tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54290902024-03-13T16:07:48.640+08:00under the blanketZannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.comBlogger1047125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-26672273828754247942013-05-13T15:43:00.001+08:002013-05-13T15:44:55.617+08:00if at first you don't succeed...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
After about 10 attempts of this <a href="http://www.seriouseats.com/recipes/2012/11/smitten-kitchens-big-cluster-maple-granola.html">granola recipe</a> -- I've lost track of how many batches I've made over the past month -- I have finally got it to my satisfaction. Crunchy. Just slightly chewy. Big clusters that break apart easily. The perfect touch of brownness.<br />
<br />
The proportions and taste of the original was perfect, especially since I had omitted cinnamon from the recipe because I'm not a huge fan of it, but I've tweaked it to get clusters without the use of egg white.<br />
<br />
<b>Tip:</b> The trick is to press and pack the mixture into the pan and don't touch it till it is fully cooled into a huge slab, which you can then break into whatever size clusters you desire.<br />
<b>Bonus:</b> No tiresome and potentially messy stirring at the halfway point of baking.<br />
<b>Warning:</b> This granola is dangerously addictive. Everyone that I've given it to has asked for more.<br />
<br />
3 cups (240g) rolled oats (not instant oats)<br />
1 cup (50g) dessicated coconut<br />
1 cup walnuts (100g), coarsely chopped (I tried pecans in one batch, but walnuts were tastier and cheaper)<br />
1/4 cup (25g) wheat germ (I didn't toast them, as per the recipe, and no harm was done)<br />
2 tablespoons (30ml) olive oil<br />
1/2 teaspoon salt<br />
1/2 cup (120ml) maple syrup<br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 150 deg C (300 deg F). Line a large tray with baking paper (aluminium foil works too, but the final product will stick slightly to it and FOIL your attempts to get huge chunks).<br />
<br />
Mix all the ingredients in a large bowl. Get your hands dirty.<br />
<br />
Pour the mixture onto the lined tray and press it down evenly. Use your entire body weight.<br />
<br />
Pop into oven for about an hour. Rotate the tray at the halfway point so it browns evenly. Check on it five to 10 minutes before the time is up, in case your oven runs hotter than mine and it burns. When the surface feels dry and not sticky, looks a nice shade of brown and smells totally irresistible, turn off the oven and let it cool inside for a bit. You can also cool the tray on the countertop if you simply cannot wait.<br />
<br />
When it is completely cool, break it into chunks and store in an airtight container or fridge. You can also add a cup of dried fruit. Dried cranberries go well, but this granola is pretty good all by itself. It should be able to keep for two weeks, although that has yet to happen. Mine is always gone within days.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-21938559051325997302013-03-22T22:08:00.002+08:002013-03-22T22:10:46.705+08:00reading 1, 2, 3In January, I read one book.<br />
<br />
A Spy In The House Of Love, by Anais Nin, made me wanna slap the heroine. Wake up! Stop making excuses for yourself for being a slutty two-timer!<br />
<br />
In February, I read two books.<br />
<br />
No Easy Day by Mark Owen was about the top-secret mission to get Osama bin Laden. Gripping read, but so little personal details and emotions were revealed -- even the author's name was changed -- that I found it hard to root for the Navy Seals team.<br />
<br />
In the same vein, I read Lone Survivor, by Marcus Luttrell, which was about the author's mission in Afghanistan which went horribly wrong. The book title said it all, so there were no surprises there when everyone except the author perished. The narrator was full of annoying macho shit, but the story of how he survived was so amazing that I raced through the final chapters. <br />
<br />
In March, I read three books -- see a pattern here? Though I highly doubt I will be able to read 12 books in December.<br />
<br />
I read a few chapters -- each being a couple of pages long -- of It's Not How Good You Are, It's How Good You Want To Be, by ad guru Paul Arden, in the bookstore before I picked it as a Christmas gift. Naturally, I borrowed it after Christmas. The one take-home I got from it was about presenting your work to bosses/clients in a rough draft form, as opposed to a finished product. This allows them to participate in the process, instead of looking for little things to nitpick at the final stage.<br />
<br />
On my twin's excellent recommendation, I read The Help, by Kathryn Stockett. About black housekeepers in Mississippi in the 1960s, it had a cast of strong likeable women characters, who took turns to narrate.<br />
<br />
But the best book of March was Tiny Beautiful Things, by Chery Strayed. In fact, even though it's early days still, I might just proclaim it the best book of 2013. It's a compilation of advice columns called Dear Sugar, written with so much honesty and heart that I teared up at almost every column, despite being at the hairdresser's, enduring a three-hour perm job.<br />
<br />
So. That's six books for 2013 so far. On a side note, George W. Bush read <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123025595706634689.html">95 books in 2006</a>, while simultaneously fighting a war in Iraq and holding the title of Leader of the Free World.<br />
<br />
And on another tangent, the former president has taken up <a href="http://boingboing.net/2013/03/09/george-w-bush-painter-of-pup.html">painting</a>. I must say his self-portraits have a certain refreshing vulnerability and naivete to them.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-91703534725943988622013-03-07T22:56:00.001+08:002013-03-08T11:23:58.642+08:00and i wonder why i have chronic shoulder aches<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<a href="http://bombakla.blogspot.sg/">My twin</a> and I have been wanting to do this blog post for quite a while now -- we are procrastinators of the first degree -- and we have finally got off our asses to do it.<br />
<br />
Presenting my version of Urban's Bag Page:<br />
1. Giant tote from Madewell, lipstick scarf from H&M<br />
2. Rabbit-shaped grocery bag<br />
3. Another grocery bag<br />
4. Yet another grocery bag (don't ask me why I need so many)<br />
5. Crumpled receipt (only showing you one of many)<br />
6. Print-out of recipe for green tea muffins I want to make this weekend, red Moleskine notebook, mints and mini colourful markers from Muji<br />
7. Pouch to contain all the items in #6<br />
8. Carrot to contain earbuds<br />
9. iPhone with Doraemon charm<br />
10. Keys with giraffe keychain<br />
11. Wallet with dino print from Asos<br />
12. Card case from Tila March<br />
13. Donut to do my giant bun<br />
14. Brolly from H&M and ziplock for when it's wet<br />
15. Shades from Muji<br />
16. Make-up pouch<br />
<br />
Other back-breaking items I sometimes carry (not pictured): lunchbox, yoga clothes, iPad, a particularly un-put-down-able book, slippers or flats, cardigan or scarf.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-80903215384480138252013-01-29T16:55:00.002+08:002013-01-29T16:55:59.492+08:00pushing my buttons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqkNVG_Z-dDk2qYNIPQzfzxTWAovIhrMyfLvG_wXIoj2Y2cDjKcpF3D4Nqdn_bfJEeNVI60XJ_tj-Si8Bni_V5BYWUcz44YHqdXeCb8ohfIhNOEIaWMhAU5BTPcBjFHCXMLetPYg/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqkNVG_Z-dDk2qYNIPQzfzxTWAovIhrMyfLvG_wXIoj2Y2cDjKcpF3D4Nqdn_bfJEeNVI60XJ_tj-Si8Bni_V5BYWUcz44YHqdXeCb8ohfIhNOEIaWMhAU5BTPcBjFHCXMLetPYg/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Was in the mood for soup (when am I not?), and made this with some baby carrots, onions and shrooms I had in the fridge. Quick, easy and so yummy. Was going to add frozen peas at the end but forgot due to the delish smells wafting through the entire flat. (I have an entirely different story about the not-so-yummy wild rocket-basil soup I made last night. I know, what was I thinking? Bleugh!)<br />
<br />
1 tbs butter<br />
1 onion, sliced<br />
3 shallots, sliced<br />
3 cloves of garlic, smashed<br />
12 baby carrots, thickly sliced<br />
200g button mushrooms, sliced (can also be made with shiitake or portobello, but I like low-class button mushrooms)<br />
1 tsp dried tarragon<br />
1 cup chicken stock<br />
1 cup water<br />
Salt and pepper to task<br />
<br />
Melt butter in stock pot over medium heat and cook onion, shallots, garlic and carrots until soft, about 10 minutes. Add tarragon and mushrooms and cook until mushrooms are browned, about three to five minutes.<br />
<br />
Add the chicken stock and water and bring to the boil. Add salt and pepper to taste.<br />
<br />
Simmer for 30 minutes and serve with spring onions (mine all died, so no garnish in the above photo).Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-9807085856960076182012-12-31T13:21:00.000+08:002013-01-14T13:23:18.003+08:00footnoteIn the two weeks since I posted my 2012 reading list, I have binged on another seven books, six of which are part of a detective series set in Shanghai in the 1990s (in English, of course, I can hardly read in Chinese anymore), and the seventh is a book about werewolves (two-word review of the book, The Last Werewolf: werewolf sex).<br />
<br />
The Chinese mystery series by Qiu Xiaolong were surprisingly addictive -- part crime novel, part social commentary (on China's breakneck economic reforms, the Cultural Revolution), part poetry (the protagonist loves to quote lines from famous poems from both the East and West).<br />
<br />
So, in total, the book tally for 2012 was 46<span class="st">½. Not too shabby, even with lightweight novels (and Fifty Shades) on the list.</span>Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-24997331168677503522012-12-21T21:49:00.001+08:002012-12-21T21:50:51.072+08:00hummmmmmus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_FezXqTBUKG8kik5BpeupUr6IDtWR7B494KwNO6A0x0RQNNenUqjEc1mHkfEw_9sRZ1S_rvw6zf24SXvD_izydpxPsZPsa2k4PciFreljdHCD-UpcLUTG4rROH8rFYFxRJL10Q/s1600/photo(33).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_FezXqTBUKG8kik5BpeupUr6IDtWR7B494KwNO6A0x0RQNNenUqjEc1mHkfEw_9sRZ1S_rvw6zf24SXvD_izydpxPsZPsa2k4PciFreljdHCD-UpcLUTG4rROH8rFYFxRJL10Q/s320/photo(33).JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<i>(Left) Pounding chickpeas to make hummus in my grandmother's mortar and pestle.</i><br />
<i>(Right) Wrap with hummus, sundried tomatoes and wild rocket.</i><br />
<br />
1/2 can of chickpeas/garbanzo beans, drained almost completely<br />
3 tbsp of lemon juice<br />
1 tbsp gomasio<br />
2 cloves of garlic<br />
1 tbsp olive oil<br />
3 slices of sundried tomatoes, cut into slivers for easy pounding<br />
<br />
I love chickpeas, but have never made hummus before, deterred by all those recipes which called for tahini. One morning, I had a brainwave and thought, "Well, why don't I just pound some gomasio and just use that instead?"<br />
<br />
So I did. And the result was good.<br />
<br />
I started by pounding the gomasio, which is essentially sesame seeds and salt (mine had some seaweed in it too), then adding the sundried tomatoes and garlic. When that was a paste, I added the chickpeas (I used only half a can because my mortar and pestle, one of the few items I have from my grandma, couldn't fit the entire can). Finally, I added the olive oil and lemon juice and mixed all the ingredients evenly.<br />
<br />
I didn't pound the hummus to a pulp because I prefer mine chunky. Ate it in a wrap with wild rocket and it was yums.<br />
<br />
In fact, it was so good that I insisted on feeding a spoonful to my mom. Imagine how someone would look if she was being force-fed vomit or crap. Now imagine my mom with the very same look of suspicion and revulsion, mixed with resignation, because, how can one reject food made by one's own flesh and blood, right?<br />
<br />
I laughed until I wept. This was payback for all the times she forced me to eat durian.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-65606138285228470842012-12-17T16:37:00.000+08:002012-12-18T13:50:38.315+08:00are you illiterate or what?*At the start of the year, I went on a book-buying binge when Book Depository had a promo. I still haven't finished reading that giant pile of books -- and, in fact, have bought more since then -- but here are the 39<span class="st">½ I did read this year.</span><b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>Dress Your Family In Corduroy And Denim, by David Sedaris</b><br />
I have read almost everything written by Sedaris and that fact makes me sad. This isn't my favourite book of his, but it still made me hoot with laughter while reading it in public. And I find it highly amusing that the title has nothing to do with the stories (it had come to his boyfriend in a dream).<br />
<br />
<b>When You Are Engulfed In Flames, by David Sedaris</b><br />
The piece on having a lozenge fall from your mouth into the lap of a fellow passenger on a plane is priceless. I think I was in hysterics while reading it. In fact, I think I need to reread it right now.<br />
<br />
<b>Don't Tell Me The Truth About Love, by Dan Rhodes</b><br />
Short stories on love -- duh! -- which still stick in my head after all these months, mostly bittersweet and filled with regrets. The one with the man who became a violin (or some other string instrument) to be with his lover is particularly haunting.<br />
<br />
<b>Anthropology, by Dan Rhodes</b><br />
101 short stories, each 101 words long. Sounds gimmicky, but it is so cleverly written that you forgive the author. (A couple of them made me feel rather dim-witted, because I couldn't understand them despite repeated reading.)<br />
<br />
<b>The Imperfectionists, by Tom Rachman</b><br />
I thought I would recognise more of the characters in the novel, seeing as it is based in a newsroom, but there was hardly any mention of sub-editors. How can?!? A pleasurable read, nonetheless, with sharp observations on what make people, not just news people, tick.<br />
<br />
<b>Blossoms And Shadows, by Lian Hearn</b><br />
The premise of the story had such potential -- woman becomes a physician in feudal Japan against all social norms -- but I couldn't feel for the heroine at all. She felt cold and remote, and the story was bogged down by the inclusion of real historical figures, such that I had to keep referring to the section in front which listed all the characters and whether they were fictional.<b> </b><br />
<br />
<b>The Sense Of An Ending, by Julian Barnes</b><br />
Some books, you remember vividly where you were when you read them. I read this while in the hour-long queue for my iPad, surrounded by geeks with their existing iPads. Beautiful sparse evocative writing about the suicide, decades ago, of a boyhood friend of the protagonist and how we reshape our memories.<b> </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Was She Pretty?, by Leanne Shapton</b><br />
I loved Important Artifacts And Personal Property From The Collection Of Lenore Doolan And Harold Morris, Including Books, Street Fashion And Jewelry (yes, that's the actual book title), so I bought this, by the same author. Also, I love the book title. In case it wasn't obvious, the book is about ex-girlfriends (accompanied by drawings in bold, minimalist brushstrokes). Not many words, but all of them biting.<br />
<br />
<b>The Complete Persepolis, by Marjane Satrapi</b><br />
Being late to the game, as usual, I picked up this groundbreaking graphic novel earlier this year. The coming-of-age tale of a girl in Tehran is both amusing and sad. Deserving of all the accolades. I regret not reading it earlier.<br />
<br />
<b>Sushi & Beyond, by Michael Booth </b><br />
I felt hunger
pangs at various points while reading this food memoir in which the
author ate his way around Japan, and I don't even like raw fish. I was
craving yakisoba and takoyaki and his description of nagashi somen --
cold somen noodles riding down a bamboo chute to the diner -- intrigued
me. Certain parts were amusing, but there were no new insights into the
cuisine.<br />
<br />
<b>Garlic And Sapphires, by Ruth Reichl</b><br />
The story of a food critic who puts on disguises to review restaurants incognito. I must thank my twin for introducing me to this book, it was such a good read. It isn't easy to write about food -- try describing a dish without using the words "delicious" or "yummy" -- and even harder to write about personal triumphs and failures, but the author manages to do both.<br />
<br />
<b>Kitchen Confidential, by Anthony Bourdain</b><br />
You can almost hear Bourdain's laconic drawl -- familiar to me from his TV show -- in the prose. The book came out more than 10 years ago and reading it now, when he is so well-known -- and sometimes, hated -- gives me a new perspective. Oh, and on the inside of the second-hand book I'd bought were these words from the previous owner: "A self promoting, name dropping, smart ass egotist. Just one more opinionated obnoxious New Yorker." I completely disagree.<br />
<br />
<b>Born Round, by Frank Bruni </b><br />
Devoured this book in one lazy Sunday. Bruni, a former New York Times restaurant reviewer, battled with his weight all his life and his writing about it is painfully honest. The descriptions of the feasts his Italian family threw are epic.<br />
<br />
<b>What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, by Haruki Murakami</b><br />
I swore off Murakami after 1Q84, but somehow succumbed to this. I justified it by saying it's not a work of fiction. He writes about running marathons -- something I have no desire whatsoever of doing -- but manages to make it relevant to life too: "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional".<br />
<br />
<b>Missed Connections, by Sophie Blackall</b><br />
Such a poignant book with the most whimsical and tender watercolour illustrations. Based on the Missed Connections ads in Craigslist, where strangers try to reconnect with people they brushed past on the train, acquaintances they've lost touch with, old flames, etc. The one with the Coney Island whale had me in tears.<br />
<br />
<b>Bossypants, by Tina Fey</b><br />
I remember hooting with laughter at quite a few parts of the book, but for the life of me, I can't recall a single memorable anecdote from it. Still, an enjoyable quick read. I think I finished it in one night.<br />
<br />
<b>Love, Loss And What I Wore, by Ilene Beckerman</b><br />
Illustrations
and text come together to form a biography of sorts, seen through the
dresses the author wore. I bought it as I remember events through what I
