The Offords and Buckden

What have you done today to make you feel proud?

Well, I'll tell you, Heather: The weather was really nice so Claud and I went on a ride to the Offords - two villages a couple or so miles from where we live. The road was mainly flat and traffic was light so cycling wasn't too bad.

It didn't take us long to reach our destination so we explored the Offords before deciding to push further on to Buckden - another village a couple of miles away. By the time we arrived at Buckden, it was getting on lunchtime and I was starting to get hungry. That didn't stop us from following a walking path back to the Offords across a couple of weirs. 

We stopped for lunch at a pub called The 'Shoe in Offord D'Arcy which served up a mean Sunday roast: a steadfast British institution and a long-standing British custom. A scrumptious book completed the meal; all washed down with tea. I couldn't have asked for more but a cycle home with a full stomach and the sun on my back.

Looking on the map, Buckden isn't really that far from Grafham Water and I know there is a cycle path around the lake from the couple of occasions I've been. So note to self: 1. must go sometime, 2. must bring friends ± bikes and 3. must introduce pub.

***

Other achievements include laundry, cleaning the living room, shopping for groceries and preparing lunch for tomorrow - all that before dinner. Boom!

Heather would indeed be proud.

Winter wonderland

Mxlxysxxn Nxght dance rehearsal - I've been doing this for three years now. This time around, it feels like I've been handed a bunch of rejects who I'm expected to miraculously transform into talented dancers for a performance that will open the show and set the atmosphere for the rest of the evening. Unlike the first year where almost every dancer was involved in the play. Unlike the second year where the three dancers were the main actors of the play.


What really gets to me is how only half of them just can't be arsed. If it was all of them, I could get in a strop without feeling guilty. But when I get stroppy, I'm not angry because they never arrive on time or they don't concentrate during practices. I'm angry because it's not fair to the other half who are trying their best to pull off a decent dance show; who are taking it seriously and committing precious time and effort. And people question why Malaysia is still a developing country.


***


Stepping out from the practice venue, I'm confronted by two inches of snow on the ground. My bike had not been spared. I'm surprised I didn't even notice the snowfall despite the glass walls down one side of the venue. Talk about being focused in a rehearsal.


***


Taxa and I took a really long walk around Cambridge - up Castle Mound, across the Backs, through Market Square to Parker's Piece. Midnight past and we were one of the very few outdoors enjoying the freshly fallen untrodden snow. Wet hair from snowball fights, a wet back from a snow angel and frozen fingers from a snowoman. Banter intermittent banter.


It was really cold - I was wrapped up in five layers. Self-righteous snow against ironic night, I wondered which of the two is icier. The soft crunching of snow beneath my feet is the only reassurance I get.

Bedford by night

No, no, you go ahead. You must be in a rush.

Night falls. I decide to take a long walk to my local. Swap my Dockers for jeans, my leather Clarks for Converses, my bleep for my Nokia mobile and my stethoscope for my iPod Shuffle. Within minutes, I'm a different man altogether and with Rihanna thumping in my ears, I'm normal once more.

As I walk further and further away from Bedford Hospital, my steps become lighter and this weight on my shoulders slowly ebbs away.

You're a good doctor. You don't talk down to me like the others do.

I'm no longer the person you expect to be caring and compassionate every second of the day. I'm no longer the person who has all the answers and reassurances. I'm no longer the person to whom you confide all your troubles.problems.worries.anxieties as if I don't already have my own to deal with. Most important of all, I'm no longer the person you've placed your high expectations on. Yes you, and you, and you.

A local isn't exactly a local when it's this far away but more than half an hour later, I'm shopping for cereal and milk as well as sugar and tea along the aisles. No one makes way. Not a single person casts even a sideways glance.

Back on the roads, I note my slow respiratory rate and watch my breath condense before my very eyes into shapeless puffs of vapour.

So where does that all leave me?!

I'm glad for this quick and easy escape if only for a semblance of what normal used to be. How it once felt to be carefree. I'm not even sure which worries me more: the fact that it's becoming more difficult or the fact that there's no turning back?

