Spot the similarities?

 
Equally wasted the past two Fridays. These drunken episodes are fast becoming a blur in my memory.

 
Only pretending to look drunk at Sunday champagne brunch. Or should it be pretending to look sober?

SMS @ 10pm, last Thursday
Him: Darling I miz u
Me: How much do you miss me?
Him: A bit+++
Him: Do you miz me?
Me: I miss you so much it hurts. Hehehe
Him: Why leh? I would never hurt you.

SMS @ 3pm, last Friday
Him: Darling what are you doing? I'm having my "breakfast" now.
Me: Working. Don't distract me ok? Why you wake up so early?
Him: Can't sleep without you.

SMS @ 4am, last Saturday
Him: Darling wan to meet me...I knock off soon.
Me: Sleeping
Him: I miz you darling...I heart pain

Why can't I stop responding to the SMSs of someone who
(1) takes it for granted I'm going to sleep with him?
(2) is never awake the same time as me?
(3) known to be a player?
(4) moves too fast for comfort?
(5) does not understand that "I miss you so much it hurts" is a joke?
(6) thinks "miss" is spelt as "miz"?
(7) uses the phrase "I heart pain"?

When I'm awake, he's asleep. When he's awake, I'm asleep.

At this rate, when are we ever going to sleep together?

The weather is perfect for cuddling in bed with another warm body...does it matter if we have nothing in common besides a love for sleeping?

Haven't been so wasted for a very long time. I may say that everytime [the last time being a mere three weeks ago], but this was seriously bad.

Very unglam, I was on the verge of throwing up, which I'm proud to say has yet to happen in my entire boozing career. Also ended up hugging some bastard whom I don't even bother talking to when I'm sober. Flirted shamelessly with semi-cute bartenders for free champagne, but failed. Staggered home and only managed to shrug off my top but not my jeans before losing consciousness. Woke up to find mascara smudges all over face still caked with makeup and phone number of someone named Alvin in my pocket.

And guess what? I'm in the office working now -- with sandpaper-like skin, unsexy glasses, slow reflexes and a massive hangover -- and have a phone interview at 7 pm. Somebody just kill me now, please.

Walking around with a dagger jutting out of my back sure is a nasty feeling. And I'm not even talking about Halloween.

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Note: We had more fun dressing up for Halloween than at the actual party at Zouk last night.

It really shouldn't bother me...but it does.

Got some hate mail regarding a story I wrote about how tall people earn more money throughout their lives, simply because of their height. [According to the study done, tall people make about US$789 more for every 2.5cm annually, in case you want to compare with your colleagues.]

A reader who insisted that he is "not so short" sent a nasty email condeming me for running down short people and ended with: "Why don't you write something about a discepancy in a person which I think you can be the main subject -- Ugliness. Round fat chubby face with a pair of eyes that look like a mongoloid."

It's a low blow, and I'm still reeling from it.

I have no friends. Please be my friend on Friendster.

So what if it is a mutual admiration society? I like receiving glowing compliments and licking my friends' asses.

How much would you want to know?

Suppose someone from your recent past just got married. Would you like to have all the details about his wife, how they met, where they went for their honeymoon?

So I found out that a certain’s someone’s new wife is apparently very nice and very rich, that they met only this year, that they flew a whole bunch of friends to Phuket for the wedding and just got back from their honeymoon in Mauritius.

A couple of my friends actually knew all these juicy details but thought it would hurt if I got to hear about it and so didn’t tell me.

Call me a masochist, but I want to know everything, not only to satisfy my curiosity, but also to make me face up to the reality of it. Sure, there was an unpleasant twist in the heart when I heard, but I’m a big girl now, I can handle it.

Ever stayed awake for so long that sleep becomes a distant memory?

Have been awake for more than 21 hours straight, doing nothing else besides work and griping about work. In less than a month back on the job, I've already lost 2kg. This is better than Marie France Bodyline. [By the way, the ad never fails to crack me up: "Can't shake off the shadow of your pregnancy?"]

Going to try to sleep now for a few hours before heading to the dem office in the morning. There goes my Deepavali.

Usually, when people ask “What did you do over weekend?”, my answer is “Nothing much”. But yesterday, I had such an action-packed day that I spent the whole of today practically horizontal, just recuperating.

Saturday’s itinerary
10.30 am Breakfast at KFC. Surprised to discover that it no longer has the breakfast menu, so had the new Bandito Pockett, which was very good.
11 am Go-kart racing. Arms aching from non-power steering and face red from accidentally mounting the grass verge and going against the flow of traffic.
12.30 pm Karaoke at K Box while having lunch. Or rather, my lurve sang and shovelled fried rice into her mouth at the same time, while I just sat and laughed at her inner pop idol.
2 pm Express manicure and pedicure. Now I have pretty hands and pretty feet.
3.30 pm Quick $10 haircut at Far East. Waited 15 minutes, haircut took another 15 minutes.
4 pm Shopping at Tangs with help of personal shopper. Wonderful discovery as it is fast and free.
5.20 pm Whirlwind tour of Singapore Art Museum. Must-see exhibits include Yoshioka's Chair in a vast white room filled with silica and a video installation called Feeling So What.
6 pm Quick cooking course for dinner parties. Learnt to make sayur lodeh, pandan leaf chicken and achar. Chef kept disparaging my efforts at chopping cucmbers.
8.30 pm Eating of food from cooking class. Yum.
10 pm Witness bar-top dancing at Coyote Ugly. Or should it be buttock dancing?
10.55 pm Catch clubbing bus to next destination. Forced to down sambuca poured straight down the throat. Clubbing bus is fun, must go again next month.
11 pm Bored at China Jump.
12 am Bhangra night at Indochine. Surrounded by beautiful Indian men and women with cheekbones and noses to die for. The most dance-able music in the world.
2 am Totally smashed at Zouk. Remember falling down and being picked up by a pair of clammy hands, but nothing else.
2.30 am Being sent home. Seal's Crazy blasting at maximum volume, with my lurve doing her best karaoke auntie inpersonation in the back seat. Many police cars on the road, shouted "Fuck da polis" at every one of them.
3 am Throw clothes all over the floor. Collapse in bed. Make-up still on.

So, what did you do over the weekend?

A quiet Friday night supper turned into quite an adventure, which ended with a trip to the police station at midnight.

My lurve* and I were at the hawker centre at Adam Road, after my night assignment, greedily eating lala and ice kachang.

[* I have three lurves, all of them gorgeous babes. And no, I’m not lesbian. We just lurve each other very much.]

Suddenly, she realised her bag, which was placed beside her, was moving and this short Chinese man in red was walking very quickly away with it.

With lightning quick reflexes, she threw down her chopsticks and chased after him. I was so engrossed in searching for the last lala among the shells that I didn’t even notice him take her bag. As he almost reached one of the exits, she shouted: “Stop that man!”, just like in those Crime Watch programmes.

Immediately, this giant of an Indian man in a blue T-shirt sprang up from his seat with amazing speed and dexterity, considering how difficult it is to slide in and out of those hawker centre benches, and gave chase. No one else even budged from their seats, including me. My reflexes were so retarded that my chopsticks were still poised in midair. All I saw was a flash of red, and then a flash of blue. Anyway I couldn’t run with my bai kar in heels.

The snatch thief abandoned his loot and ran for his life. My lurve retrieved her bag and sat down. By now, everyone in the hawker centre, which is circular and sort of like an amphitheatre, was staring at our table.

We thought that was the end of it, and were relieved that her wallet and everything else were intact. As we were excitedly rehashing the brief chase -- by this time, we were both clutching our bags protectively -- the Indian guy returned. He had chased the thief all the way out to the road and caught him. Our hero!

Holding him by the collar, our hero ordered the thief to sit down and told us to call the police. While waiting for the police to arrive, the thief kept protesting that he had accidentally hooked the bag and he ran only because he was afraid we’d accuse him of stealing it. By this time, we were really the centre of attraction, and hawkers kept coming up to us to ask us what happened.

When the police finally got there -- it seemed to take very long cos the guy kept insisting his innocence so tiresomely and the Indian guy had to stand over him and command him to sit down and wait -- we handed the thief over and asked for the guy’s name to thank him. And it turned out that he was the Tampines Rovers player, Sasikumar. He seemed to be very paiseh at being recognised.

Because of his public-spirited actions, there was an award ceremony this morning, and the media circus descended. They are going to be on radio and TV and in the papers. They are gonna be stars for the day.

I’m so thankful that he didn’t attempt to snatch my bag, cos with my slow reflexes and total concentration on the lala, he would have definitely succeeded in getting away. The unfortunate thief must cursing himself to have targetted a quick-thinking journalist and to have attempted to out-run a fleet-footed soccer player.

This is a public service announcement. Make sure your Mom [and grandmothers and aunties] gets a mammogram done. In case you haven't realised, this month is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.

For the longest time, I had been nagging my Mom to go "squeeze breasts", as she calls it, but she refused. Her illogical reason? "If I die, I die."