wore, but somehow, the story failed to resonate with me.<br />
<br />
<b>The Vagabond, by Colette</b><br />
Supposedly a feminist tale of independence, the story follows a newly divorced performer at the turn of the 20th century as she chooses between career and love. Hated the character -- waffling and indecisive. Hated the translation -- should have know anything translated from French would be terribly dense. Hated even the font -- tiny and antiquated. Took me forever to finish this and move on to greener pastures.<br />
<br />
<b>Trans-Siberian Handbook, by Bryn Thomas</b><br />
Well,
technically, I didn't exactly read it from cover to cover, but it did
provide hours of entertainment and a whole lot of train/Siberia trivia
on our epic journey.<br />
<br />
<b>Quiet: The Power Of Introverts, by Susan Cain</b><br />
I don't usually read non-fiction; reading is my escape from reality, after all. But I happened to have this book on my iPad and surprised myself by reading it and gaining much insight into my own personality, strange as it sounds. Cain writes about how introverts are subtly discriminated against, how being quiet is seen as a character flaw to be overcome, and how to embrace it. Now I understand why I need time alone to decompress after a week of work and why I had to summon so much inner strength to make phone calls to interviewees in the past.<br />
<br />
<b>The Power Of Habit, by Charles Duhigg</b><br />
Another work of non-fiction, which made a convincing case for developing good habits to push out bad ones. After reading it, I started making my bed, which I had always considered a waste of time. Apparently, this tiny habit of bed-making spills over to other aspects of one's life. I've yet to see my finances getting any better or my house becoming any cleaner or my exercise regimen shaping up to be more regular, but hey, it's a start.<br />
<br />
<b>Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter, by Seth Grahame-Smith</b><br />
Don't judge me for reading this. The title hooked me in with its sheer ridiculousness. Also, I was on a train for four days. The premise was interesting enough -- vampirism and slavery -- but ultimately, it was a silly romp.<br />
<br />
<b>I Remember Nothing, by Nora Ephron</b><br />
Another book I read on the Trans-Siberian, sitting on top of a rubbish bin at the end of the carriage to guard my iPad while it was charging slowly from the common socket one sultry afternoon. Must record all these minute details, because otherwise, they will soon be forgotten. (I even had to google this book title, all I could recall was that I read a book by the woman who wrote When Harry Met Sally and died this year.) An enjoyable way to spend an afternoon on a rubbish bin, I suppose. I remember nothing much of the stories, to be perfectly honest.<br />
<br />
<b>The Gryphon, Alexandria and The Morning Star, by Nick Bantock</b><br />
This trilogy that follows the one of Giffin And Sabine, which I was entranced with more than 10 years ago, what with its actual physical postcards and letters. Now that I'm older and presumably more cynical, the follow-up feels gimmicky and uninspired. Still, at least now I have the whole set. The completionist in me is happy.<br />
<br />
<b>A Game Of Thrones, by George R.R. Martin</b><br />
I plowed through the first book from the seven-book series A Song Of Fire And Ice in record time. But by Book Four of the series, I was sick of the writing style, the switching of point of view every chapter, the dense War of the Roses type of political intrigue, the lack of magic and wonder, the sensational killings of characters you had come to care about, until you no longer gave a dem about who lived and who died, the plot which meandered with no end in sight (the last two books are not even out yet). I have never abandoned a book -- except Moby Dick, which is my whale -- but with this, I abandoned an entire series. And I feel good about it, that I am no longer wasting my time. You want fantasy? Go read Tolkien or even the Dragonlance Chronicles.<br />
<br />
<b>The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played With Fire and The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet's Nest, by Stieg Larsson</b><br />
In case you were wondering, the girl in the titles of these three books is the same girl. And the books get tiresome after a while, with too much back story/drinking of coffee and too little action/mystery/intrigue/violent sex. The first book is readable enough, almost made me want to watch the movie.<br />
<br />
<b>Fifty Shades Of Grey trilogy, by E.L. James</b><br />
What can I say? I was drawn in by the smut and could not stop until I had read the entire trilogy, all the while filled with disgust and self-loathing. If such bad writing can make a bestseller, then why am I not writing one too? <br />
<br />
<b>The Hunger Games trilogy, by Suzanne Collins</b><br />
Being a fast reader, I tore through the series in a couple of days. The premise of teenagers killing each other in a Battleship Royale-like games for food didn't perturb me at all. Only Book One is worth reading, but then after I started caring for the characters, I had to read the subsequent two books. Bah. <br />
<br />
<b>The Hunger Pains, by The Harvard Lampoon</b><br />
A parody of The Hunger Games, this is a quick read, good for a laugh, but also shows up the shortcomings of the original novels.<br />
<br />
<i>* One editor who shall not be named used to insist that every book review have a thumbnail of the book cover (also a product shot of every cosmetic/skincare item featured). I'm, like, if you need a picture of the book to be able to find it in the bookstore, then perhaps this reading business isn't for you.</i><br />
<br />
<i>** On the other hand, I do find that the text does look better with a picture accompanying it. In fact, I did try to place the relevant book cover with each of my snippets above, but then Blogger screwed up and I gave up. If you really need pictorial guidance, go to Amazon.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>*** On the third (imaginary) hand, I must confess that I actually judge and buy books based on their covers. So sue me.</i>Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-18424823964534831552012-11-26T21:00:00.000+08:002012-12-17T16:38:42.461+08:00blur like sotong<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL3konsgu8kFvHDy5JSomRwSNvQioTYrwUAhpV9p6T-j6oQmb9JZ-a_2QJT_ikuIpJWLr85_f010aHlzkX2cMe1x2-qg0OStAWJooXjjDFkc4EJKGBLFdKKyo9nheS6NMHcxZnAA/s1600/photo%252828%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL3konsgu8kFvHDy5JSomRwSNvQioTYrwUAhpV9p6T-j6oQmb9JZ-a_2QJT_ikuIpJWLr85_f010aHlzkX2cMe1x2-qg0OStAWJooXjjDFkc4EJKGBLFdKKyo9nheS6NMHcxZnAA/s320/photo%252828%2529.JPG" width="240" /> </a><br />
<br />
This dish had been calling out to me since I happened to watch some cooking show at my parents' place last week. I mean, sotong is my favourite food!<br />
<br />
The original recipe from <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/anne-burrell/calamari-noodles-with-black-olives-and-arugula-recipe/index.html">Anne Burrell</a> called for olives though. Yucks. I substituted capers instead and I think the dish turned out more than fine.<br />
<br />
My first attempt was a failure though, as I got distracted by chopping the capers while browning the garlic. The chao tar smell lingered in my flat for days. Moral of the story: mise en place is important. I seldom have the patience, but in this case, everything happens so fast that it helps to have all the prep work done before turning on the stove.<br />
<br />
Cleaning the sotong can be a major pain, but the savoury, briny sotong juice that you end up with after cooking makes it worthwhile. (Or you could just buy cleaned sotong, if you can find it. I couldn't.)<br />
<br />
400g squid (about 5 small ones or 3 big ones)<br />
3 cloves of garlic, smashed and peeled<br />
Red pepper flakes<br />
1 cup white wine<br />
1 tbsp capers<br />
1 tbsp lemon juice <br />
2 cups salad leaves (I used mesclun)<br />
<br />
Clean the squid by pulling out the plasticky spine and the head with all the tentacles. Discard the spine and head. Peel the purplish membrane off the body and slice it lengthwise (ie. not into calamari rings).<br />
<br />
Smash the garlic and discard the skin. Roughly chop up the capers.<br />
<br />
Heat up a frying pan with the garlic, red pepper flakes and enough oil to coat the bottom and sides on medium high heat. Watch the pan carefully and fish out the garlic cloves when they are golden brown and a lovely smell fills your kitchen.<br />
<br />
Throw in the sotong slices -- and jump back with a squeal. They should go from translucent to opaque in under two minutes. Season with salt. Add the wine, capers and lemon juice (my tweak on the recipe, because it seemed to be kinda fishy) and let the sauce reduce to about half. I was worried about the sotong becoming overcooked, so I rescued them from the pan while the sauce simmered.<br />
<br />
Pour everything over the salad leaves to wilt them a little and crack some black pepper over the dish before serving.<br />
<br />
Note: For those who don't crack open a bottle of wine without a special occasion -- ie. me -- here's a <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/tips/2012/05/06/substituting-vermouth-for-wine-in-recipes/">tip</a> from my favourite food blogger, <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/">Smitten Kitchen</a>. I used to shy away from recipes which called for one cup of white wine, because it seemed so extravagant, but now I just use Martini Bianco (which won't go bad like wine).Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-60391862112062890682012-11-15T18:05:00.002+08:002012-11-15T18:08:47.002+08:00savoury business<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>(Clockwise from left) Organic steel-cut oats with sunny-side-up, gomasio, mirin-soy sauce and spring onions; curried oats with caramalised onions and chickpeas; and oat "risotto" with pecorino and peas.</i><br />
<br />
I used to call oatmeal regurgitated cardboard, that was how much I hated them. Slimy, mushy, bland -- ewww, gross.<br />
<br />
Then, I started reading about steel-cut oats and how they are different from the usual rolled oats (a.k.a. the instant Quaker oats of my childhood). Unlike rolled oats, which obviously are rolled flat, steel-cut oats are cut (by steel, duh!) into tiny bits, take longer to cook and remain chewy after cooking. I wasn't convinced, but I bought a packet anyway from <a href="http://www.iherb.com/">iHerb</a> because it was so much cheaper compared to Cold Storage.<br />
<br />
And then I proceeded to eat them for lunch three days in a row, that was how good they were.<br />
<br />
Seeing I am the sort who chooses savoury over sweet every time, it should come as no surprise that I made my oatmeal without a hint of sugar or fruit or maple syrup.<br />
<br />
I admit, it took a slight paradigm shift to contemplate making savoury oatmeal. (But then, I had already made savoury granola before, so it wasn't that much of a stretch.) And savoury oatmeal probably sounds revolting to most normal people, but trust me, this is so good, I actually bounce out of bed in the morning because I can't wait to cook and eat it.<br />
<br />
Most recipes call for the oats to be stirred on the stove for 30 minutes, but seriously, who has that kind of time? I found some suggestions to add boiling water to the oats and let the pot stand overnight, but that just sounded like a recipe for a tummy ache, even if the slurry was reheated in the morning. I decided to go with the oven route because it seemed the most fuss-free (and I could walk my dog while it was being done).<br />
<br />
Just pop 1/4 cup of oats with 3/4 cup of water into an oven-proof dish, add a pinch of salt, cover and pop into the oven for 35 minutes at 180 deg C. (Note: This is for a single serving. I made a double portion by doubling the oats and water this morning and it took 45 minutes before all the water was absorbed.) Stir once about 10 minutes before it is done. Remove from oven, test that it is al dente and add toppings (see below). Eat immediately. Cold oatmeal is an atrocity.<br />
<br />
<b>Organic steel-cut oats with sunny-side-up, gomasio, mirin-soy sauce
and spring onions</b><br />
While the oats are in the oven, fry an egg. I'm not giving you a recipe or directions for that hor.<br />
<br />
Make the sauce by adding 1/2 cup light soya sauce, 1/4 cup mirin, juice of half a lemon and strips of lemon peel, one thinly sliced shallot, one deseeded, thinly sliced chilli padi (or more) and one cube of brown sugar in a small saucepan. Bring to a boil and then let it reduce for a little bit, 10-15 minutes. You will need only 1-2 tablespoons of the sauce, so refrigerate the rest in a bottle. I have kept it for a week without any problems. It goes great with seared tuna, cold tofu and even as a salad dressing.<br />
<br />
If you are too lazy to make the sauce, I think soya sauce would work as well, just that the flavours would not be so complex. <br />
<br />
When the oats are done, top it with a generous sprinkle of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gomashio">gomasio</a>, the egg and the sauce. Stir well.<i><br /></i><br />
<br />
<b>Curried oats with caramalised onions and chickpeas</b><br />
To make the curried oats, stir in 1 teaspoon of curry powder to the oats 10 minutes before it is done.<br />
<br />
While your oats are in the oven, you might as well roast some chickpeas. Open a can, drain the water, rinse, dry with paper towels and place the chickpeas on a tray in a single layer with a bit of olive oil. When the oats are done, so are the chickpeas. <br />
<br />
Caramalised onions do take a bit of time and patience, but the results are so worth it. Not for nothing are they called the bacon of vegetarians. Simply slice two onions and fry them with 1/4 cup of olive oil over medium-high heat in a pan that is large enough for the slices to be in a thin layer (ie. not piled up and steaming instead of frying). Stir every five minutes or so, making sure to scrape the bottom for the yummy burnt bits. The onions are done when they are a rich brown colour. Some bits will be crispy while others will be soft.<br />
<br />
If you have any self-restraint at all, you will save half the onions for other uses, such as in a pasta sauce.<br />
<br />
Top the oatmeal with the chickpeas and caramalised onions.<b><br /></b><br />
<br />
<b>Oat "risotto" with pecorino and peas</b><b> </b><i> </i><br />
This recipe is so easy, it is not even a recipe, it's an agar-ration. And it's my favourite of the three here. Not only is it super easy to make, I usually have all the ingredients already in the fridge.<br />
<br />
Add frozen peas (as much as you like, about a handful) to the oats during the last 10 minutes of cooking. Grate the pecorino cheese (again, as much as you like, about two handfuls).<br />
<br />
Stir the oats, peas and cheese together and add pepper to taste. I swear, it is creamy like risotto -- but without the need to slave over a hot stove. Best!Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-91728833433711811782012-11-01T20:34:00.003+08:002012-11-15T18:06:41.365+08:00winging it<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
My friend MS was in complete and utter disbelief when I told her I had never made chicken wings before in my entire life. In fact, I couldn't believe it either, seeing how I am such a big fan of them, especially Ikea's Best Chicken Wings In The World.<br />
<br />
Of course, I had to immediately rectify this oversight on my part by whipping up a batch of hot wings, modifying a <a href="http://www.noobcook.com/buffalo-wings/"> buffalo wing recipe</a> from one of my fave sites, Noob Cook (I couldn't find Frank's Red Hot Original hot sauce at Cold Storage Holland Village, arguably the most angmoh supermarket around, but I think Dancing Chef's sauce rocks too).<br />
<br />
1.5kg chicken wings and drumsticks (about 12 each, just nice for two racks)<br />
7 tsp ground cayenne pepper<br />
2 tsp garlic powder<br />
60g butter (about 4 tbs)<br />
6 tbsp Dancing Chef Suki Dipping Sauce<br />
Dried chilli flakes, salt and pepper to taste<br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 200 deg C. <br />
<br />
Pat chicken dry with paper towels.<br />
<br />
Mix the ground cayenne pepper, garlic powder and some salt and pepper evenly. Coat each piece of chicken lightly with the mixture.<br />
<br />
Arrange the pieces on a wire rack with a foil-lined tray beneath. Bake for 20 minutes, then turn the pieces and bake for another 20 minutes, until crispy.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, melt butter over low heat in a pot and stir in the dipping sauce with dried chilli flakes, salt and pepper.<br />
<br />
Dump the baked chicken into the pot and coat each piece thoroughly with the sauce.<br />
<br />
Wash your hands and dig in.Wash down with a cold bottle of Asahi. Ahhh...Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-4842259251401700142012-10-29T21:37:00.000+08:002012-11-02T17:15:44.024+08:00the most sinful cake in the world<br />
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<br />
After a nine-month break -- no, I did not have a baby! -- I'm back to blogging. Well, sorta. See, I need a place to store recipes of food I have made and the numerous tweaks I made along the way (as well as what to do differently should I revisit them), and I have decided this shall be it. I mean, why start a whole new blog, right? (Yes, I'm that lazy.) (And yes, I still like parentheses.)<br />
<br />
And what better recipe to kick off this new start (which, hopefully, does not die off after one post) than this icebox cake.<br />
<br />
Since the first time I tasted it, years ago, on a trip to New York, at Billy's Bakery, it's been at the back of my mind. I've always wanted to make it, but never had the occasion to make (notice I didn't use the word "bake", you will see why in just a bit) such a sinful cake -- until Sherv's birthday rolled around. (He likes unhealthy food. A lot.)<br />
<br />
A quick spot of googling led me to the recipe on the ever-reliable <a href="http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2007/01/wafer-wonderland/">Smitten Kitchen</a><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=5429090" html="http://smittenkitchen.com/blog/2007/01/wafer-wonderland/"></a>, and a quick trip to the Phoon Huat near the office got me all the ingredients needed.<br />
<br />
3 cups (750ml) whipping cream<br />
3 tbsp sugar<br />
1 tbsp vanilla extract<br />
<br />
Beat the above on high until soft peaks form (ie. they flop over when you lift the beater out of the mixture).