Patches

Four days proper in Horsham. Decided to spend time with the cousins - namely the pickle. Notwithstanding I didn't have a place to stay, I haven't seen him since winter where I visited after my excursion to central Europe and the Balkans. After the past few hectic days, it'll be good to relax and recharge for my trip around southeast Asia.

Day 1: Friday. Spent the day around town where an authentic French market was being held in conjunction with the French Horsham Fest. Spices, flowers, dried fruits, olives, green plants, onions, garlic, pancakes, biscuits from Brittany, French bread, tarts, croissants, cheeses, charcuterie, tartiflette, garlic mushrooms, prawns, cold sausages, basketwork, wooden toys, jewellery, scarves, bags, sunglasses, Parisian handbags, Provencal soaps, sweets. Boxes of sweets like quilt patches. Patches of sweets.

Day 2: Saturday. The pickle's school holds a summer fete. I find out from his parents that it's a Catholic school but keep my reservations to myself. Pretty quaint little thing with stalls selling second-hand books and toys; burgers and hotdogs; as well as cakes and tea. I salvage my deprived boyhood by tinkering with the fire engine that's dropped by.

The pickle goes off and does his thing: playing footie with his mates. I go off and do my thing: check out if there are any good books on sale. Before leaving, I challenge him to a race on the obstacle course meant for ten year olds like himself. There's no way I'm going to go through the sramble net, the tires and collapsible tunnel.

We both end up with green patches on our jeans where the knees are. I give him a piggy-back all the way to the car to stop him from feeling too disappointed. At least, he's back to laughing now.

Day 4: Monday. Weather forecast: intermittent showers. Woke up to windless rain today. Made my way to the local park where the sun peaked out from a break in the clouds. Wind started blowing rain underneath my umbrella halfway there.

Now on the swings. Patches of blue amidst dark rainclouds above. I was just thinking: I'm quite glad to be on my own. If I were to be in a relationship, I'd run to my boy, cry myself in his arms whilst feeling sorry for myself. Most likely end up not doing anything about my problems because I take comfort in knowing that everything'll be alright as long as I've got my boy. But now that I'm single, there's no point in feeling sorry for myself. There's no time for helplessness. I take control of my future and change it where possible. I guess I feel happier but I still wish for a pair of arms to fall asleep in.

Tate Modern

Photo courtesy of lee1004gg @ Flickr

I see the white dome of St. Paul's Cathedral setting the skyline of London Thames riverside and I think it is art. Not a canvas filled with random blotches of paint.

Photo courtesy of trondelarius @ Flickr

I see a small insignificant figure huddling by the tall walls of the turbine hall of what used to be a power station now converted into a modern art gallery and I think it is art. Not a ten minute video of someone playing squash with herself in a white box.

Photo courtesy of laynecom @ Flickr

I see a mother helping her child solve a puzzle in front of a painting and I think it is art. Not a collection of soaps strung upon a steel wire.

Photo courtesy of pwiwε @ Flickr

I look at the contorted figures of Francis Bacon and I think it is art. Not emotionless photographs of people in a studio.

Photo courtesy of meaning_of_light @ Flickr

I think a lot of things are art. I just don't know how to appreciate modern art.

Photo courtesy of chrispercival @ Flickr

Waterfowl

There's something rather endearing about British weather. I woke up to bright sunlight streaming through the sky window. Tad bit annoyed. I throw open the covers and windows in response to the stifling heat. Sky was a cloudless blue and it promised to be gorgeous day.


After brushing my teeth and a shower later, I was breakfasting on buttered toast over an article in the Economist. Interruption: soft, even patter of rain on the moss- and lichen-covered roof. The leaves on nearby trees danced gracefully to unseen winds whilst the grey clouds raced above.


Having packed everything after breakfast, I set off as the sun shone through a break in the clouds. The damp gravel crunched softly beneath my feet as diamonds glinting in the light of the sun showered down on me from the leaves as I made my way through Burrell's Walk.


Ten minutes before the train station, it begins to pour. All around me, people open their umbrellas and pull their raincoats over. I try my best to walk under the cover of the trees lining the road but within minutes, I'm drenched to the bone.


