Truths of Old

Doctor's Blog
Stardate 26.08.2003
*****
The grey noise, dirt and grime of London feel strange after my sunlit sojourn to Scotland. I scan the ebbing tide of passengers getting off the Flying Scotsman for a last glimpse of the Mystery Girl, but she's nowhere in sight. I laugh to myself, thinking ruefully that she could have got off the train at any point during the numerous stops we took, between Edinburgh and London, and put her out of my mind.
Walking home, I reflect upon the strangeness of my life, and how chance has often reared its head, trying desperately to persuade this cynic that things do Not happen for no reason. That, perhaps there is something called Fate.
Chance meetings.
Chance birthdates, six months apart to the day.
Chance electives to the same hospital.
Chance thoughts flowing along the same riverbeds, turning into the same words in conversations. Incomplete, but completely understood smatterings of conversation.
Chance dreams that mirror each other.

Head bowed, deep in thought, I cross a busy traffic junction.

If this were a movie, I would be run over suddenly by a passing car and die instantly in the impact. Or perhaps tragically in an "ER", or as we call it here, a casualty.

Instead, I think to myself, Try Harder Fate! If there truly were no chances, I'd look up now and catch a glimpse of Mystery Girl. How unlikely would that be, meeting her on a pedestrian crossing!

I look up from my thoughts, and walking beside me is the Mystery Girl.
We part in silence.

Try harder, Fate.
If you really want me to believe, you make us bump into each other again :)

It means nothing to me, you understand. Except for the sheer bullheadedness of this entity that I do not believe in, trying desperately to change my mind.

If you really want me to believe, I will meet Her again, someday.
How unlikely would That be?

An online acquaintence today postulated that perhaps my head is telling me one thing, but my heart is really hoping for another.

I think not.

Doctor's Blog
Stardate 26.08.2003
*****
I stop by Inverness to buy some Celtic and Gaelic music for my mother, and contemplate paying ninety pounds for an authentic replica of a double-handed greatsword, just for the novelty of trying to bring it back to Singapore on the aeroplane.
No, it's really a present. Of course I'm not intending to hack through the paper thin cockpit door with this extremely large eating implement. Whatever gave you that idea, offendi. May your camels go in peace.
The ten-hour train-ride back to England is uneventful. Well, almost. As we change at Edinburgh, a girl gets onto the next carriage. She's mid-height and bare-waisted. She's got fair skin, dark hair and dark eyes, and a pretty good body, but its her eyes that are really striking. Dark, burning eyes, with well-shaped eyebrows set almost in a horizontal line. She looks angry and thoughtful, and for some reason, I think she's heart-stoppingly beautiful. Now when was the last time I thought something like that?

As we pass Berwick Upon Tweed, on the border between Scotland and England, storm clouds appear, as if by magic, in the clear, blue, sunlit skies. The air temperature drops perceptibly. There is a linear interface in the sky between Scotland and England, reflected in the sea, which turns abruptly from cyan to dirty grey, in a line. As we penetrate further into England, the sunlight fades and a mist arises from the ground. A faint, perpetual drizzle washes the sides of the train in sheets.
The memories of a brilliantly warm, dazzlingly sunny Scotland seem rather surreal, barely an hour later. And I can't help but think: several miles away, it is still summer, and I was there! sitting on a rock beach under clear skies and by calm water. Magic.

Doctor's Blog
Stardate 25.08.2003
*****
I awake muzzily after a dream about Her, and find myself morosely wondering if it might have been nicer to have some company on this trip.
At breakfast, the Val(the landlady)'s ancient border collie sidles up to me for some attention. I pat and stroke him with relish. I haven't had a dog for ages. He's really slow, cam and sweet, and he puts his head in my lap as Val natters on to me about life in the Highlands after moving up from England, and about her two sightings of Nessie, (Just the back, mind.) and all the things I should get up to.
A half-hour later, I stand up to go. The dog gives me a soulful look and asks telepathically for some more attention. When this doesn't work, he puts out a paw tentatively and starts pawing me gently on the knee. Oh, what the hell, I've got time to kill...

Loch Ness
I take the Search for Nessie cruise which Val recommended as Extremely Interesting! And for the Ladies, the captain looks and sounds like Sean Connery!
Sean Connery, it seems, is indisposed for this trip and gets out of the boat for his younger colleague to captain our lake cruise.
Captain Bligh (well he looks like he should be a captain bligh) is a jaded scientific researcherwho has been Searching for Nessie for over two decades now and is slowly but surely losing hope. In his younger days, he Believed, not that there was a humungus Nessie somewhere in there, but rather there might be a shoal of undiscovered, two to three foot creatures living in the loch. He unloads numerous interesting scientific facts on us as we trawl the lake, sonar and underwater cam humming.
The loch is 270 metres deep at its deepest point, and the walls of the loch are extremely sheer. It is the second deepest lake in scotland, and the largest collection of freshwater in the entire UK. It alone is greater in volume than the all the other freshwater lakes of England, Wales and Scotland combined. It was carved during the ice-ages by moving glaciers, which eventually melted leaving behind the water that lies in it today. It has a seventy-two mile circumferance, and no connection to sea.
Captain Bligh also tells us the various theories he has advanced to explain away the numerous Nessie Sightings, two of which he has personally captured, and explained-away on film.
Could Nessie be a collection of seabirds flying in formation and kicking up a backwash of water, in the distance? His first sighting of a two-foot creature speeding along at eight miles an hour two kilometres away (verified by Navy experts), he realised years later as he watched a flock of these birds cruise by his boat, was definitely a flock of sea-fowl taking off.
Perhaps Nessie is a pair of seals, which occasionally find their way into the lake despite no connection to sea. Presumably they take a several mile forest walk just to enjoy the clear waters of Loch Ness, for their health.
Most probably, he thinks, Nessie is a ten foot catfish sighted as he sits half submerged on the shores of the loch (imagine the shock of seeing a face like that!), or the back of a fifteen foot pike.
The other tourists stay outside on the open back of the boat, scanning the lake for a glimpse of Nessie, studiously ignoring his disenchanted commentary. The Japanese tourists stay inside, staring, like rabbits caught in the headlamps of an oncoming truck at his sonar and underwatercam, playing back its pre-recorded sequence of mud, mud, and more mud.
I hesitate to point out to him that a ten foot catfish, or a twenty foot pike still go down, in my books, as monsters.

