Landed

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love you guys!

Paradise

That's where I am right now.














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







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

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

















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










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











I don't ever want to leave!

The Office

I hate it.

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

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

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

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

How I pity them.

Hello Kitty, bye bye

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

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

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

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

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

Then this did it for me:

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

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

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


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

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

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

Increase awareness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

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

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

Existential crisis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now everything's different here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to the working world, oh what growing pains.




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

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

Settling In

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

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

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

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

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

At least I enjoy my job.

Scream

I've just received an email.

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

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

I'm not going to be there.

As I'm starting work end of this month.

Sigh.

bye bye blighty

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

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

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

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

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

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

We won!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Transitions

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

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

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

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

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

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

Realisations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

How incorrigible am I.

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

The value of things

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

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

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

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

But it didn't register.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's to liberation.

Research

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It never pays to be naive.

***

But I digress.

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

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

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

***

Tick Tock, stupid clock

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

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



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

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

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

***

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

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

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