ready, get set...

The clothes have been taken down for the move to the shop.


The Swirl Girls are excited over their new mirrors.


The mirror uncle is amused by the enthusiasm over shiny reflective surfaces.


Sneak preview of the shop decor.


Gee Wee Goes To New York's new display.


The glass cabinet we got for $30.


You do know pink is our favourite colour? And this is just one of the four chandeliers we have.


We're so poor, we're making our own paperbags. All 500 of them.

bali hai hai

Welcome to my villa at the Bvlgari Resort. I was the first one to ever stay in it -- and the very first guest to arrive at the resort.


I spent more time in the bathroom than in the bedroom.


The biggest bathroom I've ever been in. And I adore the tub and the outdoor shower (straight ahead, just beyond the glass doors).


View from the deck by day...


...and by night.


The, erm, pool. Duh.


At the private beach. Which we were brought to by helicopter. How decadent is that.


This is the best my lousy camera can do. I've always preferred sunsets -- a time to reflect on the day past.

bali hai

Feeling right at ommm at the Como Shambhala Estate.


Water ballet performance.

seoul searching

Missy and me.


Korean pancake and me.

shady business

This is so genius I have to share it asap. I can't believe it's made of Post-Its! Reminds me of Lady Liberty's torch.

I'm now looking around my place for any lampshade and leftover Post-Its I can use to experiment.

where's wally?

This is fun. Find 100 movie titles hidden in this picture. Now, go entertain yourself while I slog over the shop opening.

pr offensive

Lately, I've been dealing with this PR girl.

She's poised and perfectly groomed. Good dress sense too. Not conventionally pretty, but feminine and sweet. Long-haired and slim, butofcos.

From past experience, I expect PR girls to be incompetent airheads or fake air-kissing wannabes, but she is none of those. Intelligent, well-spoken, always polite and helpful even when I forget to email her my questions as promised. Or when I can't be bothered to give her the time of the day when she calls. Like today, for instance.

For, despite how inoffensive she is, I hate hate hate her. I imagine this is how his girlfriend to be -- she is exactly his type. And he told me before that she works in PR.

I feel an insane and irrational urge to be truly nasty every time I have to deal with this poor innocent PR girl.

Clearly, I have unresolved issues.

absence makes the heart grow something

More fragments from my brief blogging hiatus this month.

The same guy who wheeled me through the "Walk" of Shame at the Bali airport was assigned to escort me through Customs on my second visit. We eyed each other uncertainly when we met again. Him not sure if he recognised me merely from the top of my head, since that was what he spent a good 15 minutes staring at while pushing the wheelchair. Me equally unsure, as I only remember his cheery voice. Finally, after casting surretitious glances at each other for a good five minutes at the conveyor belt, he asked apologetically, "This is not your first trip to Bali, is it?"

Finally, I can stop moonlighting as a property agent. I have a new housemate at last. Her name is Claire, she's a teacher from south London -- not far from where I used to live! -- who now teaches at a private school. We're still at the super-polite stage, still sussing each other out, not unlike the way scaredy cat Memphis is going about it. So far, she seems easy-going and friendly and clean.

It's terribly disconcerting to walk around a resort and have every bellboy, chambermaid and butler you run into greet you as "Miss Suzanne" in a singsong voice. How do they even know my name? And amazingly, no one calls me "Susan", even though my seamstress -- who has known me for more than a year -- still calls me that. Mousey constantly says my name to her in an attempt to subliminally correct her, but it hasn't worked. Oh, and my theme song should be Whitney Houston's My Name Is Not Susan.

We have two more mannequins to name. There is already Jaime -- sexually ambiguous name for a sexually ambiguous doll -- and Aubrey, our first girl mannequin. What to name the other two girls?

I got Skype and my webcam working, so talk to me! You can also watch me pottering around my room. So far, the only person I've used it with is my sissy who's in China.

rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated

I'm back -- in more ways than you can imagine.

[Frazzled fragments of memory listed below in lieu of a proper post.]

Back from a whirl-wind junket to Seoul for adidas to interview Missy Elliott, which I must confess I knew little about pre-trip. But good hardworking journo that I am, I did my research and I managed to bluff my way through, with lots of help from Wikipedia.