As we leave the boat, everyone else looks rather disappointed; I wonder why?

The Rest of the Day
The path to Loch Ness turns out to be rarely visited, and poorly accesible. My quest to walk on the shores of the lake is thwarted by the sheer and utter lack of sign posts of any form, and after half an hour I turn back for directions. On my second attempt, I walk through the field past two two-ton bovine creatures, ruminating. They stare uncuriously at me, waiting for the next thought to come to their minds between mouthfuls. I pass by and close the gate hurriedly behind me before it arrives.
Future adventurers in quest of the Elusive Shores of Loch Ness, take note : shortly after passing the Plains of Vicious Beasts, thou hast to ford a smalle river. Thereafter, traverse thee the maze of the National Reserve Forest which wille take thee some fifty minutes, before finding thyself on the Shore of the Ness.
The shore turned out to be a small stretch of pebble-beach, left entirely in its natural state. There are no walkways, and no reclaimed riversides. It is impossible to walk along the shore, as it is interspersed heavily by trees and waterways. The footpath did lead to a thirty foot stretch that could be loosely termed a beach, with a treestump on it, upon which I sat and basked in the sun, learnt to skip rocks over the water, and read Terry Pratchett, laughing quietly to myself, alone by the forsest for the entire afternoon. The occasional tourist walked by every few hours. Strange, that hordes of people flock to Loch Ness every month, but nobody actually seems interested in getting out to it, and being so close you could touch it.
Sometime during the afternoon, a pair of swans floated by and turned back to inspect the curious creature that had invaded their land. Naturally, I shot them.
I hope the photograph turns out well.

I walked the four mile journey from the Ness to the B&B in a hurry, another spectacular sunset fading slowly to night at my back. There are no lights on the country roads in scotland, except those of oncoming traffic.
Dinner that night was a Pot Noodle in my room, because I didn't feel like another extravagent dinner. And I realised, no, this holiday was special because I am alone. And completely, and utterly free to do pointless things like sit by Loch Ness and read, and, as my parents would fume in frustration, Waste Time.
And I am happy, and at peace.

Doctor's Blog
Stardate 24.08.2003
*****
The Church of Scotland, I discover, is nothing like the Church of England. The preacher, who speaks rather like Sean Connery, is old school, fire-and-brimstone, salt-and-drivel, stamping his foot ferociously to his laments about the ills and ails of today's society. An hour and a half later, I merge, dazed from the onslaught, feeling spiritually emptied, but saddened, that the man is right.
I embark on the History of the Highlands open-top bustour, which, impressively has a ticket that lasts for twenty four hours, and unlimited travel on the tour during that period, between five destinations.
Our commentator is a geriatric gentleman with a hearing aid and walking stick. His mind wanders periodically into the backyards of neigbouring dimensions; nonetheless, he is a wealth of knowledge, and apparently, conducts EVERY tour, which runs hourly between eight and six. Nonetheless, he is a fountain of knowledge, even if a somewhat incontinent one.

Culloden Battlefield
During the trip, which covers Culloden Battlefield, Cawdor Castle, and Fort George, I learn that Bonny Prince Charlie returned from hiding in France in 1746 and led four thousand men in Scotland's last battle for Independence, deep into the heart of England (Derby), before being driven back by a nine-thousand strong army, out of England, and all the way up scotland to the Culloden plains, in the highland where the Scots made their last, tired and bedraggled stand, outnumbered more than two to one. They were annihilated. Bonny Prince Charlie escaped, but only barely, with his life, to die in exile in rome many years later.
The battlefield is a treacherous pit-and-hillock-riddled field of heather, except for the occasional bare patch, where, apparently the highlanders were buried. To this day, heather will not grow on their graves. Why precisely this is so, nobody knows.

Cawdor Castle
We stagger through the halls gawking at the sheer unadulterated opulence of the place. 14th century stees, ceramic plates from China, and ornaments and paintings lie casually strewn about at strategically, and aesthetically sites positions in the castle, along with, somewhat incongruously, pictures of the present-day duchess and her squire.
Interestingly, a dodgy will has resulted in the castle being legally unoccupiable until the duchess, and her contestant legally settle their dispute for ownership of the castle. This clearly hasn't stopped her putting up portraits open-top bus of herself in the castle. Admittedly, she is an extremely handsome lady.
Somewhere within the castle lie the mummified remains of a tree, still firmly planted in a little circle of bare earth amidst the stone masonary. Apparently the castle was built around it in accordance with the duke's wishes, according to local lore, after a gold-laden donkey chose to lie down under it whilst taking a random stroll through the grounds.

I am suitably impressed, and also rather nauseated at the sombre splendour of it all. How could these puffed-up poppinjays possibly have taken themselves seriously? And then, as I pass through the last exhibits, I notice a chance in the tone of the descriptive plaques. Subtle phrases like "this surely isn't boring you" are thrown in.
The last chamber houses memorials to the gentiles pets through the ages.
Particularly of note is the story of a duke's indestructible pet goat, with a particular penchant for eating poison ivy off the castle's walls. Its like was prematurely ended after drinking a gallon of lead-based paint thinner.
I also learn that the Australian magpie is actually a type of finch, that can talk. Cor.

Fort George
Fourty-two hectares bristling with guns, cannons and mortars, enclosed in a maze of three-storied stone walls fifteen feet thick. It was apparently pre-emptively built to deter angry clansmen after the days of the last battle for Independence. It appears to have worked; it was never fired upon, once. It is still an active military installation to this very day.
It is also singularly the most boring place on earth to me, possibly as an unfortunate side-effect of national service, Sigting down one of the many, many, many cannons I am puzzled to find that it is aimed at one of the fortresses own towers. Talk about paranoia.
I narrowly miss a medieval exhibition, and catch the last of them, still in their chain mail, packing up to go home. Their children struggle to heft their broadswords and drag them over to the straw archery dummies that haven't yet been taken down. Typically, I've missed the most interesting thing to happen in the fort today.
A group of real-life soldiers file past in their combat fatigues, forcing a yawn from me.
In the taxi on my way from Inverness back to Drumnadrochit, I receive a compliment from the girl driving the cab, about how flawless! my English is. I tell her I'm from London and she's a bit nonplussed. ("Oh.") She tells me cynically about a self-professed white wizard who floated some months back out onto the loch on a home-made raft to cast a counter-spell on Nessie to render her visible again, as he'd apparently cast Invisibility on her some years ago to keep her safe from prying human eyes. I think about the poor traumatised fish, seals, and the odd small child who must have suddenly found themselves in the stomach of a twenty-foot behemoth of a sea-monster without warning. We laugh. She's sweet.

