk poorly - and ah bengs who dance to all the retro songs, while making hand signals that really just make them look so bad. And so sad.

Which leads me to.... intense embarrassment.

When J looked at the ugly bunch of ah bengs with very bad skin and very bad hair-cuts, standing on stage gesticulating wildly to "Squareee-rooooom-mmm", he turned to me and said, smirking: 'no wonder you stopped dating Singapore chinese men' - I seethed when he said that, racial pride all bubbling up. But I realised I was angry because at some level, he was right. I couldn't even defend them even if I wanted to, given the choice specimen that we were looking at.

Frustrating... because there are decent looking Sg chinese men around. Just that they aren't standing in the middle sadly gesturing. And they're certainly not at Mambo.

4. Work stresses: I hate being at the bottom of the work chain, simply because I've been there a shorter time. There are so many more incompetent people older than me it's really unbelievable. And it's worse when you're being forced to step aside, and do the crappy stories, because the ones who were there longer have "chope-d" the good stories. When you obviously can do a better job. I hate it! I hate being cleverer than them and not being able to demonstrate it!
Then again, the true intellect will find some way of circumventing the forced circumstances and find some other devious way to show them up. And that's exactly what my gameplan is. (Shhhh...)

5. Making a very important decision in my life. A milestone. A new beginning. And the start of something good.

6. Feeling Guilty.

Often, I think of myself really critically, exacting very high standards for my performance, that sometimes I extend this to the people I meet and often judge them on the same standards.

Maybe I shouldn't. I sometimes wish I was one of those people that "don't have a harsh word to say about anyone" - but these people are rarely the CEOs of the world, and greatness often eludes them. Then again, maybe I've got my priorities wrong. Maybe being great at something, or striving to be remembered in some way, by the world, isn't as important as I make it out to be.

So I feel guilty sometimes for thinking someone's ugly, or stupid, or irritating - but most times, they really deserve the label. For example, I had a really evil, and unkind looking guy on my recent course - and he turned out, really, not to be very nice. I get scared, even looking at him, it's just impossible to generate ANY warm feeling towards people like that. Is it his fault that he's born with those looks? Or is it because he's a nasty person, that's why he has those looks. I'm still trying to figure.

But if there's one comforting thing, I can safely say I'm nowhere near the standards of some of my uh..peers, who are top-class bitches. Or more accurately, indulge in top-class bitching.

Friendly banter and half-baked humour aside, their underlying implications and judgements are sometimes so critical and harsh I sometimes feel guilty even just being in the presence. And I wonder what's the merit in doing that.
Do they really mean the evil things they say, or is it just a flippant indulgence that doesn't reflect their character when push comes to shove?

I think, however, if you practice so much in your daily life, at being mean, at some point you inevitably become what you practice everyday. Oui?

7. Feeling extremely pissed off with one J, while being protective of the other. It doesn't matter that you don't know what I'm talking about, as long as I do.

8. The amazing INSEAD business journalism seminar I've just attended! Which makes me wonder if I should switch jobs and become an economist.

It has been a brilliant 3 days and I have learnt so much, I sometimes regret not really doing a degree like economics or finance, considering how intellectually stimulating it is.

I've always had that problem, all my life, choosing between the science and arts when in fact I excelled in both equally it was so hard to make a choice. Often my heart won over my mind, and when my desire to be different (from the boring engineers, bankers and accountants of this world) gets the better of me, I inadvertently choose the latter. When actually, my intelligence and mental capacity is probably better off taking on a science subject and engaging in it. Since it does deal with so many complex issues and concepts, it seems only fair that I give my own mind the sweet experience of facing that challenge.

I could go on and on about what I've learned and the depth of the topics I covered but that's not necessarily the time for that now. I however recommend that anybody who remotely considers themselves intelligent, should consider at least getting a crash course on how the world economies work. I'm so grateful to have done the course, simply because it's only made me realize what more potential I've, or more broadly, the human brain's, got!

In any case, it's probably sewn the seed of desire in me to pursue an MBA. It's hard work - and expensive - but I also think it will be amazing. Of course, it will have to come before or after my contemplated law degree. Just have to figure out now, where to find the time. And also, if I do do the MBA, what does it mean for my future after that and what am I really seeking?