I bought 1 litre of Millac brand whipping cream (in blue carton), which worked out to be about 4 cups (1 cup more than what the recipe called for).<br />
<br />
Note to self: Next time, just whip all four cups and be more generous with the cream between layers, rather than having 1 cup left over (which was kinda just nice for making a mini-cake).
Oh and I added 3 tbsp of Baileys, but I think I will double/triple it in the future. Hic!<br />
<br />
Instead of the Nabisco cookies mentioned on Smitten Kitchen, I used something I found in Phoon Huat known, rather ominously, as Black Biscuit (basically Oreos without the fillings, $6.20 for a giant bag, more than enough for one normal-sized cake and a mini one). And instead of seven cookies in one layer, I used 11 in a circle and filled the middle with all the broken bits from the bottom of the package. Then I smothered the layer with the cream. In total, I made seven layers, covering the top with one super thick layer of cream.<br />
<br />
Being the anal sort, I used a springform pan to make sure the cake wasn't lopsided. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Amazingly, the biscuit will soften and become almost cake-like, yet the entire "cake" will still retain that beautiful rippled pattern. <br />
<br />
Easiest and prettiest cake, ever.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-24949305600636712192012-01-10T21:46:00.000+08:002012-01-10T21:46:12.370+08:00a savoury cookie is a biscuit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Chop 12 slices of bacon (the original <a href="http://www.evilshenanigans.com/2009/08/bacon-cheddar-cookies/">recipe</a> called for four, I doubled it by accident, but I think it's still not enough). I think I'd chop the bacon less fine next time, but that's a personal preference. A foodie friend made the brilliant suggestion of trying bak kwa next time. Fry bacon till crisp, then drain on paper towels. (Save the bacon fat for future use, if you are feeling decadent!)<br />
<br />
Grate one cup of sharp cheddar. I read somewhere that parmesan would taste even cheesier.<br />
<br />
Mix two cups of all-purpose flour, 120g of butter (cut into cubes, salted is fine), one egg, one yolk and two tablespoons heavy cream (I used some leftover sour cream) until combined. (At this point, my feeble hand-held mixer decided to spew cookie dough all over the counter and onto the front of my T-shirt. Ugh.)<br />
<br />
Add cheese and bacon and mix well.<br />
<br />
Place a length of cling wrap on the counter and lightly flour it. Roll the cookie dough into a log, then wrap it up.<br />
<br />
Now, it needs to chill for two hours at least in the fridge. (Just enough time for me to clean all the counters and mop the floor from the mixer accident.)<br />
<br />
Half an hour before taking out the dough, preheat the oven to 180 deg C.<br />
<br />
Slice the dough into discs and place them on trays lined with parchment paper. Bake for 18 to 25 minutes until they are brown on the edges.<br />
<br />
Cool on a rack or you can do what I did and devour five in one go.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-9614441429936643032011-12-08T16:51:00.001+08:002011-12-08T17:19:37.594+08:00drrrtyME: Actually, what does kum lan really mean ah? I mean I know it's vulgar<br />
HE: Um<br />
ME: Anything with lan is so not good<br />
HE: Something to do with the [brinjal emoji] I think<br />
ME: Yes but what is kum?!?<br />
ME: OMG what did I just say? I'm laughing now<br />
HE: In English or hokkien?<br />
ME: Yes, I'm laughing cos I realised in English it's bad too<br />
HE: U too funny<br />
ME: Tears streaming down my face now<br />
HE: Ouch it's beginning to hurt<br />
HE: My stomach that is<br />
ME: But seriously!!! What is kum?!?!<br />
HE: Idk, what else can one do<br />
ME: I laugh until 内伤<br />
HE: U should google it<br />
ME: So someone would kum lan until he kum?<br />
HE: I'm guessing someone else kum him...but to be sure u should google it<br />
ME: Wo bu xing le! I'm hysterical! <br />
HE: I'm gonna do that now<br />
ME: I dun dare to. I may go into fits<br />
HE: Google it that is<br />
ME: Stoppit please I beg of you<br />
HE: According to urban dictionary...To **** a [brinjal emoji]<br />
ME: Ohhh so it cannot be erm done by oneself?<br />
HE: Idk y anyone would want to do that<br />
ME: I thought it was a self service type of action<br />
HE: No it's lip service<br />
ME: Stoppppppppp<br />
HE: Ok enuf...My stomach cannot take anymore<br />
ME: Wait I got one more! <br />
HE: Oh no<br />
ME: What is pooh boh kia??? Someone told me today about it<br />
HE: Wait I google<br />
ME: I never hear before!<br />
HE: Neither have I...pooh boh is pigs wife isn't it?<br />
ME: Apparently it means motherfucker<br />
ME: Obviously my hokkien sub standard<br />
HE: Googling it gets pooh bear<br />
HE: Apparently ur hokkien spelling also not so hot<br />
HE: Should be pu bor<br />
ME: How does that translate to motherfucker!?<br />
ME: So pu is errr fornication? Bor is mother?<br />
HE: Guess so<br />
ME: Kia is kid rite?<br />
ME: So a kid who fucks his mother = motherfucker!!!!!!<br />
HE: Wah yes!<br />
ME: OMG it's quite brilliantZannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-21958132038301756012011-09-23T22:01:00.009+08:002011-09-23T22:14:45.284+08:00asos wtfSo.<br /><br />I'm back.<br /><br />Sort of.<br /><br />In my long absence, I have renovated a flat, married off a sister, moved house, lost 4kg, started working night shift and become an Asos addict.<br /><br />On top of feverishly saving items to my Asos wish list (all the better to monitor price drops!), I have also started downloading these pix which amuse me no end:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij9eoleXGO8aPofTM3qXNGxBwM3fiNhPhARS9HtHiaJl0SzZVc66mMb-yltvASLlIkk76K8tP7-hAYdJQmL5rkUwoi7mghHxuNRtYWFx8CO_jSSPtdJLQP9oQ4OoRMC_rErjtQnQ/s1600/asossquare.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij9eoleXGO8aPofTM3qXNGxBwM3fiNhPhARS9HtHiaJl0SzZVc66mMb-yltvASLlIkk76K8tP7-hAYdJQmL5rkUwoi7mghHxuNRtYWFx8CO_jSSPtdJLQP9oQ4OoRMC_rErjtQnQ/s320/asossquare.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655555503653004754" border="0" /></a><br />"Wow, I look squarer than Spongebob!"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ52YsvYNggAfn8710cGUMBXBFiGIBR2UmrjJ9PJZ0XGd9Tt2m2m_N_8cPk2mL_qiFc5nOyCpbs1GVuSgJh0AW7kapAP7z7rM3om4nO_BvDXP7A7U_L-ynVNDNfnhR-SbvEjNbbw/s1600/asossmudge.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ52YsvYNggAfn8710cGUMBXBFiGIBR2UmrjJ9PJZ0XGd9Tt2m2m_N_8cPk2mL_qiFc5nOyCpbs1GVuSgJh0AW7kapAP7z7rM3om4nO_BvDXP7A7U_L-ynVNDNfnhR-SbvEjNbbw/s320/asossmudge.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655555457871017858" border="0" /></a><br />"This smudgy pajamas-like thingy is putting me to sleep."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswoiB_yzUP9JXhW_7HUP9BvCnE3taSR7z99FIg7mwilHu7dFdvOWcp2OLEx_lxNKawS3lg00eX1NDHFjSv_Ur8TUVS4gzbt5IOXXpN80A9Gh-fcq7v60Si1yMyP_u83zubTdYKg/s1600/asoslifesucks.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhswoiB_yzUP9JXhW_7HUP9BvCnE3taSR7z99FIg7mwilHu7dFdvOWcp2OLEx_lxNKawS3lg00eX1NDHFjSv_Ur8TUVS4gzbt5IOXXpN80A9Gh-fcq7v60Si1yMyP_u83zubTdYKg/s320/asoslifesucks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655555396650374498" border="0" /></a><br />"This is the best smile I can manage in this monstrosity of a dress."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZwK1Gc_V51CCEw-R6SNuIfJHi0lWLkVkLJ5TS3I07qBZffJ6dt5USpJttcwXdTCcsAIa0nlsG9-4cVACXWfvFniIQDULKHTQd07-ZVh_Ft-uuuL6L6e_tk0AhKCM3TXvgvJ1RGA/s1600/asosearcuffwtf.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZwK1Gc_V51CCEw-R6SNuIfJHi0lWLkVkLJ5TS3I07qBZffJ6dt5USpJttcwXdTCcsAIa0nlsG9-4cVACXWfvFniIQDULKHTQd07-ZVh_Ft-uuuL6L6e_tk0AhKCM3TXvgvJ1RGA/s320/asosearcuffwtf.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655555183430977314" border="0" /></a><br />"Helpch! An alien seahorse is growing out of my ear. I think it's trying to tell me something..."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjQ5fqW-lQLH8_jc3bNjRgalujYKrgOW0hVDE1yQKJWkwaLzf1hpI0BrIOKlTPiE-TBgabR_Yz4YstMnpyDC2DwtZgCHZAeqyDEnbIGGfNb4G2mKyFDGwhzbjl6FFCECjY3ZxhQ/s1600/asosclown.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjQ5fqW-lQLH8_jc3bNjRgalujYKrgOW0hVDE1yQKJWkwaLzf1hpI0BrIOKlTPiE-TBgabR_Yz4YstMnpyDC2DwtZgCHZAeqyDEnbIGGfNb4G2mKyFDGwhzbjl6FFCECjY3ZxhQ/s320/asosclown.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655555112612088034" border="0" /></a><br />"Welcome to the circus. I'm the tent."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeKBC-MGhAmfbeG8AmuvybzCGyT8we4KaE35i_Lj68CzxZuXQue5L9HzJrAfT8K9Zu8WkTlCfn1YspW6C_AdxDSf6ZEwVMXvuxbg8-EoYkG1vS7rL6AaC8BE3EZ7Rmo0viZ_a2g/s1600/asoscape.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeKBC-MGhAmfbeG8AmuvybzCGyT8we4KaE35i_Lj68CzxZuXQue5L9HzJrAfT8K9Zu8WkTlCfn1YspW6C_AdxDSf6ZEwVMXvuxbg8-EoYkG1vS7rL6AaC8BE3EZ7Rmo0viZ_a2g/s320/asoscape.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655555038112869874" border="0" /></a><br />"You'd look pissed off too if you had all that excess fabric hanging off your ass."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgtN39G4NRrzTsQShasicasU1hY1E4PEqPdfK6CbnZW_Lw9kkgVPZng5II6kQRSTa5541yWRF0AMNLRoTpI5Uf6PUUyByG0Zf86aP_ew0PCsJ_hfMcdcSb5ZLU-zukLK01pb6SQ/s1600/asosbeach.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMgtN39G4NRrzTsQShasicasU1hY1E4PEqPdfK6CbnZW_Lw9kkgVPZng5II6kQRSTa5541yWRF0AMNLRoTpI5Uf6PUUyByG0Zf86aP_ew0PCsJ_hfMcdcSb5ZLU-zukLK01pb6SQ/s320/asosbeach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655554976591598434" border="0" /></a><br />"I make this wardrobe malfunction look good."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrzpPaZbFNy0If0vguRbO7e63rh7MGWm3C44NBA62haE1U1uLBK_HZfcYZjLoRZSTQawZShCADn_BWgKJv6DnMoSl2OCAKo_aDN0oQr8-3EjrTEOPMme_kFcOol7fIBBojVUAcgw/s1600/asosgenie.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrzpPaZbFNy0If0vguRbO7e63rh7MGWm3C44NBA62haE1U1uLBK_HZfcYZjLoRZSTQawZShCADn_BWgKJv6DnMoSl2OCAKo_aDN0oQr8-3EjrTEOPMme_kFcOol7fIBBojVUAcgw/s320/asosgenie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655555253591889906" border="0" /></a><br />"I'm just doing this to pay the rent."Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-54809477658991313362011-04-05T15:25:00.003+08:002011-04-05T15:57:21.898+08:00run for your life<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0nf9ThYWgDay3nVkul5Q_kKo5zsVXqo5KQaXovAvA4NxYq50NgOYPc8hQfsIGvaDHdxm6RSgYHDW_KNy9lG9v6e-2taNKR5y9_jNDVCYtwrrb6m85gEQbvVBXBZa2Am9mGjPrQ/s1600/photo%25281%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX0nf9ThYWgDay3nVkul5Q_kKo5zsVXqo5KQaXovAvA4NxYq50NgOYPc8hQfsIGvaDHdxm6RSgYHDW_KNy9lG9v6e-2taNKR5y9_jNDVCYtwrrb6m85gEQbvVBXBZa2Am9mGjPrQ/s320/photo%25281%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592005333917084306" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Loser friend:</span> Wat u up to?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Just went running. On a Friday night. I'm a certified loser.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Loser friend:</span> A trimmer loser.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> The biggest loser, you mean.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Loser friend:</span> Please. I slept my nite away.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Loser friend:</span> You don't want to start a bigger loser game cos u will lose.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Loser friend: </span>Paradoxically enuf.<br /><br />That I'm a hermit who doesn't go out on weekends is not news. The shocker here is that I have taken up running. Three times a week at night. After clocking in 10 to 12 hours at work. And I actually look forward to pounding the pavement every time. Okay, stop laughing.<br /><br />I'm following this <a href="http://www.djsteveboy.com/1day25k.html">Couch to 5K</a> podcast and of course my OCD streak won't allow me to miss a session or quit before the end at week #9. (I'm currently at week #7, but seriously, it seems impossible that I can cover 5km in another two weeks.)<br /><br />I've become such a running geek that when I see joggers along the road, I find myself following their strides and noting things like whether they are heel or forefoot strikers.<br /><br />Yes, all those times I muttered "freak" under my breath as a jogger breezed by are coming back to bite me in my -- hopefully trimmer -- ass.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-21596977638878222132011-03-23T11:45:00.013+08:002011-03-24T14:42:38.817+08:00pardon the messI'm a sucker for home improvement programmes and the big reveal at the end. By the same token, I cannot resist clicking on the "before" and "after" renovation pix of my Facebook friends. The more drastic the changes, the more I like.<br /><br />I don't have any "after" photos yet, but here are some "before" shots of my 40-year-old flat, much of it still in its "original" condition, as real estate agents are wont to say.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW0W8L4eeOVzBBe-iMnFzvHXsFudlCJ30HpvyU_b4DQqXoDTQPCVH4s6fqQ804ZfCnc67Hy7D2tjGn2YOCLkOctFazRv3MrNnfdqpUKfEIsZT8Hto_EVaEByxRimcqdcubJFnmXA/s1600/photo%252831%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW0W8L4eeOVzBBe-iMnFzvHXsFudlCJ30HpvyU_b4DQqXoDTQPCVH4s6fqQ804ZfCnc67Hy7D2tjGn2YOCLkOctFazRv3MrNnfdqpUKfEIsZT8Hto_EVaEByxRimcqdcubJFnmXA/s320/photo%252831%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587116788627360082" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The glass of the main door acts like a lightbox.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiicAccvsEy6DMFtpEwAQuGADSJ_sg1_4kcx02QMGmmj5cZIGtsSN8SL4bldaal17glF31eafvXRh8eQx02Hs3auTx7coV3KfxecBMcQPDAfuVAptivxVfCyKRWpR6nuB1J1G9hYQ/s1600/photo%252830%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiicAccvsEy6DMFtpEwAQuGADSJ_sg1_4kcx02QMGmmj5cZIGtsSN8SL4bldaal17glF31eafvXRh8eQx02Hs3auTx7coV3KfxecBMcQPDAfuVAptivxVfCyKRWpR6nuB1J1G9hYQ/s320/photo%252830%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587116794673484594" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My beloved arch, leading to the kitchen.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTv4o3UgQQqrdJPyOxedW3Gbnp5NffFPvwHnNX6VnOnNG90kqhR1uWuaarRkd3p8W6IaWcxQi6oiTBmGHNU-lg1mLHfCmepxA5ih7tF2JdsMcV59rqViF1PBufzoHzteBhtWmVZA/s1600/photo%252829%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTv4o3UgQQqrdJPyOxedW3Gbnp5NffFPvwHnNX6VnOnNG90kqhR1uWuaarRkd3p8W6IaWcxQi6oiTBmGHNU-lg1mLHfCmepxA5ih7tF2JdsMcV59rqViF1PBufzoHzteBhtWmVZA/s320/photo%252829%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587116804592037634" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Kitchen floor tiles which I'm keeping.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CyjSDVdN7CZkSSERG_l16PRxvhmPujKsNhc2cVZx-bE5pqD1wZ0Rqz-DnZDkqI5Zrye_DNfQsKtOyBX29L2JP9JVMGvrcZnu0LUaU_4nC-zaSWjhtZaK4c_olMxI4IyrjchRtg/s1600/photo%252828%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1CyjSDVdN7CZkSSERG_l16PRxvhmPujKsNhc2cVZx-bE5pqD1wZ0Rqz-DnZDkqI5Zrye_DNfQsKtOyBX29L2JP9JVMGvrcZnu0LUaU_4nC-zaSWjhtZaK4c_olMxI4IyrjchRtg/s320/photo%252828%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587116806664665570" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The entire toilet will be gutted, so there won't be a partition between the shower and the toilet.