The misnamed Misdemeanour was thoroughly nice, though completely air-brushed in her publicity pix. In person, she reminds me of a giant brown raisin. And she is, like, double my size. [Pix to come to prove my point.]

Midnight in Seoul and we [three journos and one adidas guy] decided we had to have ginseng chicken soup before we left the next afternoon. Or rather, one journo insisted and the rest of us were too nice to object to the wild chicken chase. Along the way, we learnt what it is called in Korean -- say "sang geng tung" or something close to that, and the helpful Korean people will put you in a cab and direct the driver to bring you to a restaurant.

A distracted dinner on the flight home from Seoul resulted in food poisoning. I swear it was the smoked salmon I absent-mindedly ate while watching X-Men 3 [which once again reinforced my opinion that I really don't miss much with my self-imposed cinema ban], but SQ begged to differ.

This was the reply to my complain letter:

"Thank you for sharing with us your experience on flight SQ 17 from Seoul to Singapore on 8 September 2006.

I am very sorry and concerned to learn that you had taken ill after your flight and I appreciate the tremendous discomfort and inconvenience you experienced on this occasion. Upon receiving your email, I had initiated an investigation into the matter with our In-flight Services Manager and our caterers in Seoul and I hope you will allow me to share my findings.

May I firstly share with you that we regularly conduct food-sampling tests on our in-flight meals to ensure that they meet our stringent standards of food quality and hygiene. When there is a breach, it will usually show up in the tests. As we prepare our in-flight meals in batches rather than individually, one indicator of a breach is the incidence of several cases of food poisoning from passengers on the same flight.

To this date, we have not received similar reports of food poisoning from other passengers on this flight. Also, our laboratory sampling tests for the smoked salmon you had consumed are shown to be microbiologically satisfactory, without any irregularities.

Nonetheless, please be assured that I have personally shared your experience with our Food & Beverage Manager, who will review it with our caterers concerned to continue ensuring that our stringent standards of food hygiene are adhered to strictly."

In other words, SQ is implying that I didn't get food poisoning from their single-serving meal but from some rubbish I ate instead. I have yet to formulate a reply because my retort is an infuriated, "So you saying I lied izzit?"

The dreadful smoked salmon, which I am now forever turn off by, left me retching at 6am into the toilet bowl. And I had another plane to catch to Bali in three hours. It's tough being a high-flying jet-setter.

I had to see a doctor at the airport before flying and was knocked out throughout the flight. In my weakened state, upon arrival, I needed a wheelchair to go through immigration. My lurve, who had so kindly asked me to be her plus one for the trip which she had won, snapped photos of my chagrined face as the friendly guide wheeled me through the airport. [Photos to come when my lurve, another jet-setter, returns from cavorting with cute Italian boys in Portofino.]

I made a miraculous recovery in the wonderfully luxurious Como Shambhala resort. We had an entire two-storey villa to ourselves. The size of the bathroom was bigger than my bedroom at home. [Pix to make you turn green to come.]

Received an SMS which informed me that he dreamt of me, which I filed under "Annoying/Interesting" in my mental cabinet.

Came back reluctantly and guiltily to the mad rush of preparing the shop for opening. Did a faintly ridiculous opening-of-doors ceremony, which involved throwing rice and salt in the corners, muttering auspicious "fa" words while giggling, and placing four extremely large oranges in the middle of the shop.

Lots of aggravating phone calls to banks about credit card facilities and corporate accounts. Did you know you need to maintain $10,000 for a corporate account? And you only get interest if you have more than $100,000 in the bank? Preposterous!

We bought some essentials for the shop -- mirrors, mannequins -- and also some frivolous items, such as a swing. Did some painting [Mousey did the bulk of it and she claims that she is now "more stupider" from inhaling the fumes], installed some chandeliers. [There will be four in total in the shop! How extravagant!]

There was a laidback Hawaii 3-4 birthday party with so much tender lamb and beef that I couldn't sleep well that night, the weight of all those dead sheep and cows were weighing on my conscience -- and my stomach.

Then it was off to Bali -- again. This time it was for a junket for a new resort by Bvlgari. I thought nothing could top Como Shambhala, already one of the most expensive resorts on the island, but I was wrong.