9. There are so many things I need to do. Prioritising and time management is even more of the essence now for me. I now see how the modern woman is cursed. No wonder happy women don't write.

10. I love my mum. I mustn't forget that she has been an amazing mother, and made so much sacrifices in her life for her children. She is not without imperfection but she wouldn't be human otherwise. So even if I get annoyed, I must remember how great a woman she really is.

Pain

2007-09-09T12:57:00.000+01:00

I can't remember when's the last time I felt pain so acutely as I do now.

My back and my thighs are killing me, sending shooting pains that feel like needles whenever I attempt to walk or do nothing remotely mobile.

To give an illustration on how bad it was, when I got up this morning, I had to roll myself off, because I couldn't bend my back. Then when I got to a half-prostrate position, I had to stop every 5 seconds as I straightened myself up vertebrae by vertebrae because it was just so freaking painful.

I can't walk up or down the stairs without holding onto something, and whenever I drop something on the floor, I can't pick it up.

Suddenly, I feel like I completely understand the frustrations of the disabled. We take for granted what comes so easy to us.

Now the question: why am I in such pain?

I wish I had a more glamorous reason as to why I've been inflicted with such agony - such as, jumping into the ocean to save a drowning person and swimming to shore for the next few hours, or, playing football and scoring a hat-trick, but spraining my back in the process..

but no. Truth be told. I am in agony because I played netball yesterday.

And totally underestimating the sport, I did no warm-ups, not warm-downs, just straight in, played like a maniac, 5 matches, till the semi-finals. After which when I walked off the court after our team won the third place, I felt my legs go all wobbly and that was when I realized I might hurt today - but nothing prepared me for THIS!

Now I feel like an achy, grandma, and it's so sad because I've always thought I'd be invincible and immune to back pain forever.

****

TWO days of MC and a lot of drugs later, I'm feeling much better. If there's one thing I learnt, it's never to underestimate the sport. I'm never playing netball again without proper warm-ups.

The other is: our marketing division is slightly er, behaviourally regressive. There was this female team captain who looked like she was about sec 4 - and she kept going "marketing... woosh!" throughout the tournament. I kid you not. I had goose bumps creeping along my arm whenever I heard it... and when they finally won their match, they started doing "hip hip hooray" cheers for themselves... (three times in a row!) as a verbal pat on their backs.

I guess there's nothing wrong with a bit of team spirit.. but they were so delusionally serious about the whole thing, they didn't realize that everyone else was laughing at them from a distance away....

From The Straits Times, Aug 13 2007

2007-08-16T09:01:00.000+01:00

To stop global warming, each individual's carbon dioxide emissions cannot exceed 2 to 2.5 tonnes a year. At present, each Singaporean emits about 9 tonnes a year. Is it possible to live a zero- or low-carbon life here?

RECENTLY, I embraced a new religion. For a week, I resolved to live by its strict doctrine.

I'm not talking about some new cult, but the green movement that has gripped the world's attention lately.

Climate change needs no introduction. The 75 million tonnes of carbon dioxide (CO2) spewed into the atmosphere daily has been blamed for global warming.

Resolving to do my part, I embarked on living a 'carbon- neutral week' - that is, to live my life in such a way that it does not result in any CO2 emissions.

I first had to calculate my annual and weekly carbon footprint.

The Singapore Environment Council (SEC) website, everydaysuperhero.sg , provides a list of calculators that convert utility bills and transport use into CO2 emissions.

Then, last week, I executed a low-carbon, energy-saving strategy I formulated from some top green websites online.

I made an extra effort to car-pool (I am a sinner/owner of a 1.6-litre car), took the bus on my assignments, walked to buy my groceries, used only reusable bags at the shops, had my own plastic container for take-away food, ate vegetarian, bought local products and carefully checked the labels on things I consumed.

I received intriguing reactions from people. But nothing prepared me for the profound yet subtle change that took hold of the way I thought about everything.

For the first time, I reflected on how every single object is made.

I started asking myself questions like: How much energy was used to produce it? Is it environmentally friendly? Can I recycle it?

I thought about the food I used to eat without a moment's thought. Where did it come from? What are the 'food miles' of this apple?