She has this fatalistic streak that says there is no cure for breast cancer, even though I've tried to brainwash her. Finally, I managed to convince her to get her breasts squeezed. I think the fact that my grandmother recently died of breast cancer was the push she needed.

So, I made an appointment for her and marched her down to the polyclinic. She said it was extremely painful -- and she has a very high pain tolerance level -- but for about five seconds only.

The results will only be ready in about a month's time, and my Mom keeps imagining the worst. Just waiting for the all-clear now from the doc, and we'll be home free.

A stay-at-home weekend -- the first since I got back. Lazed around in my PJs with my hair clipped up like an Ah Soh, without a scrap of makeup. Not many people get to see this "At Home Suzanne" look.

Also the first weekend that I haven't touched a drop of booze. Oh dear, that makes me sound like some kind of alcoholic.

In deep mourning now cos I was forced to take photo for my byline and my fat cheeks are the size of rice bowls. No amount of flattering/flattening lighting on the part of the sweet photographer could disguise my fat face.

But there is always a faint chance I can persuade the photog to reshoot when I've shed the excess baggage. Think I have dropped 1 kg just after three days of work, cos of skipping meals, running around, lack of sleep, stress and then finally food poisoning today. I can't wait to become as skinny as my overworked colleagues.

I fear that this is the beginning of the end. First day of work was super busy and super stress, and I don't see things easing up. Pant pant pant.

Between churning out fluffy fashion pieces and assorted stories about weekend stuff -- which is what the ed has assigned as my beat -- and actually having a life, I doubt I'd have much time to write rambling rubbish here.

But supreme skiver that I am, I'm sure I will squeeze some time out, probably during office hours while neglecting actual work. Watch this space.

Last day of freedom. Indulged in a final lazy mid-morning roll in bed, leisurely read The Straits Times while having breakfast, played at being one of those Ladies Who Lunch with a girl friend, had an afternoon snooze and a relaxing facial, and made a delicious, if slightly too soupy, carbonara dinner for my family.

Tomorrow, I head back to the world of slavery...I mean journalism. I've been assigned two stories even before I've officially started work. Just call me Isaura. I can hear the whips cracking already...

At the crack of dawn this morning -- meaning 8 a.m. to a jobless bum like me -- my mom hauled me out of bed to go to Batu Pahat, which is in the boondocks of our friendly neighbouring country of Malaysia.

A three-hour ride later, I realised why we were going all the way to pray at this particular ulu temple. She wanted to consult this supposedly all-seeing and all-knowing medium about my “future success”.

Knowing my mom, this was less about success in my career and more about the success of my love life. But I feel so vindicated because the medium chided her instead for being overly anxious and pushy. Ha! That will give me ammunition to rebut whenever she starts on one of her weekly nagging sessions about so-and-so who is married and has kids already [unfortunately, a lot of people my age got married while I was away], or how I’m too choosy [she doesn’t believe me when I tell her certain of my male friends are gay], or -- this is my favourite of all her rants -- that I’m too unapproachable and driving men away [as if I have queues of suitors waiting outside my house].

From now on, instead of ignoring her or resorting to sarcasm, I will just calmly remind her that I am “still young”, “need more time to look”, and “will eventually find a very good husband”, in the very words of the medium she trusts so much. Only time will tell if the “prophecy” will come true.

“I’ve been away lah.”

That has been my standard excuse for almost everything since I got back.

Q: How come so fat?
A: I’ve been away lah. Too much potato and pasta.

Q: You don't know how to go to Lau Pa Sat?
A: I’ve been away lah. Forgot where it is.

Q: Why is your parking skill so horrible?
A: I’ve been away lah. One year never drive car.

Q: Have you been to the Esplanade?
A: I’ve been away lah. It haven’t opened yet when I left.

Speaking of the Esplanade, I finally found my way inside that durian. Previously, I thought that it looked pretty hideous, like a squashed up Sydney Opera House wannabe. But it was tastefully done and pretty with those blue twinkly lights. And the waterfront was fabulous for sitting and chatting without having to pay for a coffee. I would have taken pix, but my dear cousin who was my tour guide there [even though it was her first time too] said it is very suaku to do so.

And call me suaku, but I am quite taken with this choc concoction at this chocolate place at Esplanade. You are presented with what looks like a mini aromatherapy burner, a metal spoon-straw contraption, a miniscule jug of milk and a saucer of what looks like Hershey choc chips, and basically you DIY to make molten chocolate milk. I’m sure what I just described has been written about to death because of its sheer novelty value, and everyone has tried it already, but hey, I’ve been away lah.

Reasons to get married [and some of these are actual quotes from people I know]:

a. “For sex on demand.”
b. “Money. Lots of it.”
c. “To get to wear the white dress.”
d. “So that can buy a flat lor.”
e. “Sometimes the condom doesn’t work like you want it to.”

Feel free to comment with any other plausible reasons I might have left out. True love, perhaps?

 

My hair will never be this long again. Just a twinge of regret after cutting it.
[If you can't figure out which is the "before" and which is the "after" photo, I can't help you.]

Before I left for London, I swore to many friends that I would not return with (a) an ang moh accent, or (b) an ang moh boyfriend.

Yep, so here I am, still speaking in 100% Singlish and still 100% single. Everyone I've met up with so far agrees that I'm still me, just fatter. Does that mean I'm boring, rigid or consistent?

Today is Lantern Festival -- Or is it called Mooncake Festival? Mid-Autumn Festival? Whatever! -- and today is also the second anniversary of September 11. Not that both dates mean much to me, just thought I'd mention the coincidence.

When I was young, innocent and foolish, I totally believed in the concept of “Friends Forever”.

As I grew older, more cynical and wiser -- or so I thought -- I found out that there was no such thing. I learnt to cherish whatever times I had with friends, because they were so fleeting.

Now that I’m practically ancient, totally jaded and have realised that I can be as foolish as a teenager at times, it has finally dawned on me that friends are both fleeting and forever. They may move in and out of your life, you may meet every day or once a year, but once you have formed a bond of this nebulous thing called friendship, it can never be broken.

To my old friends -- you know who you are -- there are still many years worth of long lunches and leisurely dinners ahead, filled with gossip and laughter.

I was all geared up to sign up for motorbike lessons, but chickened out at the driving centre today. Too intimidated by the instructors hollering through loud hailers, too feeble to handle the bike, too broke to pay for lessons, too vain to endure helmet hair, too discouraged by the comments of the bike-riding ex-boyfriend.

No pretty pastel blue Vespa for me then. Nevermind, I can still dream about my Volkswagen Beetle. In pastel blue too, of course.

"Welcome back to the new paradigm."

That was the one sentence that stuck in my head from Friday night's drunken debauchery. Even in my non-sober state, what my bear-hugging, rib-crushing friend shouted over the pounding music made sense.

It was just like the good ol' parteee days of yore -- champagne, lychee martinis, red wine, endless number of shots, and lots of lansing -- except it was different. The drunken vibes and throbbing music and all that posing of Beautiful People at Zouk were unchanged. But among my friends, certain people were now polite strangers, others could not be in the same room, and there were so many new faces that I could barely keep track.

But nonetheless, I am "so happeee" to be back, which was what I kept squealing to my lurves the whole night. I wonder how long the euphoria of being the Homecoming Queen will last.

I had no intention whatsoever of contacting a certain someone when I got back. And I didn't. There was no point with so much crap between us, and besides, I'd purged his number from my phone. So why should it disturb me to hear that he had gotten married while I was away?

Once, he told me about a friend of his who got hitched out of the blue, and I exclaimed: "He's the last person I thought would get married." But in my heart, I was telling him: "You're the last person I thought would get married."

Guess I was wrong.

I’ve only been back for three days ah? I feel totally re-integrated already leh.

First thing I did on my first day back was to go temple to "bai bai" my grandma with pears, grapes, egg tarts and kopi-o. I don’t know what’s the significance of the food selection. Felt totally inept, as I had no idea that I have to light three joss sticks to the Sky God first, that only vegetarian food is allowed, and that you have to leave the food on the altar for a while so that it can be "eaten", before taking it home to be eaten for real. Got the usual nagging from my mother about the proper way these things are done. The tradition of ancestral worship is literally dying out with my generation.

Second most important thing was to get reconnected with a new phone number, which I still have problems remembering. SMS-ed my friends until my thumb went numb. And I think half my SMS quota and free airtime are gone, but I don’t care cos we’re in the same timezone and paying local call rates.

And I have delicious lunches and dinners and suppers lined up, so much so I don’t know what local delights I want to eat first. But I predict saturation point will be reached soon at the rate I’m going. Already had egg tarts, prawn noodles, otah otah, yong tau foo, Japanese food and all kinds of weird Chinese pastries that I don’t know how to spell in English. Trying not to overdo the bingeing, since every single person I've met has exclaimed [some rather tactlessly too] that I'm so fat.

Just weighed myself and I've put on 2 kg, apparently most of it on my face. In order to conceal my fat cheeks, I got a much-needed hair cut today. Hopefully, I can hide behind the curtain of hair and the layers will give the illusion of slimness. But the upside of being fat is that some of the excess baggage has deposited itself on my boobs, according to one of my lurves. For once, I have a hint of cleavage to show off.