Doctor's Blog
Stardate 23.08.2003
*****
Boldly going where this doctor has not gone before
sector : Scottish higlands.
Where does one begin? Have you ever felt compelled to pen everything you see to paper, in case you forget any of the hordes of potential memories overwhelming you?
That is precisely, sitting in bed gazing out my window at Loch Ness, how I feel now.

En-route
The train departs from King's Cross station, a huge, dilapidated remnant of the once-upon-a-time glory days from the past. Overcast grey skies with an incessant drizzle complement the smog and dirt of the city. My home.
The Flying Scotsman grounds wearily on and on, and I fall asleep to the uniform grey slate of England's skies and fields, waking briefly to watch Stevenage, then Peterborough go flying by and changing at Retford for "engineering works". (Or, knowing London Transport, doesn't-work.)
I awake to warmth, and sunshine on my face. The terrain, save for the clear blue skies looks reassuringly familiar. Almost. Something is subtly different here. Then I realise that its the clouds - flying at altitude instead of hugging the ground. We have crossed into Scotland.
We pass a sparkling blue lake upon which a flotilla of swans cruises. I have never seen thirtysomething swans swimming in formation before. We cross a large structure I could swear is the Golden Gate Bridge, only grey. We definitately ain't in Kanses no more.

Edinburgh
is large, and reminiscent of London. Only cleaner. Everyone here speaks with a posh Scottish accent. They sound like a consultant I once had.
I tread my way cross platforms to my transfer and get on.

Highlands
The landscape is rugged. Far more textured and much less agrarian than England. Strange trees and shurbs struggle to stifle out their more ordinary cousins, which form a sea of uniform grey-green on the face of the English countryside. The land is a canvas of untamed, rolling hills and the occasional open field. Heather, a deep shade of purple bordering on blood-red colours in the blank spaces on the hills, and gives the air entering the stuffy train a faintly sweet scent, like expensive perfume.
Forests flash by, crowding out the light. We pass in between two steep inclines, and it gorgeous. I wince at the pathetic pun.
I briefly make the acquaintance of a Japanese girl who slides apologetically into the seat beside me and presses her leg firmly against mine for want of space, since her bag is almost as large as she is, and mine is the size of a malnourished milk-cow. We talk briefly, establishing that she is Japanese and I am, whatever I am. She's rather pretty, except when she smiles. Some people can, some people can't.

Inverness
A big city basking in the warmth of sunset. No time to waste, I hop onto the last bus to get to my bed and breakfast.

Drumnadrochit
I alight at the base of a small mountain, opposite the crumbling ruins of Urquhart Castle. It's still teeming with tourists in the last rays of sunlight. A short climb up the hill and I am there.

The B&B turns out to have a spectacular view overlooking the loch, and the hills on the far shore from my bedroom window. It's been a long time since I've seen terrain so open that objects in the far distance appear faint, indistinct, and pasted-on from another photograph. I wipe my spectacles, then take them off entirely. It looks much the same.

I make the acquaintance of my host, who ironically, has a heavy English accent and two insane bordercollies, before heading downhill to the castle ruins.

Castle Urquhart ruins
Urquhart, interestingly enough, means By the Forest in Pictish.
The site seems disapointingly small to me. This was the largest castle in Scotland? But as I wander through it reading the inscriptions on various wall-mounted plaques, I catch a glimpse of how tall and forboding this castle must once have been, and how grand. The Great Hall must have seemed pretty cavernous, standing at five floors in height. The tired ruins today barely reflect their tumultous past, of countless sieges during the Battles of Independence, the battered walls changing hands as often as an ambidextrous ping-pong player. They are finally laid to rest at the hands of a regiment of English-ruled clansmen, who blow up the gatehouse to stop it falling into enemy hands.
I look again at the ruins, and can almost see in my mind's eye the forboding walls towering around me, the moat bristling with sharpened stakes. The castle-towne being overrun by frenzied highland raiders fiercely (and brutally) reclaiming their heritage. I can almost hear screams of the embattled horsemen and villagers, and the thwocks of hundreds of arrows being loosed from bowstrings, and the creaks and cracks of ballistas and trebuchets hurling their payloads of oblivion over and into the castle walls with jarring crashes, the rock and plaster splintering under the force of 100 kg rocks, and the occasional cow / renegade clansman, travelling at 120 miles per hour. An Italian tourist wanders by gabbling Trebuchet! Trebuchet! excitedly, waking me from my reverie. He tries to prime the trebuchet, which took up to twelve men to do in days of yore. An American man and his girlfriend look up sheepishly at me from their embrace inside the towne corn-kiln, a structure some fifteen feet deep and ten feet wide wide, and I wonder what they were about to do. And then I decide maybe I don't want to know.
Dinner is at Fiddler's inn, after a forty-five minute three-mile walk to town under one of the most magnificent and expansive multihued sunsets I have ever seen. My dinky disposable camera won't be able to even come close to doing this justice; neither apparently does my vocabulary. So I don't bother.
Haggis, rabbit stew and a dram, to the sound of, surprisingly enough, a Fiddler. I am happy.

Doctor's Blog
Stardate 22.08.2003
******
Annual Leave, Day 4
Note to self : colour discrimination is a bad thing. Except with laundry.

Doctor's Blog,
Stardate 21.08.2003
******
Annual Leave, Day 3
The more perceptive amongst you will notice that Day 2 is conspicuously missing. I shan't delve into detail, but I had to take some time out to repair the fabric of the space time continuum and restore order to the universe as the chaos lining my bedroom floor was threatening to migrate out the front door and spread to the Universe at Large.
Nonetheless, the deed is done and I return to my museless musings. Which can be amusing, at times. That's when I can't think of more than one muse.
Anywho.