There was a US$5,000 ocean-view villas, an in-house jewellery store, gourmet meals, and helicopter rides to the beach. But really, I wished my lurve had been there with me. [Pix to come. Don't hate me for living the high life, if only for three days. The reason pix have yet to be uploaded is that I got my new MacBook -- at last! -- and I've yet to sort it out to my liking. I'm very anal about how my desktop looks and all those preferences.]

I dreamt of him while in Bali and texted to inform him. Somehow, he thinks I'm having an affair with someone, so I let him continue thinking it. Filed that under "Annoying/Interesting" as well.

More elf work to be done. Packing the stuff for movers on Thursday. Will be exciting to see all the furniture and lights and fixtures in the shop. Fixing patterns and samples to be ready for party season. Making signage and stamps and namecards and paper bags and a million other things. Any elf volunteers would be greatly appreciated.

Anyway. I'm back.

see through me

On Monday, to stave off the blues, I wore an OZOC dress that I had stun from my sissy, seeing that she's away in China again.

It was a diaphanous dark navy blue, all chiffony, really lurvely, with cream piping and a silky ribbon, and a nude-coloured lining below.

Unbeknownst to me, however, it was also translucent, horrendously so.

Only the forthright Ms C was frank enough to tell me that she could see my G-string when I bent over. But I didn't realise it was that bad until I happened catch a glimpse of myself in the loo, with little left to the imagination.

But by then, it was too late. I had already shown half the office my skimpy black underthings.

[No photos accompanying this post, for obvious reasons.]

Post script: My sissy says, "At least you were wearing nice undies!"

send her packing

What do you wear to a press conference slash fashion show slash hiphop party? On a car showroom rooftop? Which will go on till midnight? In chilly autumn? In Seoul?

Pile on the bling? That's so not me. Velour purple hoodie, courtesy of L? A bit too snug, I don't want to stretch it irreversibly. Clubby clothes? Too skimpy and unprofessional. Heels? Cold feet, literally. Skinny jeans? Water retention, so can't fit. Tiny clutch? Nah, have to carry shorthand pad.

That was what kept me awake last night after trying to pack. When I should have been racking my brains over intelligent-sounding questions to ask Missy Elliott.

smile 101

Enough of being a crybaby over spilt milk. I cheered myself up with a new dress from Lipstick Bandit.


The Girl Next Door cheered me up with these pretty beads from Bali.


Mini flamingo perched among basil leaves, which makes me smile everytime I look at it while I do the dishes.


Flamingo pen, which is too cute to use.


Saltest should be a word, even though I'm not sure what it should mean.


My Wabbit Book I bought on a whim [cos how can anyone resist a bunny in tighty whiteys], which will be used to record all happy/nice/pretty/pink things to cheer me up when I feel down.

i'm too sad to tell you

Came across this on the truly excellent Fashion is Spinach and had to pause and take a moment. Because it is precisely what I feel now.

Artist Bas Jan Ader sent this photo, I'm Too Sad To Tell You, on a postcard to his friends but never revealed what it was that made him cry, only that it was genuine.

tired of being tired

ME: I'm so tired. Why do we need men?
LURVE: I dunno sigh. And we never learn from our mistakes either.
ME: Surely everyone deserves to find love? Why is it so hard for some and so easy for others? It's just not fair!
LURVE: Because life's not fair! And lurve is a battlefield.
ME: I'm tired, lurve... It shouldn't be this hard. Or this unfair.
LURVE: I don't know how to answer, lurve. I think a lot has to do with finding peace within, of not always wanting or needing, and just being still and happy with yourself. There's a reason for everything, even sadness and pain. I think it's to teach us to face our deepest fears so that when what we really really want -- and deserve -- arrives, you'll truly appreciate it and treasure it.
ME: I know I'm whining but I feel like I always have to work so hard for anything I want... To study overseas, to start a business, to even just be healthy... Surely I'm not such a rotten person that I don't deserve anything good to happen to me without me having to work for it?
LURVE: That I cannot answer. But lurve, you have many blessings in your life. You're not stuck working full-time, you've had some success with Swirl, you have been in good health for quite a while and you have friends who care very much about you. Things could be a lot worse than that.
ME: Yes, things can be worse. But my point is that I've had to work so hard at it just to be a little happy, contented, successful or whatever. And frankly, I'm tired.