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2T451h2hzNnyoaNQJrgZtooa0LvPd2n0pUPGnqQAnqgZO17FrbMLWIO8scuo6CEVGM9eip6tA5gu_W40UUmihLbYoEZmxeS271vz6YeNZITYpAGwLt9fK_s9kyyJaNY1zQEacpA/s1600/photo%252826%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2T451h2hzNnyoaNQJrgZtooa0LvPd2n0pUPGnqQAnqgZO17FrbMLWIO8scuo6CEVGM9eip6tA5gu_W40UUmihLbYoEZmxeS271vz6YeNZITYpAGwLt9fK_s9kyyJaNY1zQEacpA/s320/photo%252826%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587116996365131922" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I asked Mr Contractor if there are rubbish chutes which are foot operated. He looked at me like I was the laziest ass in the world.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqR1ijmFQkMM7mHx38r4kr-EoT30vcygP7hSN3rWhcG8HlW6Jo4j8ZL7Bw0GJK9DYQ-WVn3R2IiuqR57Lw8ePg_X6e_UZTJPHINHhiHvppYvPiqA3UZYGwrEhuDwx-nMAxXu3QoA/s1600/photo%252827%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqR1ijmFQkMM7mHx38r4kr-EoT30vcygP7hSN3rWhcG8HlW6Jo4j8ZL7Bw0GJK9DYQ-WVn3R2IiuqR57Lw8ePg_X6e_UZTJPHINHhiHvppYvPiqA3UZYGwrEhuDwx-nMAxXu3QoA/s320/photo%252827%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587116816235726498" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I would have loved to retain the old skool sink but it was very badly cracked. I'm getting something similar, but with two basins. I still cannot believe that my sink costs double of my toilet bowl, which arguably has a more complex mechanism.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGVvOLY2qIQALnsJc9wEPnvxWy_tvigpT972REGd9xpRz2AznI8tFp4BN19NyhmvIJB7YDg-9i1bBwcbR8W3y4bRijowLq5DOh0K44_SvYlsrd4Pdx640DpOd21TuldgujptHUQ/s1600/photo%252816%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGVvOLY2qIQALnsJc9wEPnvxWy_tvigpT972REGd9xpRz2AznI8tFp4BN19NyhmvIJB7YDg-9i1bBwcbR8W3y4bRijowLq5DOh0K44_SvYlsrd4Pdx640DpOd21TuldgujptHUQ/s320/photo%252816%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117420055463890" border="0" /></a><br /><br />To the left, when you enter through the main door, is what I call the front balcony. Check out the terrazzo which I fondly describe as the colour of dried blood. I'm keeping it.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv8tYCMxV43p6-KgbYpbsuCZ0oP3IRhp3Zef-rRDBDX2xVV11haL0ipOoztcfr_XOBS7tkx4D3w7glxx2zTdQdRnBRQ-yLqSQwVDRXbTYuzdSSsmQk6QirK-ox2zjq6sSBE-7Mhg/s1600/photo%252822%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv8tYCMxV43p6-KgbYpbsuCZ0oP3IRhp3Zef-rRDBDX2xVV11haL0ipOoztcfr_XOBS7tkx4D3w7glxx2zTdQdRnBRQ-yLqSQwVDRXbTYuzdSSsmQk6QirK-ox2zjq6sSBE-7Mhg/s320/photo%252822%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117016004281938" border="0" /></a><br /><br />From the front balcony, you can enter the front room (there are two rooms). This wall will become a wall of bookshelves with a set of French doors set in the middle.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZuay5pg1RlrFp2Zy0U67HLmku7A710owj_nvV2EmiZtPO_086hGFntD0Af8QsOCttx9pPocUXmtbi2eU0HDXrV5pP2jcBKL1fjEcUR_pVwqwtdzn7K4TrI7C1a4WhbXhZxza2w/s1600/photo%252824%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirZuay5pg1RlrFp2Zy0U67HLmku7A710owj_nvV2EmiZtPO_086hGFntD0Af8QsOCttx9pPocUXmtbi2eU0HDXrV5pP2jcBKL1fjEcUR_pVwqwtdzn7K4TrI7C1a4WhbXhZxza2w/s320/photo%252824%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117005072693442" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In the kitchen, on the left of the sink, is the back balcony, which it is going to be widened to be a dining room (the windows and walls on the left are coming down). There is a delicate mosaic hacking operation going on now to "borrow" as many tiles as possible from the kitchen and bathroom to extend the floor.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwk3uXu407anfjWRG8AJ45NPP_G6JVcr1kaXWjiF3fZKLVohNzG5Gx6x2VShzeQUcxgn_2icl8y_84e-NeMIRlLkgD5m3ZYHio8YHVQo_06cG_2gWZKhLc8bFKf_fHJJk1sylAUQ/s1600/photo%252821%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwk3uXu407anfjWRG8AJ45NPP_G6JVcr1kaXWjiF3fZKLVohNzG5Gx6x2VShzeQUcxgn_2icl8y_84e-NeMIRlLkgD5m3ZYHio8YHVQo_06cG_2gWZKhLc8bFKf_fHJJk1sylAUQ/s320/photo%252821%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117205389526242" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The back room, which is accessed from the back balcony. The wooden shutters will be saved to make a screen or something, not sure yet. Both front and back rooms are going to be hacked into one giant room.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz4p5I0kg9qcvgKej_RnXF6j4KqpTWu0KGWtFS5J81NE6Nsf6N0DuhJVJS009J6cpcw5HuPhH2Zlefv2cU8rd4e2BlGFmaWVkF-QHI_6KfT8z4qxjTRTdK-EMvCIq_PTnSa5sC2g/s1600/photo%252818%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz4p5I0kg9qcvgKej_RnXF6j4KqpTWu0KGWtFS5J81NE6Nsf6N0DuhJVJS009J6cpcw5HuPhH2Zlefv2cU8rd4e2BlGFmaWVkF-QHI_6KfT8z4qxjTRTdK-EMvCIq_PTnSa5sC2g/s320/photo%252818%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117225240136114" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Sadly, these sockets are extinct and I will be changing to modern white ones.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKbAqt131k1GmUbsUq7dA62DZo6Jh6j1Txi5yVdDqFMLTuxZoEkuf64tVXltZVSTtCixhNy7ewO_Me7hOyeBrGosBZdWphElTE7LM4PZym55TR6YlMtdLTGLoaMuQGUhZ6rlgag/s1600/photo%252820%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKbAqt131k1GmUbsUq7dA62DZo6Jh6j1Txi5yVdDqFMLTuxZoEkuf64tVXltZVSTtCixhNy7ewO_Me7hOyeBrGosBZdWphElTE7LM4PZym55TR6YlMtdLTGLoaMuQGUhZ6rlgag/s320/photo%252820%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117216236352034" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This looks like the most awesome retro tiles but actually is gross vinyl flooring which is completely cracked and caked with dirt.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvpmL-r1uYmJHsrZIJLodwZPQXx7_E77Oj_6oi-FWaYv3g5G6g2zko1AGCqRuR96GG42tNhmANal7wfUOeqOCZOLX_8zZYsG5oW6qcivvAjaatgBpqn0dTH28agpNXTJ9h4W75g/s1600/photo%252823%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXvpmL-r1uYmJHsrZIJLodwZPQXx7_E77Oj_6oi-FWaYv3g5G6g2zko1AGCqRuR96GG42tNhmANal7wfUOeqOCZOLX_8zZYsG5oW6qcivvAjaatgBpqn0dTH28agpNXTJ9h4W75g/s320/photo%252823%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117013699664930" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Same as above, this is vinyl and will have to go. Below it is raw concrete which will be painted white and then covered with high gloss epoxy. Apparently, it is not super lasting, but we'll see.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJE15eEeJCX94XUqDI4Wj1MFZ_DpEWuvWi6IMTN2ErGfrsmk9Y2eatPeJwAPYoe8f556FHGqZ1zfFXOhjRKUJhEWkcg4V0tGoKIzbc0BWhLUGIcqyAQH7rpiYImgbFkpk4Dual5Q/s1600/photo%252817%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJE15eEeJCX94XUqDI4Wj1MFZ_DpEWuvWi6IMTN2ErGfrsmk9Y2eatPeJwAPYoe8f556FHGqZ1zfFXOhjRKUJhEWkcg4V0tGoKIzbc0BWhLUGIcqyAQH7rpiYImgbFkpk4Dual5Q/s320/photo%252817%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117234582633250" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Auntie Laura, who sold me the flat, left me her dressing table. It was her dowry from 40 years ago. Love!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU65Fqb2_oq34E6jgwLaEg1kD1dRhM4G0OwDPXIJwcU7dZJqpMBv2qv9GZ04bBaoVaS8QsgM5eoBHkC1W3Ea5ammaslARnS5-XHMNEIwSEDuAepnu446kPd7BdJqmyGGfDAJdwgg/s1600/photo%252819%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU65Fqb2_oq34E6jgwLaEg1kD1dRhM4G0OwDPXIJwcU7dZJqpMBv2qv9GZ04bBaoVaS8QsgM5eoBHkC1W3Ea5ammaslARnS5-XHMNEIwSEDuAepnu446kPd7BdJqmyGGfDAJdwgg/s320/photo%252819%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117221128543442" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Her husband, Uncle George (not his real name, but he looks like a George to me), left me his cupboard. He also gave me a bunch of film cameras and an old suitcase. Double love!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqX5gxjM5RbLsJ_VbGBPgq1l4zoCA6VQ76gtkg2u-6nzcRklGi673W1dvdocwxqnlwAZxhI8Y7tcPZnp3LjNeAyhvPC-mRMha9D2FBIc3Z_Jop3mJxjOSUgQnzFGfArslAgcu6Q/s1600/photo%252814%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqX5gxjM5RbLsJ_VbGBPgq1l4zoCA6VQ76gtkg2u-6nzcRklGi673W1dvdocwxqnlwAZxhI8Y7tcPZnp3LjNeAyhvPC-mRMha9D2FBIc3Z_Jop3mJxjOSUgQnzFGfArslAgcu6Q/s320/photo%252814%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117437704799618" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Renovation started about two weeks ago.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijTx97FpUpkRpdPj7bBh-fmLVcE5XH99E36ytC01SQDvz2oJMa7pwVqsc0Kqkb4ZlMQqLZbgUJ3xsOAE7bYH4RF6xMaDqSMEM4bewDF86FK1tNaJv7R834fb1ylf_AXXsZwcMpmQ/s1600/photo%252812%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijTx97FpUpkRpdPj7bBh-fmLVcE5XH99E36ytC01SQDvz2oJMa7pwVqsc0Kqkb4ZlMQqLZbgUJ3xsOAE7bYH4RF6xMaDqSMEM4bewDF86FK1tNaJv7R834fb1ylf_AXXsZwcMpmQ/s320/photo%252812%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117445675456738" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Any ideas what I can do with these grills? Throwing them away is not an option.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOfMTEpLjKA93ZwDbNxI3r3biy87Vehyphenhyphen-ltdydHCO4MtwkNmk6Vr3wrdauLbifaTF-tWGwYoZl_2yBnD3RnStJogMd3VwdZ-wqllNlMdNvFuxA3rUW-0xMKP_4zPnSKorKrLsvw/s1600/photo%252813%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirOfMTEpLjKA93ZwDbNxI3r3biy87Vehyphenhyphen-ltdydHCO4MtwkNmk6Vr3wrdauLbifaTF-tWGwYoZl_2yBnD3RnStJogMd3VwdZ-wqllNlMdNvFuxA3rUW-0xMKP_4zPnSKorKrLsvw/s320/photo%252813%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117442686427954" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Exposed bricks! Not painted white yet.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfR_sseVO8Fa6vTmpscJW9dprB2DwnEcZ5V14sG7YdAD9ixtteL2e5nOyX4mnYxugSIf7Jc4jOVjL9n5g9FRHRffOS9im9CMhfFZnhw_pflnO7K09c0gLyHbTPm6aImNXpWct6g/s1600/photo%252811%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfR_sseVO8Fa6vTmpscJW9dprB2DwnEcZ5V14sG7YdAD9ixtteL2e5nOyX4mnYxugSIf7Jc4jOVjL9n5g9FRHRffOS9im9CMhfFZnhw_pflnO7K09c0gLyHbTPm6aImNXpWct6g/s320/photo%252811%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587126889261655794" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The view from the living room into the giant bedroom (two bedrooms combined by hacking down the dividing wall).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTRiTeTLfFpNc7c2cFzohQlQq6vEwQxbIFje14g2virEZpruyjDW_ZDw9WAki9CXjDB7dMRDt8zl71vL_D84JwZWReT7JDA4kJfnYO7Qw9UZNf7S5lw0fmKgnEPaxcTQ9m_fEktw/s1600/photo%252815%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTRiTeTLfFpNc7c2cFzohQlQq6vEwQxbIFje14g2virEZpruyjDW_ZDw9WAki9CXjDB7dMRDt8zl71vL_D84JwZWReT7JDA4kJfnYO7Qw9UZNf7S5lw0fmKgnEPaxcTQ9m_fEktw/s320/photo%252815%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5587117428200032418" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Mr Contractor brought me to a retro tile shop after I turned my nose up at all the modern ones he showed me. Guess which tile I chose for the toilet floor?<br /><br />I'll spare you the photo of the sink and toilet bowl I chose, but watch out for more renovation shots over the next month or so.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-16387842390905913772011-03-22T18:51:00.001+08:002011-03-24T14:48:50.206+08:00white washedI was asked again today what is the "theme" for my flat. I think "chapalang" pretty much sums it up.<br /><br />Here are some pix that I showed my contractor -- who deserves a blog post of his own, if only because he immediately knew what I meant by "white epoxy cement floor" and "white exposed brick" -- before the renovation started.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOeMHkeTDjMPoMqC3oOUMCw8c4XD-oxyU45fVQ8tHT4pyEGrfkV2C3nvYy7Ovl04buMEjYC9UXsjI1HbRCj9CrlSDl8NCVzjA8FbuXopZEfAIT_a-VN8iGl7uSCbRsmq6h7fvwQ/s1600/epoxy.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbOeMHkeTDjMPoMqC3oOUMCw8c4XD-oxyU45fVQ8tHT4pyEGrfkV2C3nvYy7Ovl04buMEjYC9UXsjI1HbRCj9CrlSDl8NCVzjA8FbuXopZEfAIT_a-VN8iGl7uSCbRsmq6h7fvwQ/s320/epoxy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586493711878549474" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This smooth white seamless floor is what I mean by "white epoxy cement floor". It's going in my bedroom, which currently is just raw concrete.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_vg8OlQOvPX6mmvrNrIdNdEDUoXW4bhdHi96gVKSW5mBCqTumnjDlZg9DI3t6RP_6hXd9gdKOPbEmIRyfAaw2dTUWUbCpNzgLUWmSv9G6nNPzF88XmrHvaDrVDRpnZrJJ3Q78UA/s1600/whitebricks.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_vg8OlQOvPX6mmvrNrIdNdEDUoXW4bhdHi96gVKSW5mBCqTumnjDlZg9DI3t6RP_6hXd9gdKOPbEmIRyfAaw2dTUWUbCpNzgLUWmSv9G6nNPzF88XmrHvaDrVDRpnZrJJ3Q78UA/s320/whitebricks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486134805503378" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A prime example of what I mean by "white exposed brick". That little niche/shelf is perfection, I must get Mr Contractor to do it for me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB91jLgDRq5-3OuZeiPvUKJaQzu8Y51OkVLY6VuN3KLRs1PKY_DzI6jnuqlWLi7MTon3f0YDPCdYgRZq607goGrnQnBezeIA3Eg_NTRAyyaQUZNq0aj7uit3hWTR2eDwPxJsGwbg/s1600/whitebricks1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB91jLgDRq5-3OuZeiPvUKJaQzu8Y51OkVLY6VuN3KLRs1PKY_DzI6jnuqlWLi7MTon3f0YDPCdYgRZq607goGrnQnBezeIA3Eg_NTRAyyaQUZNq0aj7uit3hWTR2eDwPxJsGwbg/s320/whitebricks1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486121635940722" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The textured wall is amazing, but there is something marvellously quirky about the mix of sofas and armchairs. Kinda makes me wish we didn't sell the set we had at Swirl.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6c_LCO2Oc1WZO5yxtE7uhbOGHwtYZjXRDGLag2WaiuAA09WHoERUoRhhEX9Yqi4KBuID3Mc61wgFOT2Ns7CNquzoLd7gcdBgtzS6OjSmC125ZgceKwjQR32-eHc-OcE9-aNgYSQ/s1600/whitebricks2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6c_LCO2Oc1WZO5yxtE7uhbOGHwtYZjXRDGLag2WaiuAA09WHoERUoRhhEX9Yqi4KBuID3Mc61wgFOT2Ns7CNquzoLd7gcdBgtzS6OjSmC125ZgceKwjQR32-eHc-OcE9-aNgYSQ/s320/whitebricks2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486127144878466" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I'm still a bit worried that the crevices between the bricks will collect lots of dust, especially since they will be in the bedroom. I guess there's only one way to find out.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjALVByihVo2Hp3CULzus1kK2dJRoYmRxAQcURisNHTgeYRw7ZUlH4eVW-CBjRAkyjojGdk2WiuidhD7_FY2MBlwPYE4_5m_mLvBkWlGNnTHMnIdeqhEzksf6zuwz5nG7V5t75seg/s1600/bluebricks.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjALVByihVo2Hp3CULzus1kK2dJRoYmRxAQcURisNHTgeYRw7ZUlH4eVW-CBjRAkyjojGdk2WiuidhD7_FY2MBlwPYE4_5m_mLvBkWlGNnTHMnIdeqhEzksf6zuwz5nG7V5t75seg/s320/bluebricks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486002474674114" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I must say, blue exposed brick looks pretty good too, but I'm going for white.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-2xzvTA88rUVXu6ME4B9Bf9MbSN5VfejCb0nY5NKY-TsBnw2HIJGWwTHv4BtuyMK1FvCXALTX-XDoBbEZujNlg6Be2tCtvvB7txzVQgzNnZB5TiIZV_nrJJSQIY3aO6ySpfwhg/s1600/polkawall.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig-2xzvTA88rUVXu6ME4B9Bf9MbSN5VfejCb0nY5NKY-TsBnw2HIJGWwTHv4BtuyMK1FvCXALTX-XDoBbEZujNlg6Be2tCtvvB7txzVQgzNnZB5TiIZV_nrJJSQIY3aO6ySpfwhg/s320/polkawall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486915225777234" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I'm sorely tempted to have a small polka dotted wall. I can't resist dots.