Which I suspected was what the DOM [dirty old man] on the bus was staring at. Either that or the loud error BEEPBEEPBEEP my virginal EZ Link card made attracted unwanted attention. So paiseh.

I’ve taken my own sweet time to post an update cos I still am undecided about continuing this blog. On the one hand, I still have a tiny number of friends reading this overseas and I don’t even meet up with some of my Singaporean friends that often. So this is a good way to stay in touch without needing to bombard them with emails about my boring life. Plus, I won’t have to kick this blogging addiction.

But on the other hand [this is like some GP essay weighing the pros and cons!], I don’t think I’d have much time for such long-winded and detailed descriptions of my day once I get back to work as a journalist with no life. And I feel kinda weird writing about all these things which must seem so familiar to everyone in Singapore, which are actually familiar to me too, yet totally foreign at the same time.

I guess I’m going to just bumble along and write as and when the mood strikes. There’s nothing wrong with being wishy washy wat!?!

London time is catching up with me. Or is it my body adjusting to Singapore time? Jet lag setting in, eyes closing, mind slowing down. Later...

"You never really leave a place you love. Part of it you take with you, leaving a part of yourself behind."

In about six hours, I'll be leaving London. Chances are, I probably won't be back for a long time.

On the eve of my departure, regardless of the fact that my bags were not packed, I still dragged people out for a three-hour production of Edward II at the Globe. Good thing I have such an obliging friend. Basically, I just wanted to watch something, anything, in that wooden theatre, and I was not let down. The play was fantastic, even though it was by Marlowe and not the Bard, the building really set the mood, despite having to twist my neck to catch the action because of all the wooden beams. Or maybe that just made it seem more like the 16th century and authentic.

Even though my empty luggage and cartons were clogging up the narrow hallway, my dear flatmates pretended not to mind, and we had a nostalgic farewell dinner, followed by a crazy photo session involving five people wielding five cameras. We all promised to stay in touch with the best intentions, but deep down, we all knew that we were all going our seperate ways.

Needless to say, with all that frantic last-minute activity, I barely slept because I didn’t get my packing done till 3 am. But I’m pleased nonetheless, as I almost finished crossing out every inane item on Zann’s pre-departure list.

One hundred days of a million memories -- I can’t believe it’s over.

The tree outside my window.
The leaves will fall soon,
but I won't be around
to catch them...

I've had my fill of Sex and the City and Cosmo. [Both are banned in Singapore in case we are led astray by all that sex.]

Just watched what was my final episode of the show tonight and threw away about nine month's worth of Cosmo. Not sure if the quality of both the show and the mag are going down the drain, or I've simply become more jaded about this love/sex/relationship thing, but they no longer, erm, turn me on, for want of a better phrase.

A guy friend once accused me of having a skewed view of men formed from too much Sex and the City and Cosmo.

Him: You shouldn't believe everything they say.
Me: But how else am I supposed to know what men are thinking?
Him: Just ask!

Now why didn't I do that, instead of wasting time reading trashy mags and re-watching those smuggled DVDs?

From What We Bought, by Robert Adams

Never had a meal alone before in my year in London -- until yesterday, when I was so hungry for lunch that I succumbed to sausages and mash.

Solitary meals in restaurants, surrounded by lovey-dovey couples and laughing groups of friends, used to bother me, and I know of people who are too daunted to eat alone or who always manage to have some sort of company. But I've grown to think of it as a mini adventure for one and I'm even rather proud that I'm so good at being alone.

The trick is to carry a book -- and try to look as mysterious as possible.

Just 10 minutes and three Tube stops away from my destination -- Hampstead crepes! -- the whole network was hit by a blackout. My face was dem black, as I was so near yet so far and so hungry, but everyone else behaved like it was an everyday occurence that the entire underground system of a major city had just gone kaput.

I feel so privileged that I was one of 500,000 commuters affected by the blackout. Apparently, the same thing which happened in New York had happened here, albeit on a smaller scale, and the power grid was wiped out. Coincidence?

There wasn't even a bleat of complaint as we were herded in a sheep-like manner from the station. People just made their way to the bus stops and stoically waited and waited and waited in the drizzle. I finally arrived thirty minutes late, after being stepped on and rained on, to partake of those long-awaited crepes.

But of course, after stuffing our faces with five different types of crepes, it was time once again to confront the horrors of London transport. So many Tube lines were closed that I would have had to change trains four or five times to get home. So I decided to brave the bus route instead. Big mistake.

It took me two hours to complete my journey -- I just got back -- which was more than double my usual time. More than 40 minutes was spent freezing at various bus stops, and I had to stand throughout the journey. My slippered feet were so numb that the only feeling I had was when people trampled on them, which was pretty often, because the buses were packed with people all wearing the same beleaguered expression on their faces.

There were sighs of commiseration all around, yet, there wasn't even a murmur of anger. It was all very British stiff upper lippy. A friend who had to wait 40 minutes for the Piccadilly line said people were talking to each other -- an unheard of phenomenon -- and generally being good-natured about it. As he put it: "I was beginning to see how the English survived the Battle of Britain."

I'm so glad to be going home to good ol' SMRT and SBS soon. Can't wait to buy my very first EZ Link card.

[In case you're wondering why I keep going on and on about being cold and wet, well, just so you know, the temperature is a chilly 14 deg C. The Great British Summer has fizzled out after that brief sizzle, and the not-so-great London drizzle is back. And I had over-optimistically packed all my warm jackets and shipped them off, so the next few days are gonna be cold ones. Despite constantly getting played out by the fickle weather, I never learn my lesson.]

Hirst's Shark Tank, by The Little Artists, £595

Besides Lego Land, I also had half a mind to go see Tracy Emin's unmade bed and Damien Hirst's sharks at the Saatchi Gallery. Am in full swing tourist mode now -- even ventured into Harrods to buy useless tins in the shape of the building for my numerous aunties -- but not enough time for everything on my list.

Regretfully, I'll have to sacrifice the mummies at British Museum and, even more regretfully, the yummy Four Seasons roast duck. And will just make do with online viewing of this quirky Lego version of Hirst and his infamous shark.

How homesick am I?

I seem to give the impression that I am desperately longing for home, but to be honest, that is just the easiest emotion to express. The other feelings I have over my impending departure are too mixed up to be sorted out and put into words other than "I dunno".

What I do know is that, despite missing my family, friends and food, I’m not utterly and totally homesick yet because I haven’t even watched the VCD of Eating Air I packed along with my packets of BeeBee to stave off any potential pangs.

[For those not in the know, Eating Air is a “motorcycle kungfu love story”. It is my ultimate favourite local movie, because it is so unabashedly Singaporean. That I used to party with the director, and may or may not have kissed one of the actors have absolutely nothing to do with it.]

There is, of course, the longing for all the familiar physical things -- cabs whenever you need them after a night out, hawker food at any hour, shops that open till 10 pm -- but there is also something more intangible. Something in Milan Kundera’s Ignorance springs to mind: “Nostalgia seems something like the pain of ignorance, of not knowing. You are far away, and I don’t know what has become of you.”

When I first read that earlier this year, I thought I was hard-hearted and emotionally crippled, because it didn’t touch me at all. But as time went by, I realise that the pain of ignorance is the hardest to bear. Of not knowing what is going on. Of being in the dark about my friends’ lives. Or simply of not knowing which hawker centre my family went to for dinner the night before.

There have been times when I wondered if I’m frittering away my life here, while friends back home are buying property [some for the second time], getting married [some for the second time], having babies [some for the second time], and generally ticking off items on the Milestones Of Life checklist. In the meantime, what have I been doing? Taking a break from “real life” and tearing up that list.

I remember interviewing an actress who spent a year studying in London and had such a memorable time that, before she left, she got a dragonfly tattoo on the back of her hip [what is that part of the body called anyway?] so that she would never forget. My time here may not been that tattoo-worthy [is anything ever worthy of permanent decoration of the body?] but I doubt I’d ever forget it.

Sorry this has been one long rambling post, expressing run-of-the-mill thoughts that anyone who has spent some time away must have had at one point or another. But indulge me, this may be one of my last posts. I haven’t quite decided whether to continue when I get back. But in any case, I started this as a hundred days of countdown, and there are only six more days to go.

Photographing the photographer while waiting for the parade to start at the Notting Hill Carnival.


Why do people keep walking into my pix?


Groin grinding...Now that is something you wouldn't see at the Chingay parade.


Finally, a semi-decent photo. By that I mean one with no heads blocking the shot.

I thought my photography skills were improving, but I was mistaken. None of these fully capture the carnival mood, the colourful feathers, the thumping Carribean music, the jerk chicken smoking on the grill, the garbage piling on the sides of the road, the people meandering around aimlessly. It was supposedly the biggest such parade after the one in Rio, so how come I didn't feel it?