Yes, I know, we have to work hard for things we want, nothing in life is free, and anyway, I don't trust things which come too easily. But is it too much to ask for someone to be there to hold me and let me rest, just for a while, when I'm too tired to carry on?

And of course, even when you have someone, you have to work at it to keep it going. Which brings me back to...I'm so tired.

photo shop

The latest Swirl fashion shoot photos are out. See anything you like?

Thanks to Alfie for his usual outstanding work and Sheryl for being so sporting.

ask not for whom the bell tolls

As I snuggled fitfully under the covers, trying to prolong the state of being semi awake, the thought snuck up on me: "He's getting married."

Call it premonition or woman's intuition or something akin to that. I felt it would be happening very soon. Or it could be still some time in the future. But, eventually, he would marry her. That's for sure. And I was the trigger, the catalyst, the one who made him realise he can't play anymore.

There was an uncomfortable stab -- not quite a dagger, not even a pen knife, more like a blunt pencil, maybe -- somewhere in the region of my heart. And I woke up completely.

down with monkeys

Mischievous monkeys strike again. I'm not sure if I can mention the lawsuit here, but it's enough to say us swirly tigers are plagued with problems this month indeed.

M was so distraught she shed tears. I fumed so much I had to call my twin to vent. And then I got so upset I had to call a certain someone, thereby breaking the unspoken agreement we had about unspeaking.

HE: You can call me anytime to whinge ok?
ME: Ummmkay.
[In the background, a girl's voice asked him whether he was coming.]
HE: I have to go.
ME: [Simultaneously] You better go.

monkey business

For all you Tigers out there -- like me and Mousey -- this is supposed to be a very bad month as it is the Monkey month. And Monkeys and Tigers don't get along. So be careful until 24 August.

on air

I've been telling everyone to plug in to Pandora, but if you still don't believe me how marvellous and fantastic and easy it is, just click on the stations below the archives on the right.

I'm such a groupie, I actually wrote fan mail to Pandora. And they replied! The very next day! I lurve Pandora!

there's still room

The search for a housemate to rent the third room at my place is still on.

So far, people interested include:
-- a Filipino insurance exec [she's the one who bailed on us two days before moving in cos her boyfriend proposed to her and they're moving to Hong Kong]
-- a Thai doctor [a friend recommended her, but she's been too busy to come see the place]
-- a Malaysian salesman [he sends SMSs with everything spelt out and perfect grammar and all]
-- a Korean travel agent [she hardly said a word, my friend who brought her did all the talking]
-- a Chinese engineer [he looks decent enough, ie. not the tikopek type of Chinaman]
-- a French chef [as in he is from France and he cooks for a French restaurant down the road]
-- a Singaporean journalist [this is our first choice cos she lurves cats]

I've shown the house so many times now, I've got the spiel down pat. "There are two bathroooms, but we usually use the one upstairs, there is a washing machine and dryer, there is fan and aircon, the room is a good size and faces the backyard, so it's quiet..."

If you know of anyone looking for a room, email me. I'm tired of acting like a property agent.

luckier tan

For those who miss him, here's Lucky Tan's new home.

But he is a poor substitute for my fave horse, Rockson.

lights, camera, inaction

Channel U is filming a segment of some fashion/beauty show at our place today. So it was up at the crack of dawn -- ok ok, it was 8am, but that's too early for an off day! -- to vacuum the carpet of cat hair off the sofa and prepare for the crew's arrival.

They are out for lunch now, so I can take a break from sitting quietly and doing nothing. I'm bored outta my brains, need a nap dreadfully, and can't wait for them to be gone, though I know I should be grateful for the free publicity.

The programme is on 21 August on Channel U and is called Follow Your Dreams, whatever that means.

open the box

I'd read about it but didn't believe the hype, until sweet Jess blogged about the miracle of Pandora. Yeah, I know, like, duh, who doesn't know about Pandora, duh. And my playlists are, you know, so embarrasingly so not with it, but, okay, whatever.

Just key in any song or artist you love and it will create an entire radio station for you based on that.