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKveIVra5BpT1mzNyHdLqsPbqkCmezdyq0Dxi5M0FFwVJh7iS64JzBnOA4ANaJDqNCwnvvbkwQjbZZ68B93JSOTHs-1Ec1fw4qQmkuOJlLQAwDEveuX7DwphbmwDTZd9PG-cb_Q/s1600/Copy+of+wallwardrobe.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWKveIVra5BpT1mzNyHdLqsPbqkCmezdyq0Dxi5M0FFwVJh7iS64JzBnOA4ANaJDqNCwnvvbkwQjbZZ68B93JSOTHs-1Ec1fw4qQmkuOJlLQAwDEveuX7DwphbmwDTZd9PG-cb_Q/s320/Copy+of+wallwardrobe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486675313852530" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Because there is no store room in a flat as old as mine, I will be spending a small fortune on built-in wardrobes.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVhiw_9KjCCpX6AQvpHHfgN31qPjygsMHmKubk61V0NIsPBov0dUvxix3lAgpePVvniSRU0kORs_i1fvmSg6oD95gpAjw6ORp1RjZYl9p4wuWfzaKEFdRT4Px4-93fFZnjjey-Aw/s1600/wardrobe.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVhiw_9KjCCpX6AQvpHHfgN31qPjygsMHmKubk61V0NIsPBov0dUvxix3lAgpePVvniSRU0kORs_i1fvmSg6oD95gpAjw6ORp1RjZYl9p4wuWfzaKEFdRT4Px4-93fFZnjjey-Aw/s320/wardrobe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586487233473918178" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I briefly toyed with this design but realised quickly that the irregularity of the lines would drive me round the bend. The frames are a nice touch though.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYKVMAGH7s40n_55W91n-7LpqsVvumpSkwmKm91jSN8hmHPc6Mcdx-SvQNZR6-HWNh7Dt5KKx_4sD4jNriYtTZeHG3QR8VJoEn2iSwSiF_gL_hnNSzVvy0BNq3JntX8O_FtcDfg/s1600/wallrail.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwYKVMAGH7s40n_55W91n-7LpqsVvumpSkwmKm91jSN8hmHPc6Mcdx-SvQNZR6-HWNh7Dt5KKx_4sD4jNriYtTZeHG3QR8VJoEn2iSwSiF_gL_hnNSzVvy0BNq3JntX8O_FtcDfg/s320/wallrail.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586487230527964082" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Imagine this wall in the living room, but without the desk, chairs, lamp and rug. And substitute the monochromatic art with more colourful ones. Can imagine anot?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy89R5K6DyqzdMLovZBvEpMurvdh4kBMfmDKebeTUBUkjxxh52mzKPojewb3rb-HeHy_Wyzn6Ac9qHwKd63glF5gGPTyXe1xoHkpiSxG3tbOVHdYPzcDWzNt1N2Zrh1zCrKI6YBA/s1600/toiletglass.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy89R5K6DyqzdMLovZBvEpMurvdh4kBMfmDKebeTUBUkjxxh52mzKPojewb3rb-HeHy_Wyzn6Ac9qHwKd63glF5gGPTyXe1xoHkpiSxG3tbOVHdYPzcDWzNt1N2Zrh1zCrKI6YBA/s320/toiletglass.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586487225860624130" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My bathroom will not be this slick or Zen. In fact, the only similarity will be the glass panel and the niche for bath products, which this home owner apparently does not use. I chose some super retro tiles and mosaic, which I'm keeping my fingers crossed will work in the small space.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8-W1K0DF7hYPxCuOknMm8MGXuIrtSBvjVqAuD1VcaeHAQm3Z9_34gh_uQZSMT4O_GdlRf3HC2qTsLl5vut2DGWI0nUgs2wQLI8tEIC7WU3HPKoNB-CQ_GfYZnSfHlI1Grq-BDA/s1600/nook.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8-W1K0DF7hYPxCuOknMm8MGXuIrtSBvjVqAuD1VcaeHAQm3Z9_34gh_uQZSMT4O_GdlRf3HC2qTsLl5vut2DGWI0nUgs2wQLI8tEIC7WU3HPKoNB-CQ_GfYZnSfHlI1Grq-BDA/s320/nook.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486909032145442" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The bottom left picture is my fave. There is only one spot in my place which I can build this sort of shelves -- above the rubbish chute. I doubt it will look as nice as this.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNIDpPJRBZLGA9eqCuoqk2I4pnjTgUlxB47bLJjN9I6nRmgljEi7fePt4LReJs35QkPuSsKTV5OI99x-Hphs-Ka577e0SMzyzt5BHEurMHSuwMU8kCiKvJgZNKEwTK2Mtl1ogOA/s1600/kitchendrawers.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWNIDpPJRBZLGA9eqCuoqk2I4pnjTgUlxB47bLJjN9I6nRmgljEi7fePt4LReJs35QkPuSsKTV5OI99x-Hphs-Ka577e0SMzyzt5BHEurMHSuwMU8kCiKvJgZNKEwTK2Mtl1ogOA/s320/kitchendrawers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486684007506578" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Okay, use your imagination here. In your mind, remove the dining set, the wine rack, the recessed lighting and the cooker hood. Change the floor to retro green mosaic. Switch the marble backsplash to a greenish glass. The upper cabinets have one door, not two. The lampshade morphs into a giant round globe. And there you have my kitchen.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT_JmKjNYrYsuZuxzape6TMBAOIKtO0F8iZ3E4Tm-1Gp15zwGPB-R6HhFWGqaBF58-F701FLwHjt3UTRwug3SjblXccbVldk1K6Ymmkrr_PWFpXgAaoQT0kllxsHonwyNaoGaTKg/s1600/frenchdoor2.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT_JmKjNYrYsuZuxzape6TMBAOIKtO0F8iZ3E4Tm-1Gp15zwGPB-R6HhFWGqaBF58-F701FLwHjt3UTRwug3SjblXccbVldk1K6Ymmkrr_PWFpXgAaoQT0kllxsHonwyNaoGaTKg/s320/frenchdoor2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486678887303170" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I keep telling my carpenter I want French doors, but I'm not 100% sure he gets it. These aren't exactly what I want either, but I can't find the right pix to show him.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkDzK-lbSNpYIGjFW3xHucO07ezZNKnDN3JG2jrpqY5Im_bCxZSiUnUTb3RewgU36duS2d5-3DeI6m_FdBAQyc3c_68Xtf-KOpAresvB4EQaC11vAQcp3PKWWtnLUSRJDLbMItA/s1600/ladder.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkDzK-lbSNpYIGjFW3xHucO07ezZNKnDN3JG2jrpqY5Im_bCxZSiUnUTb3RewgU36duS2d5-3DeI6m_FdBAQyc3c_68Xtf-KOpAresvB4EQaC11vAQcp3PKWWtnLUSRJDLbMItA/s320/ladder.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486689284818546" border="0" /></a><br /><br />He did seem to understand "wide bookshelves" and "wooden ladder" though. Baby blue for the ladder? Turquoise? Hot pink? Or should i stick with red?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDiIOZHCB-XLFRCc_dfYpT08oEjhoYWL0g2FTNpvd4C8XUsTg95gGsLh4UN6onjGq3Eb5jSco3S4R2srVuJ-Stm7FdLkOlM91Cmd5zv_TD3neEtT2ad7uqQsjqwC5R2hxfcSvrdQ/s1600/archpainted.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDiIOZHCB-XLFRCc_dfYpT08oEjhoYWL0g2FTNpvd4C8XUsTg95gGsLh4UN6onjGq3Eb5jSco3S4R2srVuJ-Stm7FdLkOlM91Cmd5zv_TD3neEtT2ad7uqQsjqwC5R2hxfcSvrdQ/s320/archpainted.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586485831012623602" border="0" /></a><br /><br />There is an archway leading from the living room to the kitchen which I love. And which my contractor likes to pretend he has forgotten I want to retain and make me panic by saying things like, "Next week, we can start tearing this down. You want rectangle, right?"<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaE4l0mOBHAbhro9PxzpOQ1zqBHhvJl465ugjA4ccIs68bOk7ILX8_SJeDw-ozgbcPVa8l6dlxRw6SEDWlgazLz2JZ02JO79gRHhEZO0c9aQ1T_DqJBYkh64NxICEYR5XhOgCgIg/s1600/orla.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 307px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaE4l0mOBHAbhro9PxzpOQ1zqBHhvJl465ugjA4ccIs68bOk7ILX8_SJeDw-ozgbcPVa8l6dlxRw6SEDWlgazLz2JZ02JO79gRHhEZO0c9aQ1T_DqJBYkh64NxICEYR5XhOgCgIg/s320/orla.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586562495204150306" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I've been trawling used furniture listings for a credenza/sideboard/console, but it's not that urgent. If I were rich, I would just to pick one up from Lorgan's, but I'd rather spend my money on a self-cleaning oven. (The Orla Kiely wallpaper is gorgeous, but I doubt I can commit to a print for more than three years.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHu5xl_zE-KQ33r0tO7ttgfqc7wjttmyZG-RmO-eMPPA2Jr7_riN21V57vhaclNw8ObSSFtOmTa2NcIal4raITs5HECx4IDBwHw5Cky36y74eC7sas6p1C6opqo56HdetJrWIrww/s1600/bench.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHu5xl_zE-KQ33r0tO7ttgfqc7wjttmyZG-RmO-eMPPA2Jr7_riN21V57vhaclNw8ObSSFtOmTa2NcIal4raITs5HECx4IDBwHw5Cky36y74eC7sas6p1C6opqo56HdetJrWIrww/s320/bench.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586485937851028098" border="0" /></a><br /><br />On my wish list, too, is a bench with hairpin legs. I briefly contemplated buying the legs online from the US and adding my own plank, but the shipping charges would kill me.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIppADVALbwj3FQWuEhJj9TJVAy4UmPaZgM_kc7-LtJ1JiRDTYBIVtmTbVReiP5RUhbcfOqTDonSg721iihwPsRCn9Hky0eUx1ewazDDSplXMSoNCBWwJB6EMF7pZZ0882gDyTXA/s1600/bench1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIppADVALbwj3FQWuEhJj9TJVAy4UmPaZgM_kc7-LtJ1JiRDTYBIVtmTbVReiP5RUhbcfOqTDonSg721iihwPsRCn9Hky0eUx1ewazDDSplXMSoNCBWwJB6EMF7pZZ0882gDyTXA/s320/bench1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586485882266656882" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I'd settle for just any bench with unusual legs. I have five mismatched chairs waiting to be painted -- white, of course -- to complete the dining set.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3u4Y7mBpsDt2WbHNYuJ-8MrJcw5X6YP6r-HZM_E8xL2uU9-7Rx00MdFyH4GZXfihkXsUxbPCQAcYBE1VBc0ZD4Eog4S6XQ44HM2Md8b4nCynjC2ZCng8wfcphGrTP2qBUglJMA/s1600/insidecolour.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip3u4Y7mBpsDt2WbHNYuJ-8MrJcw5X6YP6r-HZM_E8xL2uU9-7Rx00MdFyH4GZXfihkXsUxbPCQAcYBE1VBc0ZD4Eog4S6XQ44HM2Md8b4nCynjC2ZCng8wfcphGrTP2qBUglJMA/s320/insidecolour.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586493712820403234" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Also to be painted white are three wardrobes and a dressing table. Still thinking what colour to paint the insides, but I know I want them in a different colour. There's only so much white I can take.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTB0SbtI1LJ8FVPB7NdgJJpW9aL5PowN3w3IHyzsPwjN5QyMXPMrNO0p2fmIhSPNfjYb42BbuOqHEJgw7UGAfYu8Ndrp-gM6bChUsGD5ZkfnzocPz-1ymiFgUWK2cw9d370LdNoQ/s1600/lightcolour.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTB0SbtI1LJ8FVPB7NdgJJpW9aL5PowN3w3IHyzsPwjN5QyMXPMrNO0p2fmIhSPNfjYb42BbuOqHEJgw7UGAfYu8Ndrp-gM6bChUsGD5ZkfnzocPz-1ymiFgUWK2cw9d370LdNoQ/s320/lightcolour.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486694801911874" border="0" /></a><br /><br />See the green wire on the pendant lamp? Nice, hor? I'm wondering if it is possible to just ownself paint. Shouldn't cause electrocution or short circuit, right?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCGhb6X1rqaCH4bpx62v5oZ7NaQV7bHb6CVXcLZ5Z88l9ajV7XwM_2KI47b433j2lQct4_aqvjcNCSzbZh6LyHkOwMup0TE9Y3FGfPB851BKe5R_dYoZ9qZRZjp-cF_528lIc48A/s1600/kitchenisland.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCGhb6X1rqaCH4bpx62v5oZ7NaQV7bHb6CVXcLZ5Z88l9ajV7XwM_2KI47b433j2lQct4_aqvjcNCSzbZh6LyHkOwMup0TE9Y3FGfPB851BKe5R_dYoZ9qZRZjp-cF_528lIc48A/s320/kitchenisland.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586504685966637138" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In my dream kitchen, there is always an island. I was devastated when I realised there isn't enough space for one in my flat.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntehOEelJgqeo9L1afnkRiZRhqEyamoHiDtSL7oHkruMsegOpfvVIOPACOY6fddl4UuyboafUuYFWsPrKMnmN5CzHeC68pcNEHUtAPbjinrnCvqKjDc5qSnJNExRB86drFGAK9g/s1600/pantry.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntehOEelJgqeo9L1afnkRiZRhqEyamoHiDtSL7oHkruMsegOpfvVIOPACOY6fddl4UuyboafUuYFWsPrKMnmN5CzHeC68pcNEHUtAPbjinrnCvqKjDc5qSnJNExRB86drFGAK9g/s320/pantry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486912633970626" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I would also love to have shelves upon shelves of bottles and jars, but alas, I am moving to an HDB flat, not a mansion.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxy_33EOzA07HlKtoS0bKFVZTDXRi35OZQmlNUnsZAYUcVxrGYau8zB_P34l4oDD-xSl2YVQzMNhRnRPvkA609TxVmwuBlJx__NpXNPaGXwZj1Gnu9CuPMU8rrJSemaVwvl36DuQ/s1600/ofuro.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 219px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxy_33EOzA07HlKtoS0bKFVZTDXRi35OZQmlNUnsZAYUcVxrGYau8zB_P34l4oDD-xSl2YVQzMNhRnRPvkA609TxVmwuBlJx__NpXNPaGXwZj1Gnu9CuPMU8rrJSemaVwvl36DuQ/s320/ofuro.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486912685502514" border="0" /></a><br /><br />No space for a Japanese soaking tub a.k.a. ofuro either. Sad face.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFr8uXRJ9OxcRs_yGvd_LafrjzfZ_Y2m4SitF7gKK7FIyMRPDqCImHxg1XMRZWJUut-4SgBoU8Mo7wAE8ccCilwZQ_j82L_q5WZmJMAx_xPxXZqCHfdN7Rb_0GrjRfovkLacPwg/s1600/framedpolaroid.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFr8uXRJ9OxcRs_yGvd_LafrjzfZ_Y2m4SitF7gKK7FIyMRPDqCImHxg1XMRZWJUut-4SgBoU8Mo7wAE8ccCilwZQ_j82L_q5WZmJMAx_xPxXZqCHfdN7Rb_0GrjRfovkLacPwg/s320/framedpolaroid.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586857697483849026" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Isn't this giant framed collection of Polaroids a thing of awesomeness? Alas, I'm a pragmatist who knows (a) framing something this big will cost a bomb, (b) I'm not made of money, and (c) I don't even own a Polaroid camera. Oh, and also, I have no space.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigKBNR589IigY8nvhPBL_wIOOjRL-ACyvpMndJJazeIk4jaJbv-9DF7BNOPdSdVEAfDe5tzAI1ljBd_5UOYktHos697i2_vxqmzW5VLwFkFRuLs8ZLHQ9aSqfOCqpP7EFlP5CvMQ/s1600/scallopblind.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 263px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigKBNR589IigY8nvhPBL_wIOOjRL-ACyvpMndJJazeIk4jaJbv-9DF7BNOPdSdVEAfDe5tzAI1ljBd_5UOYktHos697i2_vxqmzW5VLwFkFRuLs8ZLHQ9aSqfOCqpP7EFlP5CvMQ/s320/scallopblind.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586486922379576642" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Anyone knows where I can find these adorable-until-can-die scalloped blinds? I need them and I need them bad.<br /><br />So there you go. My dream house. In the next episode, reality bites as I show you the "before" and "during" renovation pix. Stay tuned.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-33644318491302309522011-03-21T21:16:00.002+08:002011-03-21T21:33:40.849+08:00zannslist<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GaAbHIYY3e9B-jz2aP3fjQcj_1mTh2iWxV2TNZR_MGL23MHiN2tL3sIYrLEKAQmT_2ASSK-82t2ds65F8y-nR4poVCfFKcODV-GO_KrXw0hW3UuvWghznE7vQOfcXt9dYkDsJQ/s1600/5493022827_ac2fbfb137_z%25282%2529.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GaAbHIYY3e9B-jz2aP3fjQcj_1mTh2iWxV2TNZR_MGL23MHiN2tL3sIYrLEKAQmT_2ASSK-82t2ds65F8y-nR4poVCfFKcODV-GO_KrXw0hW3UuvWghznE7vQOfcXt9dYkDsJQ/s320/5493022827_ac2fbfb137_z%25282%2529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586523039453121154" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Trawling Craigslist and other used furniture sites is one of the ways I stave off boredom at work, even though sometimes I feel like my soul is being destroyed by the hideous furniture on sale. And don't even get me started on people who list old, decrepit, worthless junk as "vintage" just to get me to click on it.<br /><br />On the bright side, there are gems, like this shell rocker I swooped in on. I've always wanted one in baby blue.<br /><br />And then there are other unintentional gems in the listings:<br /><br />1. I saw the photo of an armchair and saw that the seller had put in the description: "Single seat sofa".