Unlike any other

Meeting in London yesterday. 'I should be revising, really', I tell myself. But Mr. Sunshine's finally decided to show himself after a long leave of absence. It'd be such a waste to greet him over my lecture notes from behind my window. Of course I can always work outside. But then again, it is London.

The weather in London isn't any different. Absolutely gorgeous. There's no question that lunch has to be outdoors and Convent Garden is where it's at with its selection of posh restaurants and chic cafes, its throngs of locals and tourists as well as its eclectic collection of street performers and musicians. The atmostphere: vibrant.

Richard's right. 'London has personality.' Every niche of it has something different to offer. There's something going on at any one moment and there's always something for any one person. It is quite a city. Alive. Unlike any other.

Not wanting to miss out on such wonderful weather, I seek out a scenic place to enjoy the rays of the afternoon sun. I find the perfect spot by the banks of the Thames at Embankment. With the impressive London Eye towering above me against the backdrop of the oh-so-very-blue sky, I fall asleep on the soft green grass almost immediately and do not wake up till two hours later with brown sun-baked skin.

And then it was off to a nice home-cooked meal with an old friend for dinner.

Not you

You already have more attention than you actually deserve. Coward. At least have the courage to face the consequences of your actions instead of taking the easy way out. I'm not going to say anything more. My silence goes out to the 32 victims. They are the true martyrs: the weak and the defenceless. Not you.

General Dancing

The music plays from the four speakers at the corners of the hall. Bolted and secured high on the walls, they are a first for the Cambridge Dancers' Club, replacing the old portable sound system. Before me, couples dance the graceful Foxtrot, in circles of rise and falls. From my experience, I can tell the professionals from the amateurs.

Many people come up to me and say 'hello' or 'hi'. Acquaintances. Some start a conversation with me of which I lose interest almost immediately. Friends. Two of them force me to dance with them. Not that I don't want to dance with them. I'm just not in the mood.

'Maybe it's just for the sake of being polite,' I thought as I try my best to ignore anyone I know. Eye-contact. That's the key. No eye-contact means no obligation for people to talk to me. All I want is to be alone.

When I have my moment's peace, I watch them dance. Their mistakes. Errors. Flaws. Through their mistakes, I correct my own as I run a mental video of my routine. Most of the dancers on the floor have appalling posture. It sticks up like a sore thumb. Sore thumbs in this case. Self-conscious, I check to make sure that my own posture is spotless.

It's a habit. Not that I go every week. But I always leave during the last Waltz. It's a mystery. Been a while now.

The cold air is refreshing. I make my way slowly to Clare Bridge, my favourite bridge. In the semi-darkness, the Cam is eerily beautiful. I let my thoughts run loose. I collect them. With a deep breath, I obediently head back to my room as revision beckons.

Jogging

Just got back from one. The long one. The exhausting one. Three days running now. I've been experiencing a lot of pent-up frustrations recently. Three days. That says a lot coming from myself.

But it feels great to just take it out on the beaten path at the backs of the Cam. So much better than pumping iron in a stuffy gym. The scenery does nothing to allay my anger. If anything, it fans it into a blind rage. The world isn't this beautiful at all. Mother Nature's a liar.

And when my frustrations surface, I push myself even harder. Faster. So the wind blows it all away. So I leave them behind without a backward glance. With only the firmness of the path beneath my feet reassuring me in my times of doubt.

At the end of the day, your sweat runs down your rugged face. Your shirt clings to your broken body. And your muscles scream at you. 'Hell yeah!'

once upon a time

once upon a time.
there was a little boy.
who was enchanted by fairy tales.
tales of faraway lands and castles.
of magic and mythical creatures.
of charming princes and knights in shining armour.

he grew up with them.
and when the time came to leave them behind.
he didn't want to.
he threw tantrums and fits.
screamed and shouted.
stamped his feet.

those around him shook their heads in pity.
at his naiveness and idealistic views of the world.
and in the end.
they let him be.
alone with his fairy tales.
he loved so dearly.

and so he lived out his days.
one after the other.
amidst the hardness of the world.
the ugliness of reality.
in the safe comfort of his fairy tales.
and fair company.

and as he lay dying.
for die he must.
his only companions were his fairy tales.
no comfort nor company could they offer.
for they were only that.
mere fairy tales.

The pickle

Easter Sunday today. Everyone gets a big chocolate Easter egg. The symbol of new life. Yummy. The pickle devours his egg almost immediately and then steals some of my smaller ones from the hunt around the garden. Cheeky little tyke.

He learnt how to tie his own shoelaces yesterday. He'll be getting 10 quid and a new pair of sneakers for it. Those were the days, when anything done well earns praise or reward. At my age, it's all about self-motivation and fulfilment.

The pickle drags me away from my latop despite my addiction to the stranger. He gets me to play football with him despite my superior physique, swapping between striker and keeper. Bored, we turn to his diabolo 空竹 where I manage to toss and catch it four times in a row. The pickle gets jealous after trying many times but his cuteness redeems him.


I take him to the park in the evening while the sun shines in all its majesty and glory. The pickle tries to out-cycle me with his six-gear mountain bike while I run in loose jeans and converse shoes. He learns how to swing himself on the swing and tries to out-swing me. His naiveness gets the better of me. He beats me on the obstacle course but only because it's designed for small little pickles like himself. He outwits me at the maze and I finally concede defeat.

I buy him ice pellets and have an ice cream myself. He's only seven years old and already talking to me about Cambridge's winning strategy on the Thames and the gene which confers obesity to some people. The pickle reminds me of my dreams.

I'm here to fulfil them.
To achieve my destiny.

I've got my edge back.

Some things just don't change

30th of March. It's the end of March and yet, it's a friggin' five degrees in London. Arriving at King's Cross station, I thought 'So much for escaping the depressive weather of Cambridge.'

With a 20 minute delay due to coupling problems, the train ride was uneventful aside from the passenger seated next to me. Dressed impeccably and looking not too bad himself, he kept dozing off whilst lolling his head to the left and almost resting on my shoulder before correcting itself. So much for our vestibular system. Of course, I wouldn't have minded because we all need a shoulder to lean on every now and then.


At Westminster Abbey, it began to rain. The archetypal British rain. The one which feels like rain, only not quite. Like the mist blown by fans at high-end coffee shops such as Coffee Bean in Malaysia. The wind doesn't let up. If anything, it's stronger.


Pass the Houses of Parliament, Downing Street is as heavily guarded as usual. Trafalgar square remains very much the same since I ushered in 2006.


After lunch at Chinatown, I spent two whole hours on just two small rooms of the National Gallery's Sainsbury Wing. Whilst studying the paintings from 1250 to 1500, I remember the Uffizi Gallery of Florence where I spent the entire day contemplating the history of Art and its development through the times. This gallery will last me a couple of years at the very least.


The old fruit and vegetable market of Covent Garden has been replaced by small chic shops selling arts and crafts. Exploring them, I couldn't help but hum to myself, 'Lots chocolate for me to eat. Lots of coal makin' lots of 'eat. Warm face, warm 'ands, warm feet. Oh, wouldn't it be loverly?'


Down the Mall and then to Buckingham Palace. Nothing interesting there. Not when you can't go in. A quick coffee break at the curious Starbucks of St Katherine's Dock before heading for the highlight of the day: The Mousetrap. Running for its 54th/55th year, it is the world's longest ever running play. Mother even saw it 20 years ago. It doesn't disappoint either.


Some things just don't change in London. Others remain pretty much the same.