I was plugged in all day at work. It made my day. It will make yours, too.

don't fudge a book by its cover

From The Observer Blog:

Ridiculous as it may sound, publishing's latest obsession is the repackaging of classics.

You might have thought that there would not be much mileage in giving poor old Dickens and Eliot whizzy new covers and panting new jacket blurbs but, if so, you'd be wrong, fulminates Rachel Cooke.

Publishers think this stuff makes a difference and they have the sales figures to prove it. 'We find that when we publish multiple editions of the same title, they always work,' Adam Freudenheim, the publisher of Penguin Classics told The Bookseller recently. 'You end up reaching more readers by a different format, a different look.'

This year has brought us two new editions of Jane Austen - one from Penguin Red Classics, and one from Headline. Both look pretty awful, if you ask me - Georgette Heyer meets Jane Green is the best description I can come up with. Likewise with Bronte's Wuthering Heights or Nabokov's Lolita: have a look yourself.

The publishers would say that I am simply being snobbish. Their watchword is 'relevant'; they don't want to 'intimidate' readers; a great story is a great story - full stop.

Why, I wonder, must everything be made to seem so easy?

Jane Austen isn't a writer of mere romances; she's far more complex - and savage - than that. In this week's arts column, I'm asking if this isn't just a kind of cynicism on the part of publishers: are they duping people into buying books that, once they've opened, they will find unpalatable, even unreadable?

Or is anything at all that increases sales of classic novels something for which we should give grateful thanks? Are there less well-known classic novels that you think could actually benefit from a marketing push for today's readers or should we leave well alone?

How many times have I bought a book solely for its cover?

hoarding

... is a sign of a troubled mind.

What does it say, then, that I've hoarded these photos of the stuff I hoarded in my old room at Gillman and only uncovered them now?

swirl

The strange death of modern advertising
By Maurice Saatchi
June 21, 2006, Financial Times

Sometimes I feel as though I am standing at the graveside of a well-loved friend called advertising.

The funeral rites have been observed. The gravediggers have done their work. The mourners are assembled. Most of them are embarrassed to say they ever knew the deceased. “Advertising?” they say, “I’m not in that business.”

At the age of only 50, advertising was cut down in its prime. Advertising holding companies used to boast about their share of the advertising market. Now they are proud of how much of their business is not in advertising. How did this happen?

The first stage in the illness, they said, was sociology – the family no longer gathered to watch television. So they said, the 30-second commercial was finished.

The next symptom was technology – because, they said, even if family members were all in the same house, they would not all be watching the same screen. Laptops, mobile phones, iPods, games – all brought more media fragmentation, more channels, more choice, more complication.

Now, the diagnosis is that it is all in the mind – it is all a question of psychology.

Today, social scientists divide the world between digital natives and digital immigrants. Anyone over 25 is a digital immigrant. He or she has had to learn the digital language. The digital native learnt it like you learnt your mother tongue, effortlessly as you grew up. The digital immigrant struggles and forever has a thick, debilitating accent.

The latest affliction, according to neuroscience – and this was the death knell – is that the digital native’s brain is physically different as a result of the digital input it received growing up. It has rewired itself. It responds faster. It sifts out. It recalls less.

This, apparently, is what makes it possible for a modern teenager, in the 30 seconds of a normal television commercial, to take a telephone call, send a text, receive a photograph, play a game, download a music track, read a magazine and watch commercials at x6 speed. They call it “CPA”: continuous partial attention. The result: day-after recall scores for television advertisements have collapsed, from 35 per cent in the 1960s to 10 per cent today.

So, they say, sociology, technology and psychology have put advertising in its box. If you are in advertising, you are about to be buried. What to do? There is only one option left: to pray.

Conveniently, a Bible has been placed beside you in the box. Because you are a God-fearing person, you open it. Through divine good fortune, it falls open at the exact right page to show you your escape route.

You find the way out in the gospel of St John:
In the beginning was the Word . . .
You read on:
. . . and the Word was God.

No copywriter could put it better. The word is the brand’s guide, protector, defender and saviour.

The word comes first and it is singular – one word, not several words. For a brand, the word comes before all actions, in all media, at all times.

Two words is not God. It is two gods, and two gods are one too many.