(Food miles is a measure of the distance a food item travels from field to plate, which indicates the CO2 released during transport.)

The constant interaction of all these different elements daily made me realise what a difference we can all make if we think about our choices a little more.

The real challenge, I realised, was to get everyone on the same wavelength.

Acquiring a 'green conscience' doesn't happen overnight. Paving a green culture for an entire country will take even longer.

The other day, I had lunch with my colleagues and got laughed at for having a falafel (no meat) burger 'in the name of sustainability'.

I was labelled 'tree-hugger', 'hippie', 'greenie', which I did not mind, but it only showed how people in the mainstream still view environmentally conscious people as an 'other' and a minority.

When I offered my own container for a take-away lunch last week, the canteen owner at the cash register did a double-take and exclaimed loudly in Mandarin: 'Wah! If only everyone is like you, I can save money and not buy so many plastic boxes.'

Truth is, being green and making money can go together.

During my low-carbon week, I saved money by being a vegetarian and buying local produce whenever I could.

When I did drive, I took care not to floor my accelerator, and saved petrol.

At home, I switched off appliances usually in 'standby' mode, such as the TV, and had the fan spinning rather than the air-conditioner when I slept.

When my utility bill arrives this month, I know I will be rewarded.

For all my efforts, I managed to reduce my weekly footprint from 179kg to 98kg. If I keep it up, my emissions for the year will drop from 9.1 tonnes to 5.3 tonnes.

At the end of the week, I also donated $32 to www.carbonfootprint.com, to plant a tree in Kenya which will offset 750kg of my emissions in its lifetime.

Keeping to my regime, and if I also pay for a new tree every 15 weeks, the target of 2.5 tonnes can be attained.

To be honest, short of offsetting one's emissions with trees, living a zero carbon life in Singapore is impossible.

But reducing it dramatically is not difficult.

And the truth is, the more people get on board, the easier it will become for all.

Green advocate Howard Shaw, the SEC's executive director, agrees.

He noted that awareness of carbon footprints in Singapore started only recently, but 'people are starting to see how everything is connected'.

'The big picture is really how we live our daily lives, and how this has a direct impact on what happens on this planet,' he said.

Anyone who wants to play a part should go to a climate change website, and start making lifestyle changes such as using public transport, and switching to energy-efficient appliances, he said.

When I met former United States vice-president Al Gore last week, he quoted an old proverb I found very apt: 'If you want to go quickly, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.'

The climate crisis requires us to go far, and quickly, he said. The question is, are we willing to go the distance?

*

TO STOP global warming, everyone needs to reduce his carbon emissions to roughly 2.5 tonnes a year, from his current average. The worldwide average currently stands at 4 tonnes, while in developed countries, it is 11. Singapore's average is about 9 currently. In the United States, it is 19; Australia, 17; Japan, 9.5; and Malaysia and Hong Kong, about 5.

Landed

2007-07-01T16:56:00.000+01:00

I am writing from my hotel room in Lucerne, Switzerland - landed this morning, after an arduous 15 hour flight from which my back felt like it was sure to break and disintegrate from bodily aches.

I thought enviously of the damn people in their business and first class seats. Sometimes having a filthy lot of money does make life easier...

So I've barely recovered from my previous jet lag and now my body clock is searching for some order in the chaos I've put it through recently - and how tired I've been! Rushing work, planning this and that, getting things done in time for my work trip here.

Anyhow, after taking a train from Zurich to Lucerne at a ridiculously early hour (I got in at 6 bloody am!) I got to the hotel to find I had to wait over two hours to check in as I was too early.

Had a bath, got on the internet, went out to walk around town with a fellow journalist, got some lunch, then went to TWO museums! I am so proud of the stupid amount of energy I seem to possess despite my exhaustion.

Swiztzerland is beautiful. The water in the lake running through Lucerne and past its iconic wooden bridge is beautiful and gorgeous and clear. The architecture of the town houses surrounding the banks of the lake is majestic, grand and tragic all at once. And the best bit - set against the beautiful town is the magnitude of moutains. From my little hotel terrace, I can see the peaks of the mountains miles away, and the green plains cascading downwards beyond my vision.

It's all so beautiful, so familiar. So unfamiliar. So lonely. So liberating.