 

I want to be Lady Penelope. She's smart and stylish, lives in an English manor with a butler and is a jet-setting undercover agent with cool gadgets. And she has the perfect outfit for every occasion. What more can a girl want?

I only recently discovered her on daytime telly on this cult '60s show called Thunderbirds, which was filmed using model airplanes, doll house furniture and puppets on string. Every episode, these five brothers, their father, Lady Penelope and her butler rescue some hapless idiots in peril with high-tech planes and other equipment which I'm sure are of great interest to the boys.

Me, I'm too busy ooh-ing and aah-ing over Lady Penelope's pretty pink Rolls Royce, the ingenious props, tiny chairs and tables and even tinier utensils, and Lady Penelope's many hair and costume changes. Did I ever mention that I have this little thing for miniatures?

What I have been doing:
-- Sleeping from dawn to noon, then taking guilty afternoon naps
-- Eating junk food all night as a form of stress relief
-- Feebly exercising in room using mineral water bottles
-- Surfing, blogging, emailing, eBaying and generally wasting time online
-- Reading How To Lose Friends And Alienate People, a real-life loser lit by Brit journo in New York who got sacked ignominiously from Vanity Fair
-- Frying chicken, making soup, tossing salad, counting remaining packets of CQYD
-- Playing Solitaire and trying to break my Tetris high score
-- Watching Bargain Hunt, Cash In The Attic, House Invaders, Ready Steady Cook and other crappy daytime telly

What I haven’t been doing:
-- Writing a 5,000 word essay on SARS

"Why do you want to go to Lego Land? Singapore is just like Lego Land."

I totally agreed with those words of this guy I met from Delhi, even if I was a bit taken aback by how apt the analogy was. Manufactured, sanitised, and creative in a four-colours-allowed-only kind of way. Why haven't I seen the similarities before? Is that why I have this affinity for Lego since young? And what does it mean that I actually won a Lego competition when I was 10?

More importantly, does the fact that I dream of Lego Land like a kid represent a sub-conscious longing for home?

Well, these questions are all moot now, since my plan for a day trip to the theme park in Windsor has been scuppered. The only other person I know who is gets excited about Lego Land -- we were literally hopping as we chanted: "Lego Land Lego Land" -- is too far behind on her final thesis, and so am I.

By the way, this Lego-mad friend is also Singaporean who has been away for too long. It makes such perfect sense now. We just want to go home.

It's not even my country, so I don't know why it bothers me so much that he's running for a second term. Oh, right, Iraq...that and because he looks moronic.

I've always considered myself to be apathetically apolitical, but apparently, I've moved towards the liberal left, according to the world's smallest political quiz.

Since this oestrogen-fueled blog has a largely female readership, I thought I’d help a lonesome friend by putting the word out that he is actively looking for a wife. That’s the best I can do for him, seeing that he’s in Sydney, I’m in London and, as we like to mock lament, there are “gallons of ocean” between us.

WANTED: Wife
No experience required. Must be willing to learn.  Age not an issue. Preferably educated, and with some career aspirations.  Position to be filled immediately.  All applicants should send a detailed CV including past or other relevant experience for further consideration.  Applications which are accompanied with a photo will have priority for reviewing.

Maybe I should consider putting up an ad too.

Judge books by their covers. Judge them by their titles too.

Drawn by the unfamiliar pairing of words, I picked up Amnesia Moon and now my head is swirling with images of the post-apocalyptic road trip of a man named Chaos and a girl covered in brown fur. The way I’ve simplified the plot makes it sound so juvenile, but it is a curiously gritty yet dreamy story about searching for a half-remembered love.

The author, Jonathan Lethem, also wrote Motherless Brooklyn, which is another fantastic title. [The story is about a small-time private eye with Tourette’s Syndrome, in case you are interested. I’m not really into the whole hardboiled detective genre, but the excellent Edward Norton is set to make a movie of it, which was why I hunted down the book in the first place.]

Other equally evocative book titles...The Heart is a Lonely Hunter...Sputnik Sweetheart...Of Love and Other Monsters...One Hundred Years of Solitude [to which this blog vaguely alludes].

I already have the perfect title for the novel I’m never going to write -- Kismet Kittens. Now all I have to do is come up with some semblance of a plot revolving around felines and this thing called fate.

Instead of wasting time writing an imaginary book, I should be spending it on my overdue SARS essay. At the moment, all I have is a working title -- Global Coverage of a Global Outbreak. It’s not brilliant, but it will do for a school paper.

Cruisin' down the River Thames at midnight and seeing a side of London I'd never seen -- and probably never would again. The twinkling lights on Battersea Bridge, the blue and white arches underneath Tower Bridge almost near enough to touch, the gothic facade of Westminster Abbey bathed in amber lights and reflected in the water. [All I have are mental images, cos the actual photos turned out to be shite. Too dark, too bright, too shaky, too cold, too fat, too tipsy.]

It was possibly the last time my classmates would meet, and it was rather magical, but it was loud noisy fun at the same time, most likely due to the beer and vodka we smuggled aboard. At one point, someone was going to marry someone else for a green card, someone threw an empty Smirnoff bottle overboard for a cheap thrill, and someone offered me a lousy joint that kept falling apart.

Finally, it is hitting me that I only have two more weeks to store up such memories.

"The devil makes work for idle thumbs."

That's the slogan for Virgin Mobile's text messaging service, and it shows mental hospital patients going out of their minds from boredom and getting up to all kinds of mischief, such as stapling the nurse's skirt to the desk.

While twiddling my thumbs about eight hours ago -- Hotmail was down, probably because of the virus taking revenge on Microsoft -- I wandered over to eBay. Being the ultimate bag lady, I had to put in a bid for this vintage clutch. It was just one little click of the mouse, I didn't think I was gonna be the only bidder or actually win the auction.

Now, I have to pay up £4.99 for this impulse buy, even though the more I look at the picture, the more hideous the floral patttern becomes. The devil makes work for idle thumbs indeed.

"We miss you. We miss you. We miss you."

At least I think that was what my three lurves were screeching drunkenly down the phone at some party I wished I was at too. My phone made an ominous sharp BEEP and then went dead before I could screech back: "I miss you too, my lurves!"

MIKRO House by Sam Buxton

Four museums in one day. Which, knowing me, means four gift shops in one day too. Good thing most museums are free and I get pretty generous concessions at the others. One of the privileges of being a student again.

Breezed through Tate Modern to see my fave upside-down piano crashing from the ceiling with a discordant DONG for, perhaps, the seventh time. Also couldn't resist browsing through the cavernous gift shop and ended up buying a touching little children's book that can be read in five minutes.

Walked half a mile along the Thames to make a brief stop at Design Museum to check out this intricate "doll house", cut cleverly from one piece of aluminium. Everything about it appealed to me -- miniature, home decor, technology, DIY, useless, accumulates dust -- and I was so tempted to buy it, even though it was only the size of my palm but cost £65. Ended up buying a teeny model Vespa as a substitute.

A hop and a skip away was the newly opened Fashion and Textile Museum, with an exhibition My Favourite Dress. So much promise, but such a disappointment. With 70 big names such as Donna Karan, Donatella Versace, Vera Wang and Vivienne Westwood contributing their favourite designs, you would think there would be plenty of pretty frocks for a vain girl like me to drool over. But it felt like an ego trip for these designers as they went on about how successful that collection was or which celeb wore which dress. Wasted my time, money and energy. And the gift shop was lousy too, with overpriced vintage scarves and the usual crappy postcards, posters and calendars.

Final stop at the National Gallery, cos my friend wanted to buy some Van Gogh stuff for his girlfriend. So it was a targetted sweep through the massive museum, looking for the gallery with Sunflowers in it, then zooming straight to the gift shop again. But the souvenirs were all so revolting, with his paintings printed indiscriminately on jigsaw puzzles, erasers, ugly knapsacks and even umbrellas, that we couldn't find anything worth buying.

Commercialism need not be crass; done tastefully, us consumers can be suckered into buying almost anything. And I'm probably displaying my shallow side here, but my fave museums are those with well-stocked gift shops.

While sorting through the junk I managed to accumulate since Day 1, I found these botched passport pix, taken on my first day in college. I cannot stress how much I hate having my photo taken, but my retarded actions in the photo booth, captured for posterity on film, does provide some degree of amusement.

Aiyoh, it is so comforting to revert to Singlish. We had a post-National Day celebration, and being typical Singaporeans, it revolved around food, even though a barbecue during the hottest day since 1875 wasn't exactly the coolest idea.

We didn't wear red and white or sing Count Money Singapore, though we did consume obscene amounts of seafood and used "lah" very frequently. We all honour our dear motherland in our own little ways.

How can someone so beautiful be made to look so ugly? Just saw Ralph Fiennes on stage, and he is scrawny, scruffy and slightly moth-eaten. But he is brilliant as the tortured priest figure in Ibsen's Brand. I'm strangely moved by his portrayal of the eternal struggle of trying to please God, even though I'm not what you might call a "holy" person -- or even a regular "theatah" goer.

It suddenly occurred to me that our national anthem is not called Mari Kita, on today of all days. How's that for a bit of patriotic spirit?