A letter I encountered not-so-recently a few days back, on my random river walks down the Thames. I'd hoped to scan this in for posterity, but posterity didn't want anything to do with it, and anyhow I haven't got a scanner. So I'll just have to settle for describing it with the meagre words I have.

It's a little scrap from a notebook - you know, those notebooks that are longer than they are wide, but thinner than both, with little blue lines across it? - dated Tues, 24 June 03.
In a large, childish scrawl,
"Dear clare i like you you r my best f riend love nono"
And in reply, a neat, feminine hand:
"Dear Nono
I think you are a very Sweet boy.
I hope you remain the same as a grown man
love,
Marie-Claire"

What secrets this little forlorn shred of paper, lying in the gutter next to Blackfriar's Bridge holds I can only begin to imagine. A sweet, heartwarming tale of a unrequited love? A prepubescent crush on the Older Woman teacher? A shared moment between two friends from different worlds?

And why was the page ripped angrily from the notebook and cast adrift into the sea of humanity flowing ceaselessly across Blackfriar's bridge?

I can only imagine, and wonder.

Another encounter, online this time.

I read with amusement 99 must-knows about men another blog-author put on her site, and, sorry Frozen! I don't know you... but I just have to put in my tuppence, burst your bubble, discolour your rose (also commonly the colour used to describe midly bloodstained urine in Medicine, written rose, with a little dash over the "e") tinted world-view, and generally, as Terry Pratchett would say, Prod buttock.

1. Guys don't actually go after good-looking girls. They prefer neat and presentable girls.

Uh, well, actually...

2. Guys hate flirts.

True. Flirtettes on the other hand, can be quite delicious. :) Get your minds out of the gutter! I was talking about intellectual intercourse. For starters, of course. ;)

3. A guy can like you for a minute, and then forget you afterwards.

Yes, that does tend to happen after head trauma. We like to call that selective amnesia. It's much like selective hearing, only much less memorable. The precipitating factor is often a severe blow to the senses, such as is delivered by a passing fast, sleek female. Occasionally particular constituent parts of the female are sufficient to precipitate this effect, if they are, ahem, outstanding enough.

4. When a guy says he doesn't understand you, it simply means you're not thinking the way he is.

That's completely untrue. 25 days a month guys are fully capable of understanding girls. The other four to seven days are reserved for football, fastcars, laptops, football, and occasionally femalesonlaptops.

5. "Are you doing something?" or "Have you eaten already?" are the first usual questions a guy asks on the phone just to get out from stammering.

Funny. "Uh, Hi!" seems to work for me. Cmon, give us a break. Not all guys are verbally impedimented. Some of us can actually manage to be almost intelligible, once in a blue supernova. Some of us just have slower processing units with limited multiprocessing abilities, hence, whilst for some of us "Uh,Hi!" works well enough, the tried and trusted "Are you... doing... something..." (the answer to which is obviously Yes, be it speaking to you! breathing, respiring, making little peristaltic movements : GI, not GU of course etc) that typically accompanies blasting that nasty terrorist off the pretty landscape of counterstrike, railgunning that demented demon off the face of Quakeworld, or bashing that hideous little night elf to bits on the the warcraft battlefield is often the answer of choice.

6. Guys may be flirting around all day but before they go to sleep, they always think about the girl they truly care about.

Uh. Well, funnily enough, most guys I know only seem to talk about dreams of the... moist variety.
But I concede, yes, I am myself guilty of the above. Not the drippy dreams, I mean.

7. When a guy really likes you, he'll disregard all your bad characteristics.

Don't be silly. The only way a guy will disregard all your bad characteristics will be if he's deaf and blind, and mildly mentally impaired to boot. Or dead.
When a guy really likes you, he notices, and appreciates your "bad" characteristics. And forgives you for them, and maybe even loves you for them, for making you a more complete person.

8. Guys go crazy over a girl's smile.

Err. Wee-ell... let's just say that's not the usual choice of anatomy amongst most males.
But damn yeah. I have done.
Though truth be told, the first thing I fell for were her eyes.

9. Guys will do anything just to get the girl's attention.

True.
Some select warped individuals do anything to lose her attention too. More often after marriage.

10. Guys hate it when you talk about your ex-boyfriend.

True, unless you accompany it with suitable swear words. Also see 82.

11. When guys want to meet your parents. Let them.

Hmm. You must have rich parents.

12. Guys want to tell you many things but they can't. And they sure have one habit to gain courage and spirit to tell you many things and it is drinking!

Really? I thought we drank for the alcohol. Dammit, we're just so damn noble after all! Give this man a tiger! and a drink too!
Truth be told, completely sobre-ly, many guys have trouble communicating their feelings to women. A large proportion are simply linguistically challenged. The rest of us find we just can't make the words come out, and the wittiest retort to a maddening woman's onslaughts that we can come up with is often "..."

you have to give us credit, it's hard to pronounce three dots.

13. Guys cry!!!

Yes, onions have that effect sometimes.

14. Don't provoke the guy to heat up. Believe me. He will.

I find using a thermostat much less fuss and bother.

15. Guys can never dream and hope too much.

I'll just do my little three dot thing here.

16. Guys usually try hard to get the girl who has dumped them, and this makes it harder for them to accept their defeat.

Get her what?
Defeat? Most guys consider a girl a conquest won the moment his uh. nevermind.

17. When you touch a guy's heart, there's no turning back.

Funny. We must be using different words for the same piece of anatomy. Perhaps you meant head?
You've obviously forgotten myth #3 above.

18. Giving a guy a hanging message like "You know what?!..uh...never mind!" would make him jump to a conclusion that is far from what you are thinking.

And what, precisely, are you thinking, when you say "You know what?!..uh...never mind!"
I'm guessing it's like the male equivalent of "..." with a lot of superfluous words added.

19. Guys go crazy when girls touch their hands.

Different strokes, different folks. Again, I'm guessing you meant "head".
Oh dear. I'm so horrible, aren't I. No, seriously, when you get your hands on, they do go wild. It's like Ling's knee-pit trick in Ally Mcbeal. Our hands are our Achilles heels. (You don't want to know what our heels do) What touching our hands does to us makes what catnip does to cats look mild. It's a good thing Sally didn't touch Harry's hands in the diner or they'd have had a mutual simultaneous orgasm in public.