Anger overcomes me for a brief moment: it's easy to think that even the universe conspires against you. The feeling goes away just as quickly when I rationalize to myself that the universe is not conscious, let alone has intention. It's really least of my worries to be honest, albeit very uncomfortable and a pain up the arse.


Calling at its stations, I see people in short khakis and Bermuda shorts and polo shirts and t-shirts. Large black aviators offer protection from the glaring sun which has decided to show its face once more. Inside the train, I'm feeling slightly cold under my wet clothes as I roll my eyes at the irony of it all.

Happiness is a full stomach II

Because of its success, I decided to organize another potluck between us. Only this time, it was us three gay boys who cooked. Two reasons: Ting had been cooking for each of us every now and again and I felt bad for not having cooked for my friends thus far.


So despite not knowing how to cook, I tried to recall any simple dish I knew I could cook other than cup noodles or fried eggs, any whiff of a memory from what mother had taught me when I wasn't listening back then.


I won't divulge which dish is mine although you can probably guess. Coach joined us later on and we got him to guess which was whose. His comments for each of our three dishes were: 'Authentic. Confused. Obviously Tong.'


Yeah. So mine was 'confused' but to be fair, it was pitted against two other dishes cooked by a proper Asian and someone who took cooking lessons in Thailand. So it was well unfair. It didn't turn out too bad though considering how we ended up finishing it.


Coach said my dish brought back fond memories of his childhood days when he used to go camping in the woods with his mates and had to cook over an open fire. It's not very far-off is it? Sitting around the table instead of a fireplace with good food and those who truly matter.


And just for comedy value: our drawings of a wolf after Pictionary which seems to be the latest obsession. We play it at all of our little parties. Guess which one's Ting's.

London domination

So we took on London today: Ting and Tong, Tong's Dan, Tanmeister and myself. The thing about dancers is that they're slightly mental. To be fair, at least there's never a dull moment around. But you can be sure that dim sum at Chinatown will inevitably involve visual marking and violent massacre of the food.



London is as beautiful as she always is. It's not surprising I always feel like completing my medical studies here every time I drop by for a visit. Thank goodness I've already submitted my clinical school application. That said, I wouldn't mind too much if I were offered a place in University College's Royal Free. If I ever do live in London, I'd like the following apartment to be mine.




So the main reason we did London was to catch the musical Wicked. And it was definitely wicked! I could go on and on about why it's so good: the plot, the music, the acting etc. etc. but I guess you'll just have to see it for yourself to really appreciate it.

At the end of the day:
Car fuel: £5
Dim sum at Chinatown: £6
Tickets for Wicked: £50
Spending a whole day with your best mates around London: Priceless

Sick

Monday again. I walk the Ting back to her house like I always do. Decide to take the long way back: through the green. Just to sort myself out with some time alone in the fresh air.

Early October. Yet it's so cold that my breath disappears into the thick fog covering the green. Floating orbs of light send rays through the trees like they do in horror films.

Trees sigh. I sigh. And the cold night wind stirs up my thoughts and emotions. I'm angry at myself. Frustrated at other people.

Wind blows again. Lifts my spirit outwards and upwards for a brief moment. How nice it would be to haunt the world as a weightless floating spectre with neither aim nor direction.

Busy roundabout. I cross it. And the usual desire to jump in front of the oncoming car is unusually strong.

I want to feel alive. And the only way is to lose life itself first. In that few seconds, when realization smacks you right in the face before the car does, you know you're alive.

It's late. Training ends late all the time. People take their own fucking time to leave. I've got tonnes to do. And it's late. My head is spinning. And I'm just so.sick.of.everything.

Beautiful today

You were beautiful today. Not that you aren't any other day. But today. You were beautiful.

In the bleak weather, dreary post-war buildings overshadowed opulent Baroque monuments. The black river finished the mournful glum of the city.


It was beautiful despite its sadness.

It was beautiful in its sadness.


The more I visit London, the more captivated I am by its beauty. Its many faces. Its many moods.


Everytime I visit it, there's always something surprising around every corner. Something interesting at every nook and cranny.


Save me. I am love-struck.