Word of the day: disestablishmentarianism

No idea what it means. Heck, I have no idea what the media journal it comes from is trying to get across. Fruitless day trying to get some readings done by staring at the page until a significant word leaps out, like this:

Such a stance welcomes the distance created by the disestablishmentarianism of the commercial media, although it remains uneasy at the consequent predisposition to see established institutions become the object of constant media scrutiny and attack.

This method of "reading by osmosis" works -- sometimes. Other times, I study by "reading through physical contact". This involves putting putting my face in close contact with the book and closing my eyes, usually for eight hours or more.

Being quite the instant noodle connoisseur, I couldn’t resist trying this heavily-advertised Brit product called Pot Noodle. It is not unlike those Cup-A-Noodle, except that instead of your usual chicken and prawn flavours, you get something ang moh like bacon. So the soup that tastes like it was made by pouring hot water over crisps from Marks & Sparks. To top off it off, there is a packet of tomato ketchup, which according to the instructions, you add two minutes after the boiling water, so the whole goopy mess turns lurid pink. A bizarre sensory experience, not entirely unpleasant because of my love of MSG, but not one to be repeated.

Feeling very deprived of my usual source of MSG, cos I'm down to my last three precious packets of BeeBee. It is a crisis of enormous proportions and I'm not sure I can survive.

A greedy friend from back home, though not as greedy as me, asked what local delights I want to devour first -- and has selflessly offered her services as a makan kaki. So pleased to have company for gluttony.

I am still making my food list, which already covers an entire side of A4, but the Top 10 positions are constantly in a state of flux. At the bottom of the list, though, are udang curry and tahu goreng, as I gently coerced my Korean flatmate to try "traditional" Malay food for dinner [at the most untraditional price of S$36 each], so that is one craving sated.

Felt instantly transported back home from the first taste of the white rice mixed with coconut milk in the curry. It helped that the heat wave was still on, so we were just the right degree of sweaty and sticky. And being served by cute Malay waiters and surrounded by scary wooden masks masquerading as decoration, it didn't feel like London at all.

So near, yet so far away.

[In a rare patriotic mood, hence the colour change. Just for this special National Day weekend only.]

[Weather complaint #5729] Today is the hottest day since 1990. All the news bulletins have that as the top story [more important than Jakarta bombing, so you can tell it is big news], gloating that it is a record-smashing 37 deg C and showing mad English people jumping into the fountain at Trafalgar Square. The only reminder of the wet weather of just a week ago is this persistent sniffle I've been nursing, which has evolved into a phlegmy coughy thingy.

"It's so hot. It's just like my home," exclaims my Thai flatmate, newly arrived in London and still able to be surprised by the fickle weather. To try to cool off, I've made some blackcurrant jelly -- "Less than 10 calories per serving," the package promises me! -- but it refuses to set, so I can't eat it. Boo. But never mind, my Korean flatmate just busted my diet by offering me Snickers ice-cream. Yum.

We have been dressing more and more skimpily every day, and the point of decency is about to be breached if this heatwave continues.

Not everything is in Technicolor




[Clockwise from top left] Permanently parked car; "Jesus Loves You" proclaims my neighbour down the road; no train in sight; a few doors away from my flat.

"Sunny day, everything's A-OK..."

How does the next line of the Sesame Street song go? Half a day in the sun has put me in a, well, sunny mood, especially after sniffling the past few days.

The flower market at Columbia Road never fails to put a smile on my face and make me wish I can fill my room with arum lilies, hydrangeas, gerberas and gorgeous artichoke blossoms which I never knew existed. I always thought artichokes were just ugly vegetables with icky edible hearts.



Anyone who has watched Charlie and the Chocolate Factory won't be able to forget the fantasy sweets shop, with jars upon jars of mint humbugs, caramel toffees and other mouth-watering goodies. I was bugging this Brit friend who lives in the outskirts of London to show me a traditional sweets shop, but he says even the one in his little English village has gone out of business. Well, I came across one today, much to my delight. Hope it doesn't go the way of our friendly neighbourhood mamak stalls. Are there any more around these days?



I love the chaos of Brick Lane, with all the weird junk on sale, such as ice-cube trays in the shape of penises, the dingy curry houses which all have chicken tikka masala on their menus, and the famous 24-hour bagel shop with endless queues. And posters plastered on every available space on the brick walls along the lane.

Ah, happiness is a day out at the Sunday markets with a cheery friend, a most satisfying salt beef bagel, four second-hand books for £10, a packet of yummy smoked organic tofu, and lots of sunshine.

Now I'm gonna spend the rest of the day humming the Sesame Street theme song and trying to dredge up the rest of the lyrics from some repressed corner of my childhood memories.

There I was, cold and miserable from the drizzle, conned once again by the weather forecast, and trudging through the bleak suburban mall that is 10 times worse than Tiong Bahru Plaza.

Knocking fresh bruises onto my shins while lugging my overloaded shopping basket to checkout, I was greeted by an unexpectedly cheery "Hello! How are you?" instead of the usual sullen silence.

Caught by surprise, I managed a weak smile at the black teenager who was, most astoundingly, packing my shopping for me, which, I assure you, has never happened before. Usually, they just let my jars and cans roll and crash while I retardly try to get those darned plastic bags to unstick by rubbing them between my too-smooth palms.

I didn't know what to do with my hands while she thoughtfully packed the meat separately from the fruit -- I don't even do that when I bag my own groceries, I just shove everything in a blind panic into the first plastic bag I manage to open -- and she even carefully wrapped up the spring onions, which were marked down to 49p, because they were so limp. And all the time, she was chatting about how my day went, how her day had been, have a good weekend, and wearing a big huge Darlie smile.

I left Sainsbury's with a big huge Darlie smile too.

This is a magazine. It has words and pictures in it.

I'm a sucker for eye candy. Takes ages to load, so don't try this at home, but totally worth it. Trust me, I won't send you to look at a crap site.

Things to look forward to today:
-- Prospect of a few rays of evening sun [Ahhhhh, the small pleasures in life, especially after two sodding miserable weeks of wet weather and damp feet]
-- Major supermarket trip after work [including bags and bags of crisps from Marks & Sparks...more small pleasures]
-- Start of the final season of Sex and the City [though I'm quite gutted that I will only get to watch five episodes before I go back to the land where it is banned]
-- Last day of internship [I swear, no more working for free ever again]

Most people seem strangely impressed when I tell them about my stint at The Independent. I admit, it is a credible newspaper, unafraid to ask hard questions and stand up for its views. I especially like its staunch anti-war position, especially now that the WMDs seem to be largely imaginary. There is a big poster in the office which says: "Truth need not be the first casualty of war". But it is also struggling financially and does not have quite the same intellectual, liberal clout as, say, The Guardian. Add to that a pretty indiscriminate open-door policy, with anyone who applies for work experience getting a slot, and it is really no big potatoes. I am just glorified free labour, that's all.

But in exchange, I did get a new perspective of how a newspaper works in the UK [not that different from back home, in terms of procedures and deadlines, but editorially, it is much more robust], made some useful contacts with journalists, may get a byline for a silly item I wrote, and have a new item to pad up my resume. So despite my endless complaints of boredom on the job, it has been a fruitful two weeks. But boy am I glad it is going to be over in less than five hours.

The arrogance and ignorance of youth -- and I mean it in the nicest possible way. Was having lunch with this fresh-out-of-Cambridge fellow intern, and was struck by how self-assured kids are these days. In her opinion, "all magazines are immoral. They make you aspire to be perfect and beautiful which you can never be in real life. I will never work for them". I never had that kind of courage or conviction to make those kind of proclamations when I was 21. Or even now, for that matter.

She also politely wanted to know how old I was and whether I wanted to be a journalist. When I told her how ancient I was and that I used to be a writer, she asked incredulously, "Why are you doing work experience?"

I've stopped asking myself that question, since there are only two more days to go.

One of the few nice things about the Tube is that passengers very kindly leave their newspapers behind when they get off. So what if the carriages look like post-apocalyptic disaster zones filled with litter? It gives you something to occupy your time [even though it might just be The Sun and its trashy Page 3 girls] and allows you to be legitimately anti-social to your fellow passengers and pretend they don't exist.

Reading a discarded Metro [free commuter paper with similar journalistic standards as Streats and Today, which isn't saying much] on the way to work, I got the latest breaking news: Today is National Foreplay Day and tomorrow is National Orgasm Day. And the day after is National Faking It Day. [I just made that last bit up.]

One side effect of insomnia is that when you finally fall into an exhausted sleep, you waste those precious hours in restless dreams and wake up unrefreshed.

In the early hours of dawn, I dreamt of both my dead grandmothers, one I called Ah Por and the other I called Ma Ma. They kept switching identities as I tried to talk to them, but not in a disturbing, horror movie sort of way. It felt rather comforting, and I had some semblance of control over my actions, yet I couldn't make myself wake up even though I knew I had over-slept. It was as if I was enveloped in thick cotton wool and I got all tired out from struggling against it.