20. Guys are good flatterers when courting but they usually stammer when they talk to a girl they really like.

We, we, we do?
I don't seem to remember having that particular problem. Granted, I did falter once and just stare into her eyes for a minute because, well, because I had a rather disquieting sensation of drowning. But nonetheless, I continued with nary the trace of a stammer.

abbadee abbadee abbadee that's all folks. not.

21. When a guy makes a prolonged "umm" or makes any excuses when you're asking him to do you a favor, he's actually saying that he doesn't like you and he can't lay down the card for you.

huh? what's laying cards got to do with this. Don't be ridiculous. We're not machines. Your wish is certainly not our command. Doesn't mean we don't like or love you.

22. When a girl says "no", a guy hears it as "try again tomorrow."

Uh, that is, unfortunately, true. Especially when the subject involves, uh, youknow.

23. You have to tell a guy what you really want before he gets the message clearly.

True. Unfortunately, unless you speak clearly, slowly, and enunciate, messages tend to get lost somewhere between the auditory centres and the cerebral cortex, usually at the football nucleus. Occasionally at the Maxim gyrus.

24. Guys hate gays!

I'm sure the feeling is mutual. not lol.

25. Guys love their moms. (????!??!??!!!?!?!)

Hi mom, I love you! (and I dont even need those question marks either)

26. A guy would sacrifice his money for lunch just to get you a couple of roses.

WHAT? Don't be absurd. Have you no sense of priorities girl? You can't eat roses. Well, actually I suppose you could. "..."

27. A guy often thinks about the girl who likes him. But this doesn't mean that the guy likes her.

Yes, but then again girls do the same. It's called ego-masturbation. Everyone likes to have their egos massaged, even if its all 1 way.

28. You can never understand him unless you listen to him.

I suppose you could get him to communicate with animal noises or sign language if you're into that kinda stuff.

29. If a guy tells you he loves you once in a lifetime. He does.

Can anyone spell G U L L I... damn. how do you spell it again.
I dunno. Sometimes we say it a few more times in our lifetimes. Occasionally even to the same girl. Although, it must be admitted, marriage tends to reduce the frequency.

30. Beware. Guys can make gossips scatter through half of the face of the earth faster than girls can.

Yes. Baseball bats, knuckle dusters and 12 guage shotguns can have that effect sometimes.

31. Like Eve, girls are guys' weaknesses.

Could you introduce this Eve to me, Pllllease?
(and correct me if I'm wrong, Eve was a girl. I hope. Plllease.)

32. Guys are very open about themselves.

Er.
"..."

33. It's good to test a guy first before you believe him. But don't let him wait that long.

Yes, our limited attention spans generally result in us taking that curry / other girl detour. It's those damn curry / football nucleus and shagging gyri at work.

34. No guy is bad when he is courting

I know lots of guys who are bad at courting. Some of them are lawyers.

35. Guys hate it when their clothes get dirty. Even a small dot.

Yes, I especially hate it when my small dot gets dirty.
I'll show you mine if you show me yours!

36. Guys really admire girls that they like even if they're not that much pretty.

Hmm. 1 word, 2 syllables. (and many boobies and booties)
Maxim.

37. Your best friend, whom your boyfriend seeks help from about his problems with you may end up being admired by your boyfriend.

I'm assuming again, different word, same concept. Admired, in a horizontal position, yes? In a rather, ah, entranced fashion?

38. If a guy tells you about his problems, he just needs someone to listen to him. You don't need to give advice.

Funny. When a girl tells you about her day, you dont really get to get anything at all in edgewise, she just needs someone (or something) to listen to her. Listening optional.

39. A usual act that proves that the guy likes you is when he teases you.

Gee. And we thought girls who were teases liked US!
Or at least are gonna shag us eventually. Screw the liking stuff.
No, seriously, if a guy teases you, he does probably like you. Unless he keeps telling you you're so fat your momma... jokes. Then he's probably just teasing you. Although there are some guys who...

40. A guy finds ways to keep you off from linking with someone else.

Yes, baseball bats, knuckle dusters and 12 guage shotguns can be surprisingly versatile in expert hands.

41. Guys love girls with brains more than girls in miniskirts.

Yes, that's true. But girls out of miniskirts tend to win I'm afraid. And I'm not sure girls in miniskirts do love girls with brains. Although the mental imagery is rather interesting.
And a girl with brains? Oh look! I think a pig just flew by my window. Or maybe that was just my reflection :)

42. Guys try to find the stuffed toy a girl wants but would unluckily get the wrong one.

Yes, that stuffed football is just what she will want! While we're at it, lets get this stuffed optimus prime, I'm sure she'll go gaga over it.

Funnily enough, I think I once got someone just the right stuffed bear. I hope.

43. Guys virtually brag about anything.

Sometimes we do it literally too!

44. Guys cannot keep secrets that girls tell them.

Girls wouldn't know a secret if it came up and prodded them in the buttocks. Virtually the best way to get news around is by telling a girl "don't tell anyone, but..."

45. Guys think too much.

"..."

46. Guys' fantasies are unlimited.

That's an unfair generalisation. Many of them are bounded by strict codes governing sexuality, eg no animals or children. Granted, a few individuals do have boundless imaginations. They generally wind up in jail.

47. Girls' height doesn't really matter to a guy but her weight does!

Something seems to be wrong with that sentence. Let me think.
Girls height doesnt matter to a girl but her weight does.
Guys weight doesnt really matter to a girl but his height does.
Girls weight doesnt matter to a guy, but her brasize does. "..."

48. Guys tend to get serious with their relationship and become too possessive. So watch out girls!!!

damn baseball bats.

49. When a girl makes the boy suffer during courtship, it would be hard for him to let go of that girl.

Yes, although, unfortunately one of the hallmarks of forensic medicine is the finger marks around the victim's throat.

50. It's not easy for a guy to let go of his girlfriend after they broke up especially when they've been together for 3 years or more.

See 49 above. Especially if marriage involved.

51. You have to tell a guy what you really want before getting involved with that guy.

Yes. It would be a refreshing change if the woman just confessed to wanting a large part of your income to buy flashy clothes with, instead of the usual baloney about wanting to nebulously "share your life".