And I'll tell you what's random. If there's one thing I'll remember about today, it's actually this video installation/film called Memorial Project Vietnam that I saw at the Museum of Art in Lucerne.

Have never heard of this artist, Jun Nguyen-Hatsushiba before, but in a darkened room, I saw the film he made, of dragon dancers, performing their craft in the deep sea. Yes, these dancers were divers and they were darting around in the water, making the dragon come alive, while capsules of paint are circled around in this contraption on the seabed, and released individually. Each explosion of colour from the capsules in the deepest depths of the sea, only enhanced the mystery and incredulity of the scene unfolding before me.

You have to see it for yourself. The best way to view it is in a dark room with the screen the size of those in cinemas. It was fantastically amazing and very original. And very expensive. The artist must have fuck loads of money to do an artwork like this.

Time to go and freshen up so I can meet the rest of this massive group of 30 journalists also on this media tour.

I'll be damned, but I've realised today what a huge amount of fucking reserve energy I've got compacted in this human body of mine.

Hedonistic Holidays

2007-06-24T19:22:00.000+01:00

It's been five days since we returned from our holiday in England and yet I'm still jet lagged - sleeping at 4am, getting up at 2pm...

The prospect of waking up for work at 7am tomorrow is dreadful, knowing I'm going to be exhausted after a night of trying to sleep.

We've had one of our best holidays yet - going to England truly felt like going back home. It was 12 glorious days of meeting up with friends and family, getting pissed and liberated, having barbys in the british sunshine, basking in the clear air, sitting on the wet grass of homey gardens, driving through desolate country lanes in the frosty cold mornings, and even, experiencing the grim, incessant rain that so characterises the country.

J and I have decided that it's no longer a possibility but now an eventuality that we will be moving back there after my cursed bond ends. There's too much there that we love; and sadly, it's easier for me to move there with J than for him to live here in Sg forever with me.

It's either him without his friends and family, or me, without my friends and family. Due to our circumstances, we'll never be able to live in one country where both of us can be with those dear to us...

It's a bit sad, but sacrifices are inevitable. How I wish I could just extract those I love and just take them with me wherever I go, very much like my favourite cds I take along on holidays - but they too have their own lives and I see the only solution now for both J and I to be able to see whoever we love at any time, is to find a way to teleport through time and space.

That's why I'm observing that Jap fella Hiro in Heroes very closely now.

I'm dreading somewhat the next long haul flight I have to do this Saturday, when I go to Switzerland for work - I've taken too many long haul flights in a short span of time, and this time, I won't even have a shoulder to lean on - just the cold, hard window.

What is surprising is that for the rather hedonistic holiday we've had, I feel surprisingly recharged. Poor J fell ill as soon as he came back and it really is a case of "needing a holiday to recover from your holiday" that many are victims of....

But after drinking a heinous amount of alcohol (I'm talking about an average of at least ten drinks a day), doing stuff I shouldn't really be doing, irregular eating times and lots of super sweet drinks (orange juice and lemonade - my favourite British summer drink!) I seem to feel fine and even managed to lose some weight goodness knows how.

I feel great, healthy, and all set to take on the world again - very different from the usual ten-day hangovers I get from doing anything vaguely hedonistic as I'm quite a lightweight (in british measures, not singapore. singapore girls are beyond lightweights when it comes to drink, they are useless with a few exceptions)

Perhaps its my new hair - I've chopped all of my wavy locks off.
Perhaps it was that Saturday night when I got much more than what I asked for, or the other Saturday night that's reinvigorated me, changed my perspective, added to my autobiography.

But I feel like I've lived.

And now I want to live some more.

On Social Graces or the lack thereof

2007-05-22T17:03:00.000+01:00

My dear fellow countrymen,

I have refrained for a very long time on commenting on the state of our social graces. But the day has come when I can no longer hold back the thoughts to myself, and I have struggled yet decided to speak out in my blind faith that words have the power to change.

It plagues me now that every single day, I see all these people around me, oblivious to the finer habits of life through no fault of theirs, as I'd like to think they didn't know better.

I know we are a nation of food-lovers. Hawker food has become one of our national prides, and eating is our favourite past-time.