I think it was the night after my Ma Ma died that I dreamt of a big black moth, which is an omen of death [especially to me with my deep-seated phobia of moths, butterflies and other fluttery things]. My sis told me later that there was indeed a moth on her coffin.

The last time I dreamt of Ah Por, I can remember it so vividly that I am convinced it was more than just a dream. We were standing at a dimly-lit lift landing, and she was wearing her flowery printed samfoo with baggy black pants, and her grey hair was immaculately combed as usual. I was so happy to see her that I touched her, and I remember the tactile feel of her face, still smooth and warm. Then I asked, with every intention of visiting her: "Where are you staying now?"

And this is the part which freaked my mother out while, at the same time, sent her scurrying to the neighbourhood 4D outlet: My Ah Por replied, "07-01."

[We didn't strike 4D, in case anyone was wondering.]

Insomnia is back to haunt me. Yet another night to get through with my eyes wide shut...

Things
There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.
There are worse things than these
miniature betrayals,
committed or endured or suspected;
there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for
thinking about them.
It is 5 a.m. All the worse things
come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking
worse and worse and worse.
-- Fleur Adcock

They really shouldn't call this "work experience" when there is no actual "work" to be done. I'm slowly going out of my mind from doing nothing constructive. Even started fiddling with the crossword puzzle, which I've always regarded as the hobby of grubby old men in tweed jackets, but managed to stop myself from degenerating in time. But a nap in the loo is not out of the question, especially with post-lunch stupor setting in.

I was dropping some eaves in the office and heard these two journos talking about buying a Dell laptop online, but I didn't believe what they were saying until I saw it for myself.

At the end of the lengthy order form, there is a question: "Will the product(s) be used in connection with weapons of mass destruction, i.e. nuclear applications, missile technology, or chemical or biological weapons purposes?"

Would your order go through if, as an honest god-fearing terrorist, you answered "yes"?

Unbelievably, this blog is blocked by the powers that be in China, as are others with the same domain name. A long-lost friend based in Shanghai has been trying unsuccessfully to access the site, but it appears that my holiday pix have been deemed to be more subversive and salacious than those at www.playboy.com. I feel so flattered.

[Weather complaint #2976] Five days of continuous drizzle, dismal temperatures hovering around 20 deg C, zero sunshine. And more of the same over the coming week. And they call this the Great British Summer?

I wasn't doing anything, so I placed my hand on my mouse and clicked with my index finger on the dullest blog in the world. Then I tried to hone my sense of irony by writing this.

Managed to relocate myself to a desk that is hidden from the features editor. Now I'm obscured by stacks of hardcover books, or "fire hazards" as their owner calls them, as I'm seated next to the journo who writes for the books pages. He is this blustery red-faced Irish man and calls me "sweetheart" in a booming voice.

The reporters are having some sort of story meeting now [no space in the room for inconsequential interns], and all of them are wearing the ill-concealed looks of boredom I remember so well from the days of Richard Lim. The ed seems to be getting overly-excited about something called Speed Snogging, which happens after Speed Networking events, which in turn is a variation of Speed Dating for those who don't want to be labelled as desperate Speed Daters. Wonder if he is gonna make any of his babe female reporters go undercover.

Despite asking for more work, some work, any work, please, there is absolutely nothing to do. All I did today was compile a column of quotes. Which was what I did yesterday. And the day before. And I'm pretty sure that is what I'm doing tomorrow, too.

Without me being aware of it, the half-way mark of this countdown has drifted by in a lazy hazy daze. There are now exactly 40 more days to go [well, give or take a day for the time difference, and my bad math] before I am home.

I'm hyperventilating and procrastinating at the same time over my final essay, which is still in the embryo stage. I thought I could get away with bluffing a lot of things by doing it on the SARS cover-up in China, since the ang moh lecturers aren't able to read Chinese, but the whole thing is about to explode in my face, cos I realise I have to interview the Beijing correspondents from AP, Reuters, Time mag, NYT, and other influential international publications. But my basic background research hasn't even gotten off the ground yet.

It doesn't help that I'm at The Independent during the day, even though I am not doing much actual writing, just calling people for quotes and anecdotes. [Sidetrack: Even though I'm just a lowly intern here, I am gratified that no one has made me the Coffee Gal. Everyone is self-sufficient here, unlike the chi-chi Cosmo chicks with their designer lattes.] I am so tired out from waking up early, the morning rush hour, and acting keen the whole day that when I get back, I have little energy to do my readings.

Also have to make time for sending out resumes in a last-ditch attempt to stay here, even though I haven't really figured out where I wanna be. Just keeping my options open. I'm still torn between "Dem, I need to get a job writing crap in London so I don't go back to writing crap in Singapore" and "I want my laksa with extra hum and I want it now, demmit".

It is good to be back in a proper newsroom again.

Started my two-week internship [they call it "work experience" here] at The Independent yesterday, and I feel quite at home already. There is something so familiar about the urgent hush, the clickety clack of keyboards, the TV screens with CNN droning at too low a volume, the glass boxes that the editors sit in, the messy piles of news releases, the stacks of yellowed newspapers for references, even the same surreptitious glances when you walk around the open-plan office as the new girl. So I avoid going to the loo too often.

Just eavesdropped on the slightly snooty journo next to me, who fobbed off an unwanted caller with the universal brush-off: "Why don't you send me a press release and I will get back to you [which of course I will not, because I am not interested, you dim-witted PR twit]?" His desk, by the way, can rival the legendary Magdalene Lum's, meaning it can't be seen, and loud noises will trigger off an avalanche of papers and envelopes.

I feel so at home here that I have given up all pretence of work on my second day here and already am flagrantly checking Hotmail and blogging. Even though I have been given a small story to do, I am just sitting on my ass. This is just like in those bad old days at work, when a Friday deadline seems so far away that I can't help but procrastinate. The routine of trawling through archived stories and looking for the right person to talk to is all coming back to me, in quite an unwelcome sort of way, and makes me question: "Why am I doing this? I'm too old to be an eager beaver intern all over again!"

I know I should be more pro-active [gosh, I am so the direct opposite of "pro-active" and I so hate that word] and this could be my only chance of a job here, but I used up all my enthusiasm yesterday introducing myself to everyone while smiling most ingratiatingly.

Five minutes ago, with immense amount of willpower, I mustered up the strength to pick up the phone to a potential interviewee. I think that's enough work done for the afternoon. I am truly incorrigible.

Phone call from home.

Mama: What are you doing?
Zann: Erm, reading... [Actually just woken up by phone and very groggy.]

Papa: When are you coming back?
[The arrival date had already been repeated many times over many phone calls.]
Zann: 1 September.

Mama: Do you want me and your auntie to come and help you carry your things back?
Zann: No need. I going to ship my winter clothes and books back.

Papa: When are you coming back?
Zann: [Patiently] 1 September.

Mama: Your father wants to go India again.
[Papa goes on a pilgrimage to see Sai Baba, his religious guru, every year, much to Mama's displeasure.]
Zann: Orrrrr...

Papa: When are you coming back?
Zann: [Still very patiently] 1 September. Why?
Papa: I'm going to India to see Baba.
Zann: Orrrrr...

Mama: How much is it to ship your things back? Very expensive?
Zann: I haven't checked yet.
Mama: Don't leave everything to the last minute ah. If it is very expensive, we can come and carry things back for you.
Zann: You can come if you want. It doesn't have to be for carrying my things.
Mama: No lah, no money. Because your father wants to go India.
Zann: Orrrrr...

Papa: So you are coming back on 2 September?
Zann: [At this point, Zann is torn between exasperation and amusement. She speaks with exaggerated patience.] 1 September. I leave London on 31 August and arrive in Singapore on 1 September.

Papa: Got enough money or not? [When he runs out of things to say, this is the question that invariably gets asked, and usually signals the end of the conversation.]
Zann: [Lying through her teeth] Yah, I got enough money to last until [very loudly and slowly] 1 September.

This would make a more realistic ad for international phone calls than those lame ones SingTel uses. The tagline would be "Sometimes, you don't need to say the words".

In addition to speed-reading musty journals with gripping titles such as Questioning The Media and The Political Economy Of Global Communication [or should it be Global Communication Of The Political Economy?], I have been keeping late nights with an altogether more thought-provoking book.

Hanif Kureishi's Midnight All Day was picked up a couple of days ago purely through serendipity. I had nipped under a bridge during one of those sudden downpours and found myself browsing through a makeshift second-hand book stall after swearing I would not lug any more books back to Singapore.

But these words just leapt out at me, right there in the gathering gloom under that damp bridge:

"We are unerring in our choice of lovers, particularly when we require the wrong person. There is an instinct, magnet or aerial which seeks the unsuitable. The wrong person is, of course, right for something -- to punish, bully, or humiliate us, let us down, leave us for dead, or, worst of all, give us the impression that they are not inappropriate, but almost right, thus hanging us in love's limbo. Not just anyone can do this."