<br /><br />2. In Facebook's Marketplace, there is a section sellers need to fill in on why they were selling the items. For a listing on a hand-carved mahogany altar, the seller had put: "Seldom use".<br /><br />3. An ad for a moving service went something like this: "This is Shawn, the cheapest mover who can move your things the cheapest, all you moving house people who need to move cheap".<br /><br />I think I need to start compiling a list.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-87221828457184362722011-02-11T14:29:00.002+08:002011-02-11T14:33:46.031+08:00the lamp just sat there, like an inanimate object<p><a href="http://www.losteyeball.com/index.php/2007/06/19/56-worstbest-analogies-of-high-school-students/">This</a> is so good, I had to save it for posterity here.<br /></p><span style="font-weight: bold;">56 worst/best analogies of high school students</span><br /><p>Apparently the Washington Post held a contest in which high school teachers sent in the “worst” analogies they’d encountered in grading their students’ papers over the years. (I place “worst” in quotes because many of these actually strike me as quite witty). The top 25 of these have been circulating around the “Sandra Bullock” (”net”, get it?) recently, but I decided to post all 56 that I was able to find. Here they are, in their order of objective funniness (in my opinion):</p> <ol><li>Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.</li><li>He was as tall as a 6′3″ tree.</li><li>Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.</li><li>From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.</li><li>John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.</li><li>She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.</li><li>The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.</li><li>He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.</li><li>Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.</li><li>She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.</li><li>The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM.</li><li>The lamp just sat there, like an inanimate object.</li><li>McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.</li><li>His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.</li><li>He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at asolar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.</li><li>Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.</li><li>Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.</li><li>The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.</li><li>Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.</li><li>The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.</li><li>They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.</li><li>He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.</li><li>Even in his last years, Grand pappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.</li><li>He felt like he was being hunted down like a dog, in a place that hunts dogs, I suppose.</li><li>She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword.</li><li>She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.</li><li>The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.</li><li>The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.</li><li>“Oh, Jason, take me!” she panted, her breasts heaving like a college freshman on $1-a-beer night.</li><li>It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.</li><li>It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.</li><li>He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.</li><li>The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.</li><li>Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any pH cleanser.</li><li>Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like “Second Tall Man.”</li><li>The thunder was ominous-sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.</li><li>The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon.</li><li>She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from screen doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.</li><li>Her pants fit her like a glove, well, maybe more like a mitten, actually.</li><li>Fishing is like waiting for something that does not happen very often.</li><li>They were as good friends as the people on “Friends.”</li><li>Oooo, he smells bad, she thought, as bad as Calvin Klein’s Obsession would smell if it were called Enema and was made from spoiled Spamburgers instead of natural floral fragrances.</li><li>The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee (D-Tex.) in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Rep. Henry Hyde (R-Ill.) in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the impeachment of President William Jefferson Clinton.</li><li>He was as bald as one of the Three Stooges, either Curly or Larry, you know, the one who goes woo woo woo.</li><li>The sardines were packed as tight as the coach section of a 747.</li><li>Her eyes were shining like two marbles that someone dropped in mucus and then held up to catch the light.</li><li>The baseball player stepped out of the box and spit like a fountain statue of a Greek god that scratches itself a lot and spits brown, rusty tobacco water and refuses to sign autographs for all the little Greek kids unless they pay him lots of drachmas.</li><li>I felt a nameless dread. Well, there probably is a long German name for it, like Geschpooklichkeit or something, but I don’t speak German. Anyway, it’s a dread that nobody knows the name for, like those little square plastic gizmos that close your bread bags. I don’t know the name for those either.</li><li>She was as unhappy as when someone puts your cake out in the rain, and all the sweet green icing flows down and then you lose the recipe, and on top of that you can’t sing worth a damn.</li><li>Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.</li><li>It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever seen before.</li><li>Bob was as perplexed as a hacker who means to access T:flw.quid55328.com\aaakk/ch@ung but gets T:\flw.quidaaakk/ch@ung by mistake.</li><li>You know how in “Rocky” he prepares for the fight by punching sides of raw beef? Well, yesterday it was as cold as that meat locker he was in.</li><li>The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium.</li><li>Her lips were red and full, like tubes of blood drawn by an inattentive phlebotomist.</li><li>The sunset displayed rich, spectacular hues like a .jpeg file at 10 percent cyan, 10 percent magenta, 60 percent yellow and 10 percent black.</li></ol>Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-66878467974640374342011-02-05T12:53:00.001+08:002011-02-05T12:55:05.702+08:00boing boing boing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxRIxTCaRfQskoc5pZ-gZkJZo_HpAcMZs-YkE71KI6ANSFWU-5XAgyvJFdYgSqWTwW8AJ1JTKqulnkfHvn_76nbdFgTcFp47Th63AKRiK7GUwHSdsCJ0jIVTcps_OL4y6hsdTIvg/s1600/3+rabbits.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxRIxTCaRfQskoc5pZ-gZkJZo_HpAcMZs-YkE71KI6ANSFWU-5XAgyvJFdYgSqWTwW8AJ1JTKqulnkfHvn_76nbdFgTcFp47Th63AKRiK7GUwHSdsCJ0jIVTcps_OL4y6hsdTIvg/s320/3+rabbits.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570064422387136450" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Hoppy new year, everyone!Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-61693985561450857312011-01-25T19:28:00.001+08:002011-01-26T00:39:30.779+08:00warning: this is about to turn into a decor blog<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1f4qg2G4NkghrXtX00jd1H9aHknrgBinrJwTf9HBSsXhwsQxxTM3z8aUnGbWQ2q7dCO4izIX1iHEEXnHtZ6BDPNZnUi59s9-hya2z2LICATor-Cvy87osIn0LciBTs2ojgw8UA/s1600/photo%252810%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy1f4qg2G4NkghrXtX00jd1H9aHknrgBinrJwTf9HBSsXhwsQxxTM3z8aUnGbWQ2q7dCO4izIX1iHEEXnHtZ6BDPNZnUi59s9-hya2z2LICATor-Cvy87osIn0LciBTs2ojgw8UA/s320/photo%252810%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542334665819530466" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This blog post has been sitting in draft mode since last September, when, after a whirlwind fortnight of house-hunting in Tiong Bahru, I wrote a cheque as a deposit for a walk-up apartment that I saw for no more than 15 minutes. I think I spent more time pondering the purchase of a J. Crew handbag than on this.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRF-ewrLEBMeyT225OjQnSW2f9ywsXdsDQ5bCB4WC1xNlo0Q2te_Rm3RhG0nhPezWC3h9hyBHDdnhbmE8ZT-9dMqlocReBX2Yo9gmOdN4tHWbfPKCDHiwUiIHQj47EvKnh4TfPNw/s1600/photo%25289%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRF-ewrLEBMeyT225OjQnSW2f9ywsXdsDQ5bCB4WC1xNlo0Q2te_Rm3RhG0nhPezWC3h9hyBHDdnhbmE8ZT-9dMqlocReBX2Yo9gmOdN4tHWbfPKCDHiwUiIHQj47EvKnh4TfPNw/s320/photo%25289%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542334664042230242" border="0" /></a><br /><br />In October, I signed away 25 years of my life to service the home loan, but even then, it didn't feel real. (This, despite the many sleepless nights.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWDcgKKUQvqOxAqHdD6ZNNmkw65c208vUb8y2mLGE9ytagtZsXdVKoLk7TI69h5NdpPH7dE27yPkoLFS7fT_fEzqbtKW4OH2gVaVt71VXX9tgshovIZue8jAW7BSAwrmXSOhyjg/s1600/photo%25283%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWDcgKKUQvqOxAqHdD6ZNNmkw65c208vUb8y2mLGE9ytagtZsXdVKoLk7TI69h5NdpPH7dE27yPkoLFS7fT_fEzqbtKW4OH2gVaVt71VXX9tgshovIZue8jAW7BSAwrmXSOhyjg/s320/photo%25283%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566128082702674562" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Even when I had the keys in hand -- on Christmas eve -- I didn't feel like the flat was mine, as the sellers were still living there for another three weeks (their new place wasn't ready).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkUJiNC6MlzenNnJQH5G1KMdZ8XwspUe9jMxkRysNtU7Gi5YXsxf974JRYsT4Xuratvw0Pp_v9wv3mCZyoBlsfx2__haHgIyLGWRe5-6RWGDiDC0IYroA1N2m-1Q0qCG7-C7Pzw/s1600/photo%25282%2529.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKkUJiNC6MlzenNnJQH5G1KMdZ8XwspUe9jMxkRysNtU7Gi5YXsxf974JRYsT4Xuratvw0Pp_v9wv3mCZyoBlsfx2__haHgIyLGWRe5-6RWGDiDC0IYroA1N2m-1Q0qCG7-C7Pzw/s320/photo%25282%2529.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566128081408555890" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Stepping into the vacated flat last weekend, it finally hit me. This will be home very very soon.<br /><br />Now, let the renovations begin!Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-42424602284216847542011-01-20T00:44:00.003+08:002011-01-20T01:02:39.075+08:00property hunt<span style="font-weight:bold;">Dad</span>: Yi eh agent gyo simi mia? (What is the name of that agent?)<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Mum</span>: Yi si Eh Eh Eh...Apple ah? (She is Eh Eh Eh... Apple, I think?)<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dad</span>: Simi Apple? Wa Orange ah! (What kind of name is Apple? I can name myself Orange then.)<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Mum</span>: Kanna mmm si Apple leh. (I may be mistaken about her name being Apple.)<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dad</span>: April si bo? (Could her name be April? That seems more likely.)<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Mum</span>: Ah, si! Yi si April! (Ah, yes! Her name is April!)<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Dad</span>: Mmm si May ah? Mmm si June ah? (Are you sure it is not May or June?)<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Mum</span>: Mai gong July ga ho. (Why don't you suggest July?)Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-13330868999790777972010-11-28T21:38:00.002+08:002010-11-28T21:41:29.834+08:00after an outing with the 摄影学会<span style="font-weight:bold;">The Adventure Of A Photographer</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">by Italo Calvino, from Difficult Loves</span><br /><br />When spring comes, the city’s inhabitants, by the hundreds of thousands, go out on Sundays with leather cases over their shoulders. And they photograph one another. They come back as happy as hunters with bulging game bags; they spend days waiting, with sweet anxiety, to see the developed pictures (anxiety to which some add the subtle pleasure of alchemistic manipulations in the darkroom, forbidding any intrusion by members of the family, relishing the acid smell that is harsh to the nostrils). It is only when they have the photos before their eyes that they seem to take tangible possession of the day they spent, only then that the mountain stream, the movement of the child with his pail, the glint of the sun on the wife’s legs take on the irrevocability of what has been and can no longer be doubted. Everything else can drown in the unreliable shadow of memory.<br /><br />Seeing a good deal of his friends and colleagues, Antonino Paraggi, a nonphotographer, sensed a growing isolation. Every week he discovered that the conversations of those who praise the sensitivity of a filter or discourse on the number of DINs were swelled by the voice of yet another to whom he had confided until yesterday, convinced that they were shared, his sarcastic remarks about an activity that to him seemed so unexciting, so lacking in surprises.<br /><br />Professionally, Antonino Paraggi occupied an executive position in the distribution department of a production firm, but his real passion was commenting to his friends on current events large and small, unraveling the thread of general causes from the tangle of details; in short, by mental attitude he was a philosopher, and he devoted all his thoroughness to grasping the significance of even the events most remote from his own experience. Now he felt that something in the essence of photographic man was eluding him, the secret appeal that made new adepts continue to join the ranks of the amateurs of the lens, some boasting of the progress of their technical and artistic skill, others, on the contrary, giving all the credit to the efficiency of the camera they had purchased, which was capable (according to them) of producing masterpieces even when operated by inept hands (as they declared their own to be, because wherever pride aimed at magnifying the virtues of mechanical devices, subjective talent accepted a proportionate humiliation). Antonino Paraggi understood that neither the one nor the other motive of satisfaction was decisive: the secret lay elsewhere.<br /><br />It must be said that his examination of photography to discover the causes of a private dissatisfaction—as of someone who feels excluded from something—was to a certain extent a trick Antonino played on himself, to avoid having to consider another, more evident, process that was separating him from his friends. What was happening was this: his acquaintances, of his age, were all getting married, one after another, and starting families, while Antonino remained a bachelor.