But no matter what you might think, it is actually slightly less than desirable having to see the contents of your no doubt delicious food swishing in the depths of your mouth, while you're making that cringing noise that sounds like "mm-tch-tch-tch-mmm-tch-tch" - the result of eating with your mouth wide open, and making these sounds of orchestral magnitude to the innocent by-stander, who, if like, me, stands by mortified at the symphony.

See, it might seem like such a ridiculous idea to you, but eating with your mouth open is actually - rather rude.

You might say it is very British to be so particular about one's eating etiquette - yet surely that is but a symptom of a sophisticated society. I find it indeed very curious how good eating habits escapes such an alarmingly huge population of a first-world country like Singapore.

It is. Basic. Manners.

I don't care if you think you're Japanese and slurping your soup is cool.
It is not.

When you eat, your lips should remain closed, and other than perhaps occasional crunching sounds that can't be avoided should you chew on a crunchy leaf, there should be no horrifically loud sounds coming from the region of your mouth - much less adding to them by actually talking while you're embarking on such an important task.

Even some members of my family; some of my very intelligent friends; some of my much respected colleagues - are ignorant of this violation of eating etiquette. It really amazes me.

Do they not know how disgusting their behaviour is?

I was on course most of last week, and had a guy sitting next to me who had the most revolting habit of eating with his mouth open, and making obscene noises - right in front of everyone else!

I kept shooting furtive glances at him, hoping it would be a hint. But it was obvious he didn't even register that it was wrong.

So I ask you, my dear fellow citizens, if you could do your duty and spread this basic courtesy to whoever you meet who chews/eats/talks with their mouth open...

Please tell them to keep. it. shut.

Thank you!

17 years and counting...

2007-04-29T16:11:00.000+01:00

Today is my dad's 17th death anniversary.

We planned the visit a week ago, and it couldn't have fallen on a more beautiful, sunny day than this.

It was a real trip down memory lane, and mum commented on how truly terrifying this day was, all of 17 years ago - and how the weather was so radically different.

I was transported back to that moment, not unlike in Harry Potter world when a magician touches a Portkey - and what came back to me was hysterical crying, thunder, lightning and rain and the sinking feeling of watching my dad's coffin being released lower and lower into the ground. Mum was beside herself on that day (to say the least), but the person I remember crying the hardest was my youngest auntie on my dad's side. A family I have never known since them, and only have half-truths about. She didn't deserve to cry as much as my mum had a right to.

And then on the same spot, I stand once again 17 years later.

The sky is a gorgeous blue, the clouds above us are moving steadily along, building upwards like cheery cotton candy. The trees sing their own song to the tune of the light wind. It couldn't have been a better day.

I guess it's a bit morbid to dwell on it, but it struck me how time, truly, heals all wounds.

A blink of an eye, almost two decades. My mum is starting to grow lots of grey hair. In that time, we've all grown up. She's married someone else, had another kid. Living and leading a different life now.

What would it have been like if my dad was still alive?

I remember him, and yet I don't. It comes back to me sometimes, sometimes it doesn't. There has been this gaping hole all my life that's never been filled and I will never know what person I will be like had it been filled. I think about all theories and some sociologist in the past somewhere will probably tell you how the lack of a male figure in my life has moulded the conditions on which I choose my own partner.

Whatever, really.

I was truly shocked when I first noticed how much mum's aged. She still does look youthful, but my she's never had that much grey hair before. Age is a scary thing. And time. And she said today, in another blink of an eye, it will once again be another decade. And then another. The only constant is time. How unfettered it is by the passing by of all humans on earth. In our short little life.

I suddenly felt like there were countless things I had to do. And too little time to do them. At the prime of my youth, the sense of urgency to leave an indelible mark on our falliable earth never kicked in as strongly as today.

I can't let another 17 years fly by. The last 17 had been great - had its ups and downs. But the next 17 will be better. Has to be better. No?

I feel my age even more pronounced when I look at my siblings and thought to myself, what I was thinking when I was them?

It was the invincibility of youth, the stuff of dreams, the ambition to conquer.

The murkiness of it all. Doesn't crystallize. When we grow older.

I am convinced I have to write more, however. I owe it to myself.

I started revisiting old blogs, old posts. There is no better memory than words on a page.