52. A guy has to experience rejection, because if he's too-good-never-been-busted, never been in love and hurt, he won't be matured and grow up.

A girl has to experience rejection, because if she's too-good-never-been-busted, never been in love and hurt, her head will remain firmly in the natural anatomical position, namely firmly wedged up her posterior.

If you think that was unfair, then so is 52. :)

53. When an unlikable circumstance comes, guys blame themselves a lot more than girls do. They could even hurt themselves physically.

That's odd. All the girls who come into A&E who cut themselves are... girls. And all the guys who come into A&E after hurting OTHER guys are... guys. I must be missing something here.

54. Guys have strong passion to change but have weak will power.

Confucious say : Woman have strong passion not to shop but have weak willpower.
Man have strong passion to change. Bills too.

55. Guys are tigers in their peer groups but become tamed pussycats with their girlfriends.

Err. Here pussy pussy pussy...

56. When a guy pretends to be calm, check if he's sweating. You'll probably see that he is nervous.

Or maybe he's just hot.
Women, of course, just perspire.

57. When a guy says he is going crazy about the girl. He really is.

Yes, the finger marks are often the corroborating evidence. drat.

58. When a guy asks you to leave him alone, he's just actually saying, "Please come and listen to me"

Yes, please. I really want to be alone right now, I need some time to think things out in the peace and quiet of my own mind, away from everyone else. I'm really just asking for you to listen to my poor angsty self, but I'll just pretend I'd like to take a walk, AWAY FROM YOU. THIS ISN'T REALLY ME GETTING FRUSTRATED AT YOUR BLOODY ****ING CLINGINESS SO KEEP TALKING, THIS ISN'T REALLY ME PUTTING MY FINGERS AROUND YOUR THROAT IT'S JUST A SIGN OF MY SINCERE AND FRIENDLY AFFECTION FOR YOU...

hmph.
oh, and by the way, it can be pretty hard to pronounce four asterixes.

59. Guys don't really have final decisions.

True. No, false. No, True I think. Wait let me think that one out.
Say, have you ever watched Who wants to be a millionaire?

60. When a guy loves you, bring out the best in him.

Funny. Most girls seem to take a "When a Guy Loves you, bring him out in his Best" approach.

61. If a guy starts to talk seriously, listen to him.

When a girl starts to talk seriously... oh look, there's that flying pig again. It's waving.

62. If a guy has been kept shut or silent, say something.

Like open sesame?
Sometimes Abramybrafalloff works too.

63. Guys believe that there's no such thing as love at first sight, but court the girls anyway and then realize at the end that he is wrong.

Yes, there is no such thing as love at second, or third sight either. How devastating for us romantics amongst the male subspecies. There is only, youknow.
On a serious note (somewhere between A flat and B sharp) I STILL believe in love at first sight, despite, shall we say, entire aeroplane loads of emotional baggage.

64. Guys like femininity not feebleness.

Three words.
Lara croft.
Naked.

65. Guys don't like girls who punch harder than they do.

Funnily enough, I knew a female who knocked a would-be robber down with her elbow, and I loved her for it.
Of course, we didn't actually get around to hitting each other. I might have changed my mind otherwise. And possibly my sternum.

66. A guy may instantly know if the girl likes him but can never be sure unless the girl tells him.

It's all in the pheremones. Again, animal noises and semaphore can be surprisingly useful.

67. A guy would waste his time over video games and basketball, the way a girl would do over her romance novels and make-ups.

We prefer to think of that as constructive use of available resources.

68. Guys love girls who can cook or bake.

True. Preferably both, and doing the washing up is an especially appealing trait.

69. Guys like girls who are like their moms. No kidding!

see 68.

70. A guy has more problems than you can see with your naked eyes.

I know this is, like a really taboo and personal question to ask a girl, but have you considered spectacles instead?

71. A guy's friend knows everything about him. Use this to your advantage.

A girls enemies know everything about her...
I'd like to see a girl infiltrate the defences of the brotherhood of the Y chromosome.

72. Don't be a snob. Guys may easily give up on the first sign of rejection.

True. Guys recognise that there are many other sexier and faster models out there who are less snobbish. Oh, and that applies to girls too.

73. Don't be biased. Try loving a guy without prejudice and you'll be surprised.

Yes, I'm sure Malcolm X was a blast. And what a big man, too! In history I mean. Whoever his story involved.

74. Girls who bathe in their eau de perfumes do more repelling than attracting guys.

...
Isn't that terribly. dehydrating.

75. Guys are more talkative than girls are especially when the topic is about girls.

Let me think. "Yeah, and she had breasts the size of melons the size of small continents, and her legs went on, and on, and on, up to her neck, and then on to the couch, and did I mention her brea..."
Agreed.

76. Guys don't comprehend the statement "Get lost" too well.

Yes, it's because we have such consummate senses of direction.

77. Guys really think that girls are strange and have unpredictable decisions but still love them more.

More than what? (suspicious look)
Cars?
Football?
Curry?
Youknow?

78. When a guy gives a crooked or pretentious grin at your jokes, he finds them offending and he just tried to be polite.

pause.
*grin*
pause.
Okay, dammit i gottasaythis, if I must say so, biatch, that was the goddamn worse effing joke I ever heard in my miserable life! There. Glad I got that off your chest. And my face hurts.

79. Guys don't care about how shiny their shoes are unlike girls.

Untrue.
Guys - badly scuffed shoes? Time to get out the polish.
Girls - slighly scuffed shoes? Time to get out the credit card.

80. Guys tend to generalize about girls but once they get to know them, they'll realize they're wrong.

3 words.
qns 1 - 99

81. Any guy can handle his problems all by his own. He's just too stubborn to deal with it.

Yes dammit, I'm so stubborn I think I'll enlist a girl to help me solve my problems.
Oh wait, I think I'll just use her for youknow and solve them myself.
Say maybe that will solve my problems. Youknow.

82. Guys find it so objectionable when a girl swears.

Err. Some guys find it a turn on. Especially during youknow. I think.

83. Guys' weakest point is at the knee.

Actually is at wallet.