<br /><br />Yet between the two phenomena there was undoubtedly a connection, inasmuch as the passion for the lens often develops in a natural, virtually physiological way as a secondary effect of fatherhood. One of the first instincts of parents, after they have brought a child into the world, is to photograph it. Given the speed of growth, it becomes necessary to photograph the child often, because nothing is more fleeting and unmemorable than a six-month-old infant, soon deleted and replaced by one of eight months, and then one of a year; and all the perfection that, to the eyes of parents, a child of three may have reached cannot prevent its being destroyed by that of the four-year-old. The photograph album remains the only place where all these fleeting perfections are saved and juxtaposed, each aspiring to an incomparable absoluteness of its own. In the passion of new parents for framing their offspring in the sights to reduce them to the immobility of black-and-white or a full color slide, the nonphotographer and non-procreator Antonino saw chiefly a phase in the race toward madness lurking in that black instrument. But his reflections on the iconography-family-madness nexus were summary and reticent: otherwise he would have realized that the person actually running the greatest risk was himself, the bachelor.<br /><br />In the circle of Antonino’s friends, it was customary to spend the weekend out of town, in a group, following a tradition that for many of them dated back to their student days and that had been extended to include their girl friends, then their wives and their children, as well as wet nurses and governesses, and in some cases in-laws and new acquaintances of both sexes. But since the continuity of their habits, their getting together, had never lapsed, Antonino could pretend that nothing had changed with the passage of the years and that they were still the band of young men and women of the old days, rather than a conglomerate of families in which he remained the only surviving bachelor.<br /><br />More and more often, on these excursions to the sea or the mountains, when it came time for the family group or the multi-family picture, an outsider was asked to lend a hand, a passer-by perhaps, willing to press the button of the camera already focused and aimed in the desired direction. In these cases, Antonino couldn’t refuse his services: he would take the camera from the hands of a father or a mother, who would then rush to assume his or her place in the second row, sticking his head forward between two other heads, or crouching among the little ones; and Antonino, concentrating all his strength in the finger destined for this use, would press. The first times, an awkward stiffening of his arm would make the lens veer to capture the masts of ships or the spires of steeples, or to decapitate grandparents, uncles, and aunts. He was accused of doing this on purpose, reproached for making a joke in poor taste. It wasn’t true: his intention was to lend the use of his finger as docile instrument of the collective wish, but also to exploit his temporary position of privilege to admonish both photographers and their subjects as to the significance of their actions. As soon as the pad of his finger reached the desired condition of detachment from the rest of his person and personality, he was free to communicate his theories in well-reasoned discourse, framing at the same time well-composed little groups. (A few accidental successes had sufficed to give him nonchalance and assurance with viewfinders and light meters.)<br /><br />"…Because once you’ve begun," he would preach, "there is no reason why you should stop. The line between the reality that is photographed because it seems beautiful to us and the reality that seems beautiful because it has been photographed is very narrow. If you take a picture of Pierluca because he’s building a sand castle, there is no reason not to take his picture while he’s crying because the castle has collapsed, and then while the nurse consoles him by helping him find a sea shell in the sand. The minute you start saying something, ‘Ah, how beautiful! We must photograph it!’ you are already close to the view of the person who thinks that everything that is not photographed is lost, as if it had never existed, and that therefore, in order really to live, you must photograph as much as you can, and to photograph as much as you can you must either live in the most photographable way possible, or else consider photographable every moment of your life. The first course leads to stupidity; the second to madness."<br /><br />"You’re the one who’s mad and stupid," his friends would say to him, "and a pain in the ass, into the bargain."<br /><br />"For the person who wants to capture everything that passes before his eyes," Antonino would explain, even if nobody was listening to him any more, "the only coherent way to act is to snap at least one picture a minute, from the instant he opens his eyes in the morning to when he goes to sleep. This is the only way that the rolls of exposed film will represent a faithful diary of our days, with nothing left out. If I were to start taking pictures, I’d see this thing through, even if it meant losing my mind. But the rest of you still insist on making a choice. What sort of choice? A choice in the idyllic sense, apologetic, consolatory, at peace with nature, the fatherland, the family. Your choice isn’t only photographic; it is a choice of life, which leads you to exclude dramatic conflicts, the knots of contradiction, the great tensions of will, passion, aversion. So you think you are saving yourselves from madness, but you are falling into mediocrity, into hebetude."<br /><br />A girl named Bice, someone’s ex-sister-in-law, and another named Lydia, someone else’s ex-secretary, asked him please to take a snapshot of them while they were playing ball among the waves. He consented, but since in the meanwhile he had worked out a theory in opposition to snapshots, he dutifully expressed it to the two friends:<br /><br />"What drives you two girls to cut from the mobile continuum of your day these temporal slices, the thickness of a second? Tossing the ball back and forth, you are living in the present, but the moment the scansion of the frames is insinuated between your acts it is no longer the pleasure of the game that motivated you but, rather, that of seeing yourselves again in the future, of rediscovering yourselves in twenty years’ time, on a piece of yellowed cardboard (yellowed emotionally, even if modern printing procedures will preserve it unchanged). The taste for the spontaneous, natural, lifelike snapshot kills spontaneity, drives away the present. Photographed reality immediately takes on a nostalgic character, of joy fled on the wings of time, a commemorative quality, even if the picture was taken the day before yesterday. And the life that you live in order to photograph it is already, at the outset, a commemoration of itself. To believe that the snapshot is more true than the posed portrait is a prejudice…"<br /><br />So saying, Antonino darted around the two girls in the water, to focus on the movements of their game and cut out of the picture the dazzling glints of the sun on the water. In a scuffle for the ball, Bice, flinging herself on the other girl, who was submerged, was snapped with her behind in close-up, flying over the waves. Antonino, so as not to lose this angle, had flung himself back in the water while holding up the camera, nearly drowning.<br /><br />"They all came out well, and this one’s stupendous," they commented a few days later, snatching the proofs from each other. They had arranged to meet at the photography shop. "You’re good; you must take some more of us."<br /><br />Antonino had reached the conclusion that it was necessary to return to posed subjects, in attitudes denoting their social position and their character, as in the nineteenth century. His antiphotographic polemic could be fought only from within the black box, setting one kind of photography against another.<br /><br />"I’d like to have one of those old box cameras," he said to his girl friends, "the kind you put on a tripod. Do you think it’s still possible to find one?"<br /><br />"Hmm, maybe at some junk shop…"<br /><br />"Let’s go see."<br /><br />The girls found it amusing to hunt for this curious object; together they ransacked flea markets, interrogated old street photographers, followed them to their lairs. In those cemeteries of objects no longer serviceable lay wooden columns, screens, backdrops with faded landscapes; everything that suggested an old photographer’s studio, Antonino bought. In the end he managed to get hold of a box camera, with a bulb to squeeze. It seemed in perfect working order. Antonino also bought an assortment of plates. With the girls helping him, he set up the studio in a room of his apartment, all fitted out with old-fashioned equipment, except for two modern spotlights.<br /><br />Now he was content. "This is where to start," he explained to the girls. "In the way our grandparents assumed a pose, in the convention that decided how groups were to be arranged, there was a social meaning, a custom, a taste, a culture. An official photograph, or one of a marriage or a family or a school group, conveyed how serious and important each role or institution was, but also how far they were all false or forced, authoritarian, hierarchical. This is the point: to make explicit the relationship with the world that each of us bears within himself, and which today we tend to hide, to make unconscious, believing that in this way it disappears, whereas…"<br /><br />"Who do you want to have pose for you?"<br /><br />"You two come tomorrow, and I’ll begin by taking some pictures of you in the way I mean."<br /><br />"Say, what’s in the back of your mind?" Lydia asked, suddenly suspicious. Only now, as the studio was all set up, did she see that everything about it had a sinister, threatening air. "If you think we’re going to come and be your models, you’re dreaming!"<br /><br />Bice giggled with her, but the next day she came back to Antonino’s apartment, alone.<br /><br />She was wearing a white linen dress with colored embroidery on the edges of the sleeves and pockets. Her hair was parted and gathered over her temples. She laughed, a bit slyly, bending her head to one side. As he let her in, Antonino studied her manner—a bit coy, a bit ironic—to discover what were the traits that defined her true character.<br /><br />He made her sit in a big armchair, and stuck his head under the black cloth that came with his camera. It was one of those boxes whose rear wall was of glass, where the image is reflected as if already on the plate, ghostly, a bit milky, deprived of every link with space and time. To Antonino it was as if he had never seen Bice before. She had a docility in her somewhat heavy way of lowering her eyelids, of stretching her neck forward, that promised something hidden, as her smile seemed to hide behind the very act of smiling.<br /><br />"There. Like that. No, head a bit farther; raise your eyes. No, lower them." Antonino was pursuing, within that box, something of Bice that all at once seemed most precious to him, absolute.<br /><br />"Now you’re casting a shadow; move into the light. No, it was better before."<br /><br />There were many possible photographs of Bice and many Bices impossible to photograph, but what he was seeking was the unique photograph that would contain both the former and the latter.<br /><br />"I can’t get you," his voice emerged, stifled and complaining from beneath the black hood, "I can’t get you any more; I can’t manage to get you."<br /><br />He freed himself from the cloth and straightened up again. He was going about it all wrong. That expression, that accent, that secret he seemed on the very point of capturing in her face, was something that drew him into the quicksands of moods, humors, psychology: he, too, was one of those who pursue life as it flees, a hunter of the unattainable, like the takers of snapshots.<br /><br />He had to follow the opposite path: aim at a portrait completely on the surface, evident, unequivocal, that did not elude conventional appearance, the stereotype, the mask. The mask, being first of all a social, historical product, contains more truth than any image claiming to be "true"; it bears a quantity of meanings that will gradually be revealed. Wasn’t this precisely Antonino’s intention in setting up this fair booth of a studio?<br /><br />He observed Bice. He should start with the exterior elements of her appearance. In Bice’s way of dressing and fixing herself up—he thought—you could recognize the somewhat nostalgic, somewhat ironic intention, widespread in the mode of those years, to hark back to the fashions of thirty years earlier. The photograph should underline this intention: why hadn’t he thought of that?<br /><br />Antonino went to find a tennis racket; Bice should stand up in a three-quarter turn, the racket under her arm, her face in the pose of a sentimental postcard. To Antonino, from under the black drape, Bice’s image—in its slimness and suitability to the pose, and in the unsuitable and almost incongruous aspects that the pose accentuated—seemed very interesting. He made her change position several times, studying the geometry of legs and arms in relation to the racket and to some element in the background. (In the ideal postcard in his mind there would have been the net of the tennis court, but you couldn’t demand too much, and Antonino made do with a Ping-Pong table.)<br /><br />But he still didn’t feel on safe ground: wasn’t he perhaps trying to photograph memories—or, rather, vague echoes of recollection surfacing in the memory? Wasn’t his refusal to live the present as a future memory, as the Sunday photographers did, leading him to attempt an equally unreal operation, namely to give a body to recollection, to substitute it for the present before his very eyes?<br /><br />"Move! Don’t stand there like a stick! Raise the racket, damn it! Pretend you’re playing tennis!" All of a sudden he was furious. He had realized that only by exaggerating the poses could he achieve an objective alienness; only by feigning a movement arrested halfway could he give the impression of the unmoving, the nonliving.<br /><br />Bice obediently followed his orders even when they became vague and contradictory, with a passivity that was also a way of declaring herself out of the game, and yet somehow insinuating, in this game that was not hers, the unpredictable moves of a mysterious match of her own. What Antonino now was expecting of Bice, telling her to put her legs and arms this way and that way, was not so much the simple performance of a plan as her response to the violence he was doing her with his demands, an unforeseeable aggressive reply to this violence that he was being driven more and more to wreak on her.<br /><br />It was like a dream, Antonino thought, contemplating, from the darkness in which he was buried, that improbable tennis player filtered into the glass rectangle: like a dream when a presence coming from the depth of memory advances, is recognized, and then suddenly is transformed into something unexpected, something that even before the transformation is already frightening because there’s no telling what it might be transformed into.<br /><br />Did he want to photograph dreams? This suspicion struck him dumb, hidden in that ostrich refuge of his with the bulb in his hand, like an idiot; and meanwhile Bice, left to herself, continued a kind of grotesque dance, freezing in exaggerated tennis poses, backhand, drive, raising the racket high or lowering it to the ground as if the gaze coming from that glass eye were the ball she continued to slam back.