The word is the saviour because in each category of global business, it will only be possible for one brand to own one particular word. And some of them have already been booked.

Each brand can only own one word. Each word can only be owned by one brand. Take great care before you pick your word. It is going to be the god of your brand.

Try this simple test on your own company’s products or services.

Pick a brand. Any brand.

Now, think of what you are trying to say. Can you precisely describe, in one word, the particular value, the characteristic, the emotion, you are trying to make your own?

If it runs to a sentence, you have a problem. A paragraph? Sell your shares.

Why? Because nowadays only brutally simple ideas get through. They travel lighter, they travel faster.

What I am describing here is a new business model for marketing, appropriate to the digital age. In this model, companies compete for global ownership of one word in the public mind.

This is “one word equity”.

In this new business model, companies seek to build one word equity – to define the one characteristic they most want instantly associated with their brand around the world, and then own it. That is one-word equity.

It is the modern equivalent of the best location in the high street, except the location is in the mind.

For example, the word “search” is now owned by Google. For 20 years, “favourite” was owned by British Airways. Sony used to own “innovation”, but that word has probably now been taken by Apple. Royal Bank of Scotland, in its US marketing, will soon own “action”. The same applies to political parties or countries – Britain’s Labour party won three elections with the word “new”. America’s one-word equity is “freedom”.

The challenge is to find the word, the word that guides everywhere. And once it is found, never to forsake it. How do you find that word? There are 750,000 words in the English language. How do you know which is the right one? It is difficult.

To reduce the complex to the simple without being simplistic requires, in the words of Bertrand Russell, the painful necessity of thought.

The pain comes from the ruthless paring down of the paragraph to the sentence and the sentence down to the word. One-word equity is the most priceless asset in the new world of the new technologies. Discover it and you have the route to salvation and eternal life.

So says the advertising mogul who is the executive director of M&C Saatchi. I feel reassured that Swirl is just one word.

tupperware party

I chanced upon a Tupperware outlet on my way to run my elf errands at Arab Street. And the friendly promoter auntie -- who probably earns more than me with the MLM scheme she was trying to recruit me for -- is going to get my 20-year-old container replaced.

They weren't kidding about that lifetime guarantee.





My current objects of desire are this salad spinner and this sleek microwave-able set. Mmmm...

on a grey sunday afternoon

He¹ gave me his car, grudgingly. Or rather, I nicked it while he was puffing on a cigar. When he found out, he said: "Okay, you can keep it to remind yourself not to message the idiot. Look at the car when you want to and remember my derisive scowl."

He² gave my bangs a trim, grudgingly. Or rather, I grumbled about it poking my eyes all the time, while he looked pained and said: "Why do you keep wanting to cut your fringe?"

He³ gave me a call, grudgingly. Or rather, he texted me to apologise for the way he behaved the night before and I looked at the car and conjured up a derisive scowl. When he couldn't take the silence, he called: "Are you okay?" I told him to forget it forget it forget it-- although I'm not sure what "it" was.

1: He who calls me "xiao mei"
2: He who is the hair nazi
3: He who must not be named

P.S. He¹, he² and he³ are three seperate people. Sorry for the confusion.

my first chinese post

不要只因为他亲吻了你
黄舒骏

发生了什么事情
为什么遮遮掩掩着忧郁
请你不要说没什么
十年的老朋友了
难道还不能让你相信
倾诉你的心事小秘密

天哪!
原来如此难怪你会伤心
唉!怎么连你也会遇到这样的问题
喔!我没有取笑你
只是想告诉你
不要只因为他亲吻了你
你就必须和他在一起
不要只因为他亲吻了你
你就以为那是爱情
有时候所谓难以割舍的感情
事实上只是不甘心而已

还记得你飞扬任性的过去吧?
多少痴情男子为你着迷
你却从不珍惜注意
但也许真正爱着你的人
是这些对你小心翼翼谨言慎行
不敢侵犯你的正人君子
只是有时候爱情就是这么滑稽
尽管有一堆美丽的道理
但多少恋曲只是因为那可笑的原因
喔!我没有取笑你
只是想告诉你
不要只因为他亲吻了你
你就必须和他在一起
不要只因为他亲吻了你
你就以为那是爱情
不要只因为他亲吻了你
你就必须和他在一起
不要只因为他亲吻了你
你就以为那是爱情
也许真正爱着你的那个人
就像我......
就像我十年来对你

private jokes

Gumption, I shot this on the day I saw the one on your blog, cos I happened to be wearing my Drew Barrymore tee too. Would Outstanding be proud of this mirror image? Or at least proud of my pun? Mirror image, geddit geddit?