And something surfaces... A quote I wrote a few years ago, and will one day I hope re-appear in my book:

It is the curse of the intelligent for their capacity to remember. The stupid are happy only because they lack the facility of memory.

Now and again

2007-03-30T08:12:00.001+01:00

Again, so many weeks have passed and I feel like I have nothing to show for it, except the bylines that keep appearing which indicate what a hectic blur my life has been so far. I feel like I'm being held hostage at this moment in time that's pulling me in two different directions, what I thought we would realize when we grew up and started working, I realize now is a fallacy. How much more can we do in addition to the hum-drums of our working life, how much more can work consume you, and how much sheer willpower and energy you have to muster to keep up with your dreams, aspirations, family, friends and personal obligations. If I were in Africa now, would my concerns by any bigger, although no doubt starkly different? Sometimes I really feel it's unhealthy to be so all-consuming in your daily chores, but then again if you don't do it in the prime of your life, when else will you do it. how will I be able to take a step back, without losing that part of myself, or should I have lost that part of myself in order to become a better person?
I sometimes find myself floating out and above and staring in disbelief at what I am seeing, but then I realize that it's all a formative journey and this is what we called growing up in the adult world. I've always been prepared so when it's finally time to come up to the task suddenly it seems like I ain't so prepared after all, or that time is slipping away slowly but surely from the grasp of my hands like grains of sand, and I still haven't accomplished as much as I wanted to.
But perhaps it is humanly impossible. Or inhumanly possible.
My only comfort is I am making inroads, a difference, a glimmer, in what would otherwise be a banal existence; it's as if I'm being told to put my wants and desires on hold for the promise of something greater at the end, and the greatest fear is not knowing what that end will be. might be.
Meanwhile, I can only labour on, and stay focussed, and write down the minute details in my diary; which we all know just ends up sitting at the bottom of a cupboard by the time next year arrives.

My story beckons, I wish I could change the world in one day.

My Lean Mean Machine

2006-12-20T14:16:00.000Z

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

2006-12-01T09:46:00.000Z

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

2006-11-29T11:48:00.000Z

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

2006-11-24T10:15:00.000Z

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

2006-11-19T06:36:00.000Z

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

2006-11-03T06:23:00.000Z

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

2006-10-26T02:49:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-12T17:43:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-10T16:32:00.000+01:00

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!

2006-09-26T13:49:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-19T11:41:00.000+01:00

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

2006-09-06T09:38:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-29T08:19:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-24T14:53:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-18T11:08:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-09T23:50:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-07T22:19:00.000+01:00

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

2006-08-02T08:58:00.000+01:00

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

2006-07-20T23:21:00.000+01:00

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

2006-07-20T21:33:00.000+01:00

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

2006-07-20T01:46:00.000+01:00

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

2006-07-05T22:45:00.000+01:00

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

2006-07-04T00:07:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-28T23:37:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-19T12:52:00.000+01:00

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

2006-06-12T22:41:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-31T01:51:00.000+01:00

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

2006-05-25T01:18:00.000+01:00

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...

explodium

2006-05-17T23:57:00.000+01:00

I know there isn't such a word. But I've just invented it to describe the state of mind I am now in which is halfway between wanting to explode, and implode. There's just too many things on my mind, demanding my attention, too many forces exerting its pressure on my currently-too-miniscule-to-manage-everything brain that I want to collapse internally, and explode externally into a million pieces.

If I were Stevie Gerrard's wife... I'd worship him everynight and shower him with kisses for being such a football god. Then again, if I really were his wife, I'd probably be pissed off that he's seldom at home because he spends so much time on the pitch. And hello, with all that money, and good looks, and pure footballing genius, there'd be so many sluts out there wanting a piece of him, I'm unsure if I'd want to deal with all that stress.

So instead, [like I had a choice] I'm sitting here dealing with a different kind of stress.