<br /><br />"Stop, what’s this nonsense? This isn’t what I had in mind." Antonino covered the camera with the cloth and began pacing up and down the room.<br /><br />It was all the fault of that dress, with its tennis, prewar connotations… It had to be admitted that if she wore a street dress the kind of photograph he described couldn’t be taken. A certain solemnity was needed, a certain pomp, like the official photos of queens. Only in evening dress would Bice become a photographic subject, with the décolleté that marks a distinct line between the white of the skin and the darkness of the fabric, accentuated by the glitter of jewels, a boundary between an essence of woman, almost atemporal and almost impersonal in her nakedness, and the other abstraction, social this time, the dress, symbol of an equally impersonal role, like the drapery of an allegorical statue.<br /><br />He approached Bice, began to unbutton the dress at the neck and over the bosom, and slip it down over her shoulders. He had thought of certain nineteenth-century photographs of women in which from the white of the cardboard emerge the face, the neck, the line of the bared shoulders, while all the rest disappears into the whiteness.<br /><br />This was the portrait outside of time and space that he now wanted; he wasn’t quite sure how it was achieved, but he was determined to succeed. He set the spotlight on Bice, moved the camera closer, fiddled around under the cloth adjusting the aperture of the lens. He looked into it. Bice was naked.<br /><br />She had made the dress slip down to her feet; she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it; she had taken a step forward—no, a step backward, which was as if her whole body were advancing in the picture; she stood erect, tall before the camera, calm, looking straight ahead, as if she were alone.<br /><br />Antonino felt the sight of her enter his eyes and occupy the whole visual field, removing it from the flux of casual and fragmentary images, concentrating time and space in a finite form. And as if this visual surprise and the impression of the plate were two reflexes connected among themselves, he immediately pressed the bulb, loaded the camera again, snapped, put in another plate, snapped, and went on changing plates and snapping, mumbling, stifled by the cloth, "There, that’s right now, yes, again, I’m getting you fine now, another."<br /><br />He had run out of plates. He emerged from the cloth. He was pleased. Bice was before him, naked, as if waiting.<br /><br />"Now you can dress," he said, euphoric, but already in a hurry. "Let’s go out."<br /><br />She looked at him, bewildered.<br /><br />"I’ve got you now," he said.<br /><br />Bice burst into tears.<br /><br />Antonino realized that he had fallen in love with her that same day. They started living together, and he bought the most modern cameras, telescopic lens, the most advanced equipment; he installed a darkroom. He even had a set-up for photographing her when she was asleep at night. Bice would wake at the flash, annoyed; Antonino went on taking snapshots of her disentangling herself from sleep, of her becoming furious with him, of her trying in vain to find sleep again by plunging her face into the pillow, of her making up with him, of her recognizing as acts of love these photographic rapes.<br /><br />In Antonino’s darkroom, strung with films and proofs, Bice peered from every frame, as thousands of bees peer out from the honeycomb of a hive, but always the same bee: Bice in every attitude, at every angle, in every guise, Bice posed or caught unaware, an identity fragmented into a powder of images.<br /><br />"But what’s this obsession with Bice? Can’t you photograph anything else?" was the question he heard constantly from his friends, and also from her.<br /><br />"It isn’t just a matter of Bice," he answered. "It’s a question of method. Whatever person you decide to photograph, or whatever thing, you must go on photographing it always, exclusively, at every hour of the day and night. Photography has a meaning only if it exhausts all possible images."<br /><br />But he didn’t say what meant most to him: to catch Bice in the street when she didn’t know he was watching her, to keep her in the range of hidden lenses, to photograph her not only without letting himself be seen but without seeing her, to surprise her as she was in the absence of his gaze, of any gaze. Not that he wanted to discover any particular thing; he wasn’t a jealous man in the usual sense of the word. It was an invisible Bice that he wanted to possess, a Bice absolutely alone, a Bice whose presence presupposed the absence of him and everyone else.<br /><br />Whether or not it could be defined as jealousy, it was, in any case, a passion difficult to put up with. And soon Bice left him.<br /><br />Antonino sank into deep depression. He began to keep a diary—a photographic diary, of course. With the camera slung around his neck, shut up in the house, slumped in an armchair, he compulsively snapped pictures as he stared into the void. He was photographing the absence of Bice.<br /><br />He collected the photographs in an album: you could see ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts, an unmade bed, a damp stain on the wall. He got the idea of composing a catalogue of everything in the world that resists photography, that is systematically omitted from the visual field not only by camera but also by human beings. On every subject he spent days, using up whole rolls at intervals of hours, so as to follow the changes of light and shadow. One day he became obsessed with a completely empty corner of the room, containing a radiator pipe and nothing else: he was tempted to go on photographing that spot and only that till the end of his days.<br /><br />The apartment was completely neglected; old newspapers, letters lay crumpled on the floor, and he photographed them. The photographs in the papers were photographed as well, and an indirect bond was established between his lens and that of distant news photographers. To produce those black spots the lenses of other cameras had been aimed at police assaults, charred automobiles, running athletes, ministers, defendants.<br /><br />Antonino now felt a special pleasure in portraying domestic objects framed by a mosaic of telephotos, violent patches of ink on white sheets. From his immobility he was surprised to find he envied the life of the news photographer, who moves following the movements of crowds, bloodshed, tears, feasts, crime, the conventions of fashion, the falsity of official ceremonies; the news photographer, who documents the extremes of society, the richest and the poorest, the exceptional moments that are nevertheless produced at every moment and in every place.<br /><br />Does this mean that only the exceptional condition has a meaning? Antonino asked himself. Is the news photographer the true antagonist of the Sunday photographer? Are their worlds mutually exclusive? Or does the one give meaning to the other?<br /><br />Reflecting like this, he began to tear up the photographs with Bice or without Bice that had accumulated during the months of his passion, ripping to pieces the strips of proofs hung on the walls, snipping up the celluloid of the negatives, jabbing the slides, and piling the remains of this methodical destruction on newspapers spread out on the floor.<br /><br />Perhaps true, total photography, he thought, is a pile of fragments of private images, against the creased background of massacres and coronations.<br /><br />He folded the corners of the newspapers into a huge bundle to be thrown into the trash, but first he wanted to photograph it. He arranged the edges so that you could clearly see two halves of photographs from different newspapers that in the bundle happened, by chance, to fit together. In fact he reopened the package a little so that a bit of shiny pasteboard would stick out, the fragment of a torn enlargement. He turned on a spotlight; he wanted it to be possible to recognize in his photograph the half-crumpled and torn images, and at the same time to feel their unreality as casual, inky shadows, and also at the same time their concreteness as objects charged with meaning, the strength with which they clung to the attention that tried to drive them away.<br /><br />To get all this into one photograph he had to acquire an extraordinary technical skill, but only then would Antonino quit taking pictures. Having exhausted every possibility, at the moment when he was coming full circle Antonino realized that photographing photographs was the only course that he had left—or, rather, the true course he had obscurely been seeking all this time.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-91885368953157922522010-11-19T17:28:00.007+08:002010-11-21T23:08:41.027+08:00b.o. a.k.a. laughing gas<img src="http://www.toothandclaw.org.uk/upload/files/European%20Lynx-0001.jpg" /><br /><div style="font-family:arial;"><div class="messageBlock"><div class="messageCont" dir="ltr"><span class="left" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><br />Posting this conversation between my twin and I (at around 5pm last Friday) will probably lower my already dismal karma points, but here it is anyway.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> I can't believe I've eaten both my lunch and dinner already. I got nothing to eat next!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Dinner?!?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> The curry rice was dinner. I ate lunch before kickboxing, remember!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Curry rice is tea!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> I want you to be my fitness instructor! That day, before our self-defence class, I was early, and I heard some ditzy girls asking the instructor how to diet.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Oh, apparently he is a personal fitness instructor too.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> And he went on and on about not eating rice after 7pm etc etc. I hate to hear things like that.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> So this guy does anything related to fitness!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Apparently, super duper hardcore people employ him.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Wah. Well, he is super duper hard core! His warm-up is not even a warm-up, it's the actual exercise already!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>I think he is also a freelance photographer!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Wot!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Once, he sent me an e-mail, but he forgot to change the signature.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin: </span>Wahahahahahahahah wah lau! Skarly he also freelance writer.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Freelance eyebrow plucker.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Freelance model agent.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>Freelance skipping rope salesman.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Or basically, you got any job and you ask him, he'll do it.</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span><span>Can we ask him to shower?<br /></span><ahahahhahaah can="" we="" ask="" him="" to=""><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>And use Rexona?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAH<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Twin:</span> Once, I saw him spraying Lynx on himself when he thought no one was looking.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Wah! You are his stalker!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Ahahahahahahahahahahaha you were there too! But you probably didn't see!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> For some reason, I find the surreptitious Lynx-spraying very hilarious.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> We were outside the studio and he was inside and he thought he was alone, but I saw his reflection through the mirror.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> I'm convulsed with laughter now.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Yes! He even checked around to see if anyone was looking! But he forgot about the mirror!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Tears are coming out now.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Wahahahahahahahahahahahahahah<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> You even saw it was Lynx!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>I'm laughing all over again.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Wahahahahaahahaha yes! He must have obviously given up on the Lynx subsequently.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Stoppit. I'm dying here.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Hahahahahahahahahahaha<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin: </span>He really should have layered it on a bit more especially for the rape lesson.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>STOPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin: </span>Wahahahahaahahahahahha<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Who knew B.O. could be this funny?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin: </span>Wahahahahahahahahahahhahhah<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> You just have to say the word "lynx" and I will burst into tears.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> I went to the zoo and saw a LYNX cat.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>Was it nice smelling?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> Wahahahahahahahahahahah<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>DID IT TRY TO RAPE YOU!?!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Twin:</span> WAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAAHAH<br /><br />Please, tell me I'm not the only one reduced to tears by Lynx (I'm weeping now as I type this).<br /><span class="system" style="font-size:100%;"> </span></ahahahhahaah></div> </div></div>Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5429090.post-72887014317239820222010-11-15T19:59:00.002+08:002010-11-15T20:04:00.673+08:00imaginary outfit<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA1FwaL5Xd9WBuTkgnBcBwnvjHc3u8VHfk6m8DUeq4f3TXU8McsnrU9sO-uroeJofkNBHtrzQjABtwU5TO9DE8IlsOxet8-DDoBS6LTBS6Nybn9wf5aEB0H7pySbj6QCjMnZWHOw/s1600/sequintights.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA1FwaL5Xd9WBuTkgnBcBwnvjHc3u8VHfk6m8DUeq4f3TXU8McsnrU9sO-uroeJofkNBHtrzQjABtwU5TO9DE8IlsOxet8-DDoBS6LTBS6Nybn9wf5aEB0H7pySbj6QCjMnZWHOw/s320/sequintights.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539745091442366178" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Braindead after a Monday at work -- still at work, actually -- so all I can say is: I want those sequinned leggings. In fact, the entire outfit is perfect, whether I'm walking the tightrope or not.Zannhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07498460889191274671noreply@blogger.com0