Flying off without even a goodbye from a certain cheating and lying someone, and without a single word to break the hurtful, sullen silence between us since then -- I had given up trying to sort out the conflicting pangs of emotions whenever thoughts of him flit unbidden across my mind. It might not have been love, it might have felt almost right, but at least now I have the words to describe my state of mind -- Hanging in limbo.

“Have you seen the tiger in our flat?”

My flatmate nearly caused me smash the dish I was washing when she asked me the question. Seeing that she didn’t look particularly alarmed, I quickly concluded she must be referring to something else. I mean, I might have slept the whole day away today, but even I couldn’t have missed a ferocious feline prowling our hallway.

Turns out that we have a new flatmate and she is a Thai girl. She has taken over the room of the Croatian guy, but she’s been pretty stealthy and I haven’t caught a glimpse of her or even heard her make any noise at all.

I shall not be evil and make jokes about Tiger Shows, although I am dying to relate the anecdote of my temping stint at a travel agency. There was this client who kept insisting, in a secretive manner, that I book a Tiger Show for his Bangkok trip. Cluelessly, I asked my colleagues: “Should I call the zoo to book?”

[Heh, I think I just related the anecdote I said I wouldn’t.]

Yesterday was a horrible muggy day [yes, wot a Brit word -- "muggy"], and in the spirit of not just showing the bright, sunny side of life, here's the Thames with a bit of drizzle and a lot of storm clouds. See how grey and gloomy it is? Am I not justified in my constant weather complaints? It's almost depressing enough to drive a person to jump off the bridge. I might have made the pix black and white to enhance the pseudo arty effect, but it was pretty bleak even without my embellishment.

Bai kar update: I've been prescribed a new type of medicine from Professor Black. Must say his name in an awestruck tone as some sort of talisman that the meds will work this time.

Untitled (Boy In Red Cardigan), by William Eggleston

I may not have a good eye when it comes to taking photos, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good one when I see it. Just spent the whole afternoon wishing I have the talent to give so many layers of meaning to a simple photograph, after wandering around my fave Tate Modern at this exhibition called Cruel + Tender. Such an evocative and brilliant title. Not only does it capture the nuances of the photos so well, it also triggers all kinds of emotions.

It is just too bad that the website with its dinky-sized photos doesn't convey the same mood. But anyway, I just thought I'd share those glorious colours in Boy In Red Cardigan.

Once upon a time, I had such great legs that they were used for a photo shoot.

Now, I just have bai kar which hurt all the time, sometimes so bad that I can't even sleep without twitching in pain. All the horrible wounds and swelling make my feet look like pig trotters. I have to take pills that have such strong side-effects that other meds have to be precribed to keep them in check. And don't even get me started on all those pretty shoes I can't fit into anymore.

And yet, after more than 10 months since the blood clots and wounds started appearing for no apparent reason, I am no nearer to being cured, or even an accurate diagnosis. The specialists I saw [four in total] think it is some sort of immune system failure, but since the meds aren't working, they are left scratching their heads.

After screaming at the inefficient NHS for the umpteenth time and a two-month wait, finally, finally, finally, tomorrow I am going to see a supposed pre-emininent specialist in the field. His name is Professor Black [like some sort of Cluedo character] and I'm hoping he will solve the case of the mysterious foot ailment.

Wish I had kept a copy of that shoe story from long ago, so I can at least ogle at my own legs when they were at their best. Oh well, there goes any career plans as a leg model. Dem.

Common Sense, by Martin Parr

This photo [part of an exhibition I'm dying to see next week] was the inspiration for my donuts, which turned out to be a delicious disaster. Sure, deep-fried dough smothered in icing sugar does sound remarkably like donuts, but mine do not have the look or taste of the real thing. For one, they do not have holes in the middle. For another, the texture is closer to biscuit than to bread. But they are yummy nonetheless. Deep-fried anything is always yummy.

Now that I have exhausted my inner Martha Stewart with that bout of cooking and baking and vacuuming and laundering, tomorrow I can truly concentrate on my reading and research. Well, that's the plan anyway.

Fell asleep under the blazing sun while writing. Woken up by buzzing of bees around me. Instead of being alarmed and frightened of being stung, I tried groggily to take a pix cos they were so fat, fuzzy and cute. They appeared as little black dots among the daisies, much to my disappointment. And I thought my photography skills were improving. At least you can see how bright the sun was for a change and how pretty my new pink clogs are.

Continuation of Zann's culinary adventures: My mee rebus was a hit with my flatmate, who was so satisfied that she wanted to pay me for cooking her a meal that she compared to Wagamama [London forerunner of Singapore's Nooch]. Of course, the fact that she is Korean and has no idea what mee rebus is supposed to taste/look/smell like helps.

I highly recommend this packet sauce thingy to all cheaterbugger chefs. It is pretty authentic and almost idiot-proof, although I doubt anyone back home will be bothered to make their own when they can just have it so cheap and convenient at the hawker centre. I miss the S$1 mee rebus at the office canteen. As the smiley stallholder never fails to say in that unmistakable Mat drawl: "Power, member!"

I've cracked the recipe for Champinones Al Ajillo [or going by its more mundane name, button mushrooms with garlic and olive oil] on my second try. Turns out that the secret ingredient is balsamic vinegar, as it is in so many other dishes like spaghetti bolognese, grilled pork chop and even chicken salad.

Very pleased with my success in kitchen experimentation, so here's my bastardised version of a classic tapas dish:

Finely chop enough garlic to overpower a vampire. Heat saucepan and saute garlic in extra virgin olive oil. Throw in button mushrooms and lower heat. Add about 3 tablespoons of lemon juice and same amount of balsamic vinegar. Allow to simmer until liquid is almost gone. In the meantime, quickly chop a big bunch of parsley. Remove saucepan from heat, add salt and pepper to taste and top with parsley. Enjoy!

Still on my fave subject of food. In the short space of five days, I have managed to stuff 1 kg of bak kwa down my throat. I would have prefered to savour the precious contraband smuggled from Singapore to London via Frankfurt and Barcelona, but was warned that bak kwa does not have eternal life, unlike, say, beef jerky. Not that I minded the excuse to gorge.

Tomorrow, I am going on a supermarket sweep. Isn't it pathetic that the highlight of my week is a trip to Sainsbury's? But, in my anal retentive way, I'm already making my shopping list, cos I intend to make mee rebus [from a packet of ready-made sauce my sis brought from Singapore half a year ago which I forgot all about] and donut holes [easier to shape and easier to devour in large quantities]. More gorging to come in the following days.

In an attempt to prevent the Spanish mood -- they call it alegria -- from dissipating too quickly, I have been incorporating a siesta into my already very lazy daily routine. Also made an attempt to bask in the sun while reading, but was thwarted by those ever-present London clouds from improving my feeble tan.

Have been dreaming and drooling over the Spanish version of hot chocolate, which is basically molten Nutella, so viscous that you can stand your spoon in it. Mmmmmm. Dunno how to make it though, so I'll resort to eating Nutella from the jar as has become my dirty little habit. It's a less sensuous pleasure, but it will have to do.

So, instead, I decided to focus on making my favourite tapas of button mushrooms in garlic and parsley. Super yummy, quite healthy, and most importantly, appeared to be easy to make.

But somehow, my dish just didn't capture the Spanish flavour. Maybe it was because, instead of the Spanish ingredients stated in the recipe, I used Italian olive oil, British white mushrooms, and garlic and parsley from who-knows-where. Maybe I need to bung even more salt in to make it tastier. [Salt brings out the flavour in everything, but that is just my unproven theory.] Or maybe I'm just a plain lousy cook.

Geez, computer morons like me shouldn't try tweaking html with just knowledge of how to make bold and italic text. Sorry about the messy margins and weird colour and strange photo sizes, but I'm still trying to clean things up.

I know it sounds callous of me, but it must be a particularly slow day in the newsroom when the deaths of the Iranian Siamese twins is the top story on all the networks here. I mean, the odds weren't that good to start with. But I must admit I was half-expecting a "triumph of the indomitable human spirit and marvels of modern medicine" type of story.

In other non-related news, I finished reading the latest Harry Potter in three nights and developed serious biceps and triceps from the pure weight of that immense tome. Now, why is it I didn't shed a single tear when I heard that the twins died, but got all bleary eyed over the demise of an imaginary character in a book about a teenaged wizard?

Sorry to inflict this on you if you are the sort who gets dead bored by holiday snapshots. I know I am only entranced by my own pix, self-absorbed creature that I am. Other people's vacation pix either make me jealous at seeing places I wish to be or my eyes just glaze over cos the photo can seldom convey the actual sense of the place and capture the mood of the moment.

The pix are gonna take some time to load. And I give you full permission to click "STOP" anytime and escape from this page.


Check out those uncooked chicken fillets! Obviously, I was too busy lounging on the beach to even get up to attempt a decent pix of the quaint seaside resort of Tossa de Mar.


The view from the top of the ancient Roman village was worth rousing ourselves from siesta to make the climb. We came up almost everyday to try to catch sunset, but somehow never made it. Once we were too late, another time it was too cloudy, and most embarrassingly, once we were gazing in the east instead of the west.