84. When a problem arises, a guy usually keeps himself cool but is already thinking of a way out.

Are we talking a four lettered word starting with "B" and ending with "Y" here?
True.

85. When a guy is conscious of his looks, it shows he is not good at fixing things.

When a girl is unconscious of her loo... hello mr flying pig! How're you doin!

86. When a guy looks at you, either he's amazed of you or he's criticizing you.

Yes, that's exactly why we look at other women all the time. We're criticising them. With all our tiny little hearts.

87. When you catch him cheating on you and he asks for a second chance, give it to him. But when you catch him again and he asks for another chance, ignore him.

Let me write this down, it might come in useful someday.

88. If a guy lets you go, he really loves you.

Ah. Not to play devil's advocate here but...
Okay. I admit this one is, to me at least, very, very true.

89. If you have a boyfriend, and your boy best friend always glances at you and it obviously shows that he is jealous whenever you're with your boyfriend, all I can say is your boy best friend loves you more than your boyfriend does.

Yes, quite. Presumably your boyfriend is too busy scuffling around in his pocket for his foldable swiss army knife (with deluxe baseball bat, knuckle duster and 12 guage shotgun attachments) to glance at you with quite the same frequency.

90. Guys learn from experience not from the romance books that girls read and take as their basis of experience.

Wouldn't it be disturbing if we all learnt from romance books instead. Pass the trashy romance novel please, I'm in the mood for some education today. Could I borrow your bra while I'm at it.

91. You can tell if a guy is really hurt or in pain when he cries in front of you!

Damn onions

92. If a guy suddenly asks you for a date, ask him first why.

Dates can be handy little fruits when applied creatively.
Sometimes knowing the date can come in useful too. Like this is my pet date Bob, he's a little wrinkled and a bit of a prude i mean prune, but he's a nice enough little whatsit. Came from Pittsburg.

Cmon. Get real. You really think he's gonna say "So I can buy you lots of alcohol to get you rather more than moderately inebriated and uninhibited enough for me to get into your pants by the end of the evening for a bit of good old youknow?"

93. When a guy says he can't sleep if he doesn't hear your voice even just for one night, hang up. He also tells that to another girl. He only flatters you and sometimes makes fun of you.

Have you considered a career in the pharmaceutical industry as a professional sedative?

94. You can truly say that a guy has good intentions if you see him praying sometimes.

Dear God, please forgive me for I knew not what I did...
(usually in reference to recent marriage)

95. Guys seek for advice not from a guy but from a girl.

Yes, it goes with our insane paranoia of competition from, and utter inability to bond with members of the same sex. Besides, what could other guys tell us about things like our playstation games, cars, football, curries and other womanly things?

96. Girls are allowed to touch boys' things. Not their hair!

Well, if he's going to leave it lying around for you to touch...
(which things exactly, just out of curiosity..... nudge nudge wink wink)

97. If a guy says you're beautiful, that guy likes you.

Yes, flattery will get us everywhere. Youknow.

98. Guys hate girls who overreact.

Too bloody goddamned true that is, you cant speak that right enough, i mean, like seriously, just the other day there was this STUPID WOMAN and she TOTALLY LIKE PISSED ME OFF because she kept flicking her hair to the LEFT INSTEAD OF THE RIGHT, and I mean like...

I wonder why guys hate girls who overreact? I mean, like isn't that totally hideous, repulsive, repugnant, and more offensive than a moldy cheese on a bad fur day?

99. Guys love you more than you love them if they are serious in your relationships

I'll devote a little bit to this one.
qn 99 truly saddens me. Because so many girls really seem to believe in it.
And they feel empowered by it. And so they abuse their men. And massage their fragile little egos.

Get this straight, girls.
1 to 98 were jokes. This last is not.
If you really want your relationship to go somewhere, YOU have to love him, more than YOU love YOU, in your mind. And YOU have to be prepared to give freely, and completely, to him.

And unless he feels the same way in return, through some freak chance of circumstance, it won't ever be even remotely serious.

This is Dr Agonyuncle, signing out.

Doctor's Blog,
Stardate 18.08.2003
******
Annual Leave, Day 1
The dark ominous clouds moved into position swiftly just after I decided to wander outdoors today. I knew I shouldn't have spoken aloud. After some faffing around I finally wandered outdoors anyway and gravitated towards Picadilly circus. Why, exactly I was unsure - perhaps because it's near the residence of a female I felt a fleeting attraction to? Or perhaps because its a stone's throw away from Borders and I was running out of Book. I consciously rejected the former (sad, when you find yourself asking yourself questions and not being really certain about the answers), and settled down in the little square just off Carnaby Street to read my book, under the looming collection of cumulonimbi gravely watching on from above, and, I suspect, trying surreptitiously to read over my shoulder.
My first ever sunless, cloud-cast park experience, and it was fairly pleasant, and cool. When the raindrops did come it took but five minutes to sidle over to Borders and finish off the last pages of Feet of Clay. And suddenly I found myself the proud new owner of the Morte trilogy.
Terry Pratchett is truly the saviour of the terminally disenchanted, and the perpetual escapists fleeing their Start Life Crises. I remember when You had your own Start Life Crisis, and all I could do was listen and make sympathetic noises. Too bad You didn't have Terry Pratchett to seize Your Funny Bone and worry relentlessly at it till you found Yourself rolling on a park bench in laughter.

Dear Kim,
I remember you once asking me if I liked being sad, once upon a lifetime ago. I suppose you watched me assuming the role of tragic hero from the same perspective as everyone else, and wondered if I was just being melodramatic. Isn't it strange? All I wanted to be was alone in my thoughts, but nobody would leave me alone.
Thank you, at any rate, for asking. Nobody else did. But then you were always special.
I told you then, no, and you accepted it I suppose. And you were kind to me after. Thank you for your kindness.
But what I really should have said, a lifetime ago when I still knew people like you, was No. I hated it.
I hated having the role of tragic hero thrust upon me. I didn't choose for it to happen.Six years forlornly playing out a ridiculously tragic role, and five more stoicly trying not to rant aloud at the past. But what I do know is this. For one remarkable year, everything was - in full technicolour. And that is what, that is ALL I have really ever wanted to be.
And it was quite the opposite of sadness.

Another dream. Your voice is only just now beginning to fade ifrom memory. Your thoughts, sliding away.