Strict house rules apply in the Gumption & Outstanding abode, including no shoes beyond the doormat and no outside clothes on the bed [sorta reminds me of those "no outside food allowed" signs]. But I graciously allowed Outstanding to roll all over my bed, since he was leaving the next day.

I miss Gumption & Outstanding!

and then some

I'm somewhat upset over someone and something.

But since I'm not gonna blog about someone -- What else is there to say that hasn't already been said? This game is getting old -- I'll blog about something instead.

One of the covers of my mother's beloved retro Tupperware got warped in the microwave. Look at it, all outta shape. It'll never fit ever again and my set of four will be incomplete forever. And this is something, as my mother would say, "Got money also cannot buy". Goodbye, yellow cover, you have a lived a useful airtight life for more than 20 years.

I know I need to get over it, but it's just something I can't let go. Ditto the someone.

u

I'm afraid sometimes
you'll play lonely games too,
games you can't win
because you'll play against you
~ Dr Seuss

taste test

Do you remember the first time you ate...

... sundried tomatoes? As the intense flavour exploded, I thought, "So this is what all the fuss is about."

... Mentos? I was about five, and my aunt gave me what I thought was a perfect, smooth pebble. I played with it for a long time, rolling it on the ground, before she said it was a sweet. Then I popped it into my mouth. Anyway, the singular of Mentos is Mento?

... couscous? It was a Middle-Eastern-Mediterranean restaurant in north London, sourced from TimeOut.

... seaweed? Primary school tuckshop, recess time. My nemesis forced me to eat a sliver, not expecting me to love it.

... strawberries? I'm not sure if it was my first taste of it, but I have most vivid memories of plucking the sweetest, freshest, plumbest berries on a farm in Perth.

... Krispy Kreme? Before I'd even finished my first original glazed, I was pleading, "Can I have another one?"

... a bagel? Brick Lane's 24-hour bagel shop with its 24-hour queue. With or without the salt beef, equally yummy.

... pig's brain? I only had the teeniest nibble and wanted to puke, even though it tasted like tofu.

swap sale

Geewee and I had braved an unfamiliar subway station at midnight to go for a swap sale in a Lower East Side bar. We had with us four T-shirts to swap. Alas, we were carded and denied entry at the door, because we didn't have a photo ID with us.

But being a tenacious cheapskate with a hoarder mentality [not a good combination], I'm now thinking of organising my own swap sale.

Would you lug your old clothes, books and CDs, and fork over, say, $10 for a chance to rummage through other people's castoffs?

tourist shots

Have been having problems sleeping since I got back four days ago. Slept at 2am, woke up at 6am. Am due back in the office today. It's gonna be a very long Monday.

Feel free to skip this slide show. Totally incapable of witty captions, after more than three weeks away from work. And am in awe of those who can post thought-provoking essays on their travels. Mine are more like, I was here, I saw this, I ate this, I was there, I ate that.

Since I'm proclaiming now how superficial I am, let me state for the record that I didn't step into a single museum in New York. And the Museum Mile festival was on too, with free admissions.

I'm a shallow shallow tourist.


See my pot belly? Scroll down to see what I've been filling it with.


Going to the sea -- Coney Island, Brighton Beach, Rhode Island -- wouldn't have been any fun without these travel companions.


In Providence. Not only is it the capital and largest city of Rhode Island, it is also divine providence that I made it there.


We got yielded on The Amazing Purchase and had to run to the train station with our bags of amazing purchases, panting over whether to catch a cab and is it ever okay to use the phrase "I told you so".


On the ghost train by myself, when I suddenly was transported from the New York subway back to the London tube. Journeys in empty carriages through time and space.


A happy train ride, which terminated at a Gay Pride Festival. Note my hoodie and alfielee T-shirt, both innocently emblazoned with rainbows.