Lovely square called Placa Reial in Barcelona where we stayed. You can't see the shabbiness and the years of dirt on the walls, but that just adds to the charm of the place.


The one and only pix Lilian and I took together. Just shows how camera shy we are. [Or rather how reluctant I am to have my fat face placed next to hers and compared. Please email me to reassure me that I have not put on weight, although I will not believe you much.]


The one must-see sight in Barcelona, for me at least, is La Pedrera. It was my second time there and I was still captivated. The building is out of some fantasy world, all wavy and curvy, and the rooftop is a magnificent playground, with all these chimneys that look like knights on guard.


All those gorgeous tiles were everywhere in Seville -- walls, benches, window sills, ceilings, even the undersides of balconies -- but I didn't know how to capture the details on my laopok featureless camera.


Hopelessly lost in the many winding lanes of Seville and enjoying it. I spent most of the time peering into people's patios instead of looking at road names.


How is it possible for carved stone to look like lace? I am still amazed...


This place is huge, double the size of what you can see, and almost every surface is totally covered with tiles. I am not exaggerating. Known as Plaza de Espanya, it was built to be a mammoth showcase of the best of Spain in 1929 or something. [I tend to forget unimportant details like that.]

End of tedious holiday slideshow. I'm afraid you will have to return to doing actual work now.

There I was, channel surfing the pathetic five stations I have last night, when my finger stopped pressing the buttons at a familiar sight. It was Raffles Hospital on the news, the same hospital that where I'd gone numerous times for bai kar treatment, and where I stayed in when I had suspected appendicitis.

Gosh, it was like I felt homesick for a hospital. Or rather, I longed for the efficiency of the health system in Singapore. The NHS here truly deserves its awful reputation -- I just got an appointment to see a bai kar specialist after waiting for more than two months. In the meantime, I was limping all over Spain without proper medication.

Anyway, Raffles Hospital seems to be doing a very good PR job. Not surprising, since it is a high-class hospital with lots of money, a baby grand in the lobby, bellhops to hail cabs for you and Power Point presentations of appendicitis operations to freak you out. Oh, and there is a bunch of lousy useless doctors there who never managed to cure my bai kar. I really hope they don't fudge the operation to seperate those curiously cheerful Iranian twins.

As I watched the twins posing like movie stars, a familiar stick-like figure jostled his way to the front of the pack and started shooting. It was good old Straits Times photog Francis Ong and his trusty camera! I lapped up the sight of his curry-pok hair and those tight pants he has worn since the '60s. It's reassuring to know some things will still be the same when I get back to work.

Almost 24 hours of blissful sleep. And it isn't enough still. My comforter is so warm and cuddly, my pillow is just the perfect firmness, my sheets still have the faint lovely scent of vanilla, and my bed is perfectly horizontal, which is more than I can say about horribe unreclinable plane seats and airport benches that have arm rests to deter people from lying down. And in case anyone is surprised, my cheap flight home on DifficultJet was delayed. At one point during the interminable wait, surrounded by loud Spanish voices and even louder Brit ones, I looked around the anonymous departure lounge, totally disoriented and wondered, "Where the hell am I?"

Was woken up by flat mate just now who wanted to see my failure of a tan. She proclaimed that my face is a different colour from the other parts of my body. The SUNKILLER [yes, that is the actual brand name and it can only be Japanese] that we used on our faces must have been very powerful, more super duper than the SPF 40 sun protection that we had on the body.

During the same time while I was in Spain, some people I know also went on trips, but more exciting ones than mine. One went to Ho Chi Minh to bribe officials to start an IT school. Another flew from Sydney to Tokyo to track down the love of his life to propose to her -- after not seeing her for five years.

My trip of sun, shopping and a little bit of sangria seems quite ordinary in comparison, and I have the usual tourist snaps to show. So, coming up the next time I surface from deep sleep, 100 lousy amateur photos of Spain [with only ONE consisting of both Lilian and I, since we are so camera shy]. You have been warned.

Last few hours in Barcelona. Simply too tired to see any more sights or scout for any more sales. Have been trudging around many Zara and Mango stores since arriving by train at 10 am. Surprisingly, the sleeper train wasn't the nightmare I thought it would be. Unlike the last time, when we were packed like sardines in triple decker bunks, this time round, I only had to share with three other women, and there was even enough space between the beds to stretch my legs. The chugging motion of trains is really quite hypnotic and soothing, and I slept quite well, until rudely woken up by the ticket inspector at 8 am.

Credit card has been having a major workout today, so much so that I'm afraid that I'm about to hit my credit limit [cos I have also charged to the same card two air tickets, two separate hotel expenses and countless meals all over Spain].

Just to scare myself into stopping this shopping spree [and no more shopping when I get back to London, despite the summer sales!], here's what I bought in about four hours today:
-- denim jacket which I rationalise I will need to summer in London, since it is always cold at night
-- cute skirt which can be dressed up or dressed down
-- two wrinkled effect shirts so I don't have to do any ironing with the laopok iron in my flat
-- striped bikini top I've been eyeing since Day 1 and I managed to snag the second-last piece on sale
-- lovely set of lingerie including lacy bra, French knickers, thong, camisole, etc. Simply could not resist getting everything, since I feel ill at ease whenever I wear mis-matched underwear

Okie, enough shallow talk about shopping.

I realised that this is probably the last trip I'm gonna be taking for a very long time. With the state of my finances when I return to Singapore, I'd be lucky if I can even afford a trip to my favourite Bangkok.

And after travelling solo in quite a few places, I realise that I can be independent, but it is not my favourite way of travelling. Catching trains and planes alone, ordering and eating alone, wandering around vast monuments alone -- I can do all that without problems, and I quite enjoy the freedom and solitude most of the time. But sometimes, I wish that there is someone with me to worry about missing the last train or getting the date wrong or finding the hotel or losing the passport, and I can just do absolutely nothing.

Gosh, look at the time. I am down to my last 5 euros or so, just a handful of coins left in my pouch, hopefully enough to pay for the Internet usage. And then I'm off to catch the bus to the airport, where I will have more time to kill. At times like these, I really wish I can teleport, and be at home in an instant [And strangely, I regard my tiny flat in London as my home now more than Gillman Heights in Singapore].

First thing to do when I get home is to take a very very very long bath followed by a very very very long nap. Somehow, no matter how long I bathe here or how much sleep I try to get, I never feel clean or rested enough. This 40-hour journey home is no joke.

Some people say it is the journey, not the destination that counts. I have this overly romanticised image in my head of this girl on a rickety bus with the windows open to the dusty road. Her hair is flying in the wind, her head is resting on her backpack and in her hands is a dog-eared book with its pages falling off the spine. And as she finishes reading each yellowed page, she holds it out of the window and it flutters away.

Well, my journey is a lot less romantic, but at least I'm getting there.

Sweltering in Seville now. Wearing a boob tube doesn´t seem to help with the heat, though the sticky sweat does keep the thing from sliding off. Taking a respite from the 30 deg C heat now in lovely air-conditioned cafe. Too much sun, too much sight-seeing.

Considering that I have only 48 hours in Seville, I really think I must have been mad to take a train here all the way from Barcelona. Total journey time is more than 24 hours. But I must say the sights here are more than worth it, since I just love looking at old buildings, winding little streets, grand palaces, quaint little squares, etc. The mix of Moorish, Christian and Mudejar architecture is simply stunning, and I just can´t stop taking pictures of those blue-yellow mosaic tiles, light-as-lace archways and marble columns. Even my hotel is gorgeous, with an indoor courtyard filled with plants and sunlight where you can have free breakfast.

I really dunno how to describe how amazing the buildings are, and I know my photography skills will not be up to scratch, so here is a pix I stole off the Net.


Just replace the woman in the pix with a mental image of me.

Just going to take it easy for the rest of the day, because the next 40 hours or so are going to be hell. I have to lug my backpack to the train station to catch the sleeper to Barcelona at 10 pm. Upon arriving in Barcelona at 8 am the next day, I will have to rush to Zara, Mango, TopShop, etc to try and get some last minute bargains, cos the sales started on 1 July.

Then, I have to collect my other luggage from storage and make my way to airport for a night flight. I´m very sure that EasyJet will be delayed, as it was on my way here, and I will arrive at Stansted airport too late to catch the last train. So I will have to spend the night at the airport. I can only imagine how dishevelled I will look by then. And I am tired just thinking of dragging my suitcase from tain to plane to train and then finally up four flight of stairs to my flat.

Oh, I just received an email with my Media Law exam results. The exam was way back in February, and I was quite freaked out cos I was sure I had flubbed the essay questions and will be a borderline failure. Well, to my immense surprise, I passed. And apparently, I had an "outstanding" 79 marks, according to my lecturer. I just hope he didn´t make a mistake, cos there is this other super-on Suzanne in my course.

Okie, time now to go back into the scorching afternoon sun. I can´t believe I´m saying this, but I am rather looking forward to the weather in London that I´m always complaining about.