When Arsenal was 1-0 up, I honestly half-wished Barca would score a goal just so the game could get pumping with the same sort of nail-biting excitement I've gotten used to (due to Gerrard's goodness), but I didn't really wish that for real. But they did score anyway. And it should have gone into half time, and Arsenal should have won. But it was a very weird game. And the trophy eluded the team whom I genuinely wanted to win, by quite a rubbish goal, making it 2-1. On the whole, I felt so sorry for Arsenal. But that's just life, you can't plan everything, can you. I wish I could, but I can't. That's only one of my root causes of stress. At the end of the day, the moral of the story is, last year's final was much better. :)

So I'm working on this story now as well. It started off as undercover reporting... but then I blew my cover last night when I revealed to the people involved I was going to write the story. I thought that would be a better way in because I could then honestly ask them questions... but now the more I think about it, the more I think I was such a idiot to have done that because now I have burnt my bridges. Whereas I could have stuck it out and perhaps got more information. I feel like hitting myself.

On the other hand, I'm writing it down now so I don't ever forget it. And we all learn from doing it - the next time I go undercover, I'm going to plan a modus operandi before plunging into it and making stupid mistakes.

On the other other hand, I've realised I'm really bad at lying. Or just at not being myself. I might have many other dimensions that are kept secret but pretending to be someone I'm not is definitely not one of them. I don't even know why I feel guilty - it's not like anyone is getting hurt and my mission is only to seek and uncover the truth. So why then, do I feel so uncomfortable and feel like everyone is regarding me suspiciously, when maybe they could just be weighing me up inside their head just like everyone else does to everybody at some point when they first meet a person?

I want to write ground-breaking stuff and the one frustration I can truly say which is the demise and curse of being a student journalist is that you are not guaranteed to be published. It's both fortunate and unfortunate, depending on how you want to look at it. You might get more information if people know they are safe from being in the public information domain. Sometimes, people don't give you the time of the day if they don't think they're going to get anything out of it. For me, I want to have the option of being published. And I guess I do have the option. But it's such a hassle... especially with the prospect of possibly incurring the contempt of some very up-their-own-arse commissioning editors.

My weekends have become this moral and personal dilemma. To go, or not to go, that is the question. I'm left having to choose between my work and my sanity. Being nice, and not giving a fuck. Getting my priorities right... but how do I know which one I should put on top, which one to go below... and that reminds me of a card I once gave to someone which said:

Sometimes the HEART should FOLLOW the MIND
Sometimes the Heart should tell the MIND to STAY AT HOME and
STOP INTERFERING

And that's exactly what I feel right now.

And I haven't even gone on about the magazine we are producing now. Everything's just so... in the air. I don't even know if that's the right phrase. But I've been trying to get my story for such a long time... and now that things are FINALLY beginning to see some light, and I'm actually getting a breakthrough on my stuff, one of my mates suggest that she takes a story off my hands because 'it'd look weird if I have two bylines' - well, I agreed at the time. But actually, what's so weird with my having two bylines if I've worked on BOTH the stories anyway? I struggled with myself long and hard today during my shower [not in that way, mind you - struggled! not scrubbed!] and I think I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to tell her that I actually do want to do both stories and hope she'll be okay with it.

Urgh. More stress.

Don't get me started on Britain. I don't know if I'm getting sick of being in London, or Britain in general. But I never thought I'd feel this way. It's just that I see so much around me which I don't... like. The excessive drinking, the smoking, the puking, the fighting, the racism, the debt, the gambling, the crime, the unhappiness. I almost forget the things I love... the countryside, the rolling hills, the seasons [although I hate winter], the fun, the independence, the arts, the journalism... I just wish there was some middle-ground. But hey - every country has their own set of problems. It's a matter of which set of problems you choose to live with.

I just wish I didn't get so angry sometimes, but I guess I come from a privileged position where I know better, possibly because I've been educated, and I've been taught values that I personally uphold which not necessarily everyone adheres to. I have ventured far out of my comfort zone, living where I have been in the past seven months... and it has been even more of an education.

But I feel so sad. I wish I could make the world a better place. Unfortunately, it only exists as a cliche. I guess what matters is that I don't give up trying.

Create

2006-05-16T01:28:00.000+01:00

Again, procrastination strikes and once more I am indulging in the silliest of tasks and redesigning my website - when my To-Do list is burgeoning and my stories, due very soon, is still left in its virgin state on another window lost in the depths of my desktop.

I've been designing a banner in Photoshop but I can't get the background dots to coincide when I publish it on here. I have many ideas but am unsure which is the best. Sigh.

My eyes are going funny now. Everything's starting to look fuzzy...