At last.
Soft, golden-hues softened the severity of the many Architectural splendours lining the South Bank, falling kindly on the faces of the reclining homeless in their public benches, and the beercans they invariably keep company with. Busy businessmen took timeouts en route to work to glance downriver at the sunrise in the distance. I walked.
Forty-five minutes is how long it takes to walk from tower bridge to Big Ben, at a leisurely pace, Costa coffee in hand, Terry Pratchett in the other.
At last, I've had the chance to savour my morn-lit walk, to iron my clothes at leisure, to calmly do battle with the encroaching horde lining my living room floor. (And I'm winning!)
At last, I've had time to read Terry Pratchett and giggle aloud to myself, minute after minute.
At last, I am at peace. For a while, anyhow.

I glanced up at the London Eye, and considered catching a rare glimpse of a early-morning, sunlit London. And realised that you don't do things like that alone. The pleasure isn't at all in the event, but in the company you keep and the words and thoughts you share. Much like that open-top Summer busride which I never got round to taking. I'll reserve those experiences to share with someone I love, or, at the very least, with a friend. Going up the Eye and looking down at a London, sprawled naked and exposed, would be crass and disappointing to my mind's eye. I'd rather see her from ground level, fully clothed in all her mystery and wonder, and explore every nook, every cranny intimately. And alone.

I discussed love, and distance, to the disconcerting background of a hiphop beat, at an underground club last night with a married-couple friend of mine. Yes, friend - ever since their union, they've turned into a single entity, inseparable at the hand. It irks me sometimes, watching my female (but once independent) friend, being crossly told-off half the time by her superiorly dominant, and occasionally slightly frightening male half (who squeaks loudly, and tunelessly at random intervals); but then I step back and think, whatever works for them. And I tell myself they are sweet together, and it is a shame but I have lost a confidant. And gained two not-especially-close friends. But they are sweet together - that is what counts.
So I voiced my innermost cynical and unsubtle thoughts. LDRs. Forget it. Distance, the great Killer. Love doesn't conquer all, in this day and age. Ironically, the global village has eroded, rather than reinforced, the oaths of exclusivity we take. Single people, pretending to be couples (courtesy of the alphamale whose company I kept last night). Toying with temptation.
And he was right, and so was I.
I kept my personal, too-naive views to myself though. If I was in love, if I was truly in love with someone - I'd fly to Her side, whoever and wherever she be. Forever.
Fortunately for the ranks of bachelorhood, that doesn't seem to be likely in the immediate, or even long-term future.

I know why I love Terry Pratchett so much. He keeps me laughing, constantly. His mind unwinds in devious little spirals that meander off into other devious little tributaries. Lightly, irreverantly, and humourously. Caught off guard, time and time again, the cynic in me melts away as I laugh, again and again, unconsciously in delight. And receive glances of alarm from the tube passengers around me / drunks on the next bench / austere businesspeople walking beside me.

That's what You were, to me once. A devious mind brimming with mirth and laughter.

I wish things could have worked out differently for us.

But they didn't. And so, in a very short while, I rather susect I'll be needing another book.

So a mutual friend tells me Your plans have changed, and Your future will remain where You are. And so it seems we never will meet again, after all. Not even by chance.

I sat, eyes closed and listened to the crashing breakers of sound rushing over - and through, me, interspersed with the exquisite lulls of delicate silences. The Proms, Royal Albert Hall, London. Beethoven's Seventh symphony, in particular, impressed me.
I watched, slack jawed with wonder as a vibrant, and stunning brunette hurled her soul into her violin , as she seamlessly pulled off an impassioned sequence of double-stops, and Emoted while she did it. All in the span of a split-second, and suddenly the wave had broken and there was a gentle, silken sweetness emanating from her instrument, which had been crying broken-heartedly the second before. I wondered idly what violin she was playing on, that could produce such dulcet tones, and what passions ran through her being, to be able to milk them from her violin like so.
We speak of our "violin prodigies" back home, our stunning children who play with the technical ability, and soul, of well-programmed machines. But never have I seen anything like this, from them.
Never has an "ordinary prodigy", the likes of which are so commonplace here, produced anything quite like this, back home.
I closed my eyes, and fell through the sky.
********
I wondered if perhaps I had been too facetious to ask a colleague I barely knew if she'd like to go - I wonder what she thinks of me now. lol. But then again, if I've got her pegged right, she wouldn't really be the sort to mind.

My Brave new world...
... is a bit too warm. At least it was until 5 am last night when the collective Fog of the United Nations decisevely pressed the Open button to the A&E ambulance admissions door and rolled steamily into A&E.
... involves sleeping at really strange hours, and waking guiltily early in the morning and going determinedly back to sleep after a brief struggle. and waking at dusk.
... involves doing lots of things you haven't got a clue how to do, including looking at orthopedic X rays without senior support, suturing nasty looking hand injuries without senior support, looking in screaming babies' ears - you got it, without senior support, waiting for said babies to open mouths (funnily enough, once you get round to the front of them they stop screaming and clam up and stare balefully at your tongue depressor) so you can see their tonsils.
... involves eighth year gynae SHOs new to A&E looking scared because they have to manage bog standard CCF / AF / MI and feeling frustrated because they don't want to swap from majors to minors. I suppose better feeling scared in the deep end than the shallow end.
... involves realising how incredibly professional and knowledgeable A&E staff are, outside of london. Bloody hell, these guys belong on ER... and I feel kinda insignificant next to them, trying to ask them to do an MSU, uh, please.
... involves the unexpected transformation of a mythical Other South East Asian Doctor described to you by an ex colleague, into a real-life person and finding a strangely nice, chilled common ground to interact on. Instant friendship through similar world-perspectives, and story exchanging barely ten minutes into knowing each other. rather weird, in a nice, secure, platonic way.
... includes disliking the beautiful, personable jiggly blonde who has such nice eyes, simply because she's... too good to be true. she's acting. Somewhere in me I know she's acting. irratates the hell out of me :p

and

... unfortunately includes going back to work. bah!

And now I'm packed. I'm sure I'll forget to bring something or other. Does not bode well for an SHO starting on a week of nights. And I've finished formatting a discharge summary for my ex boss from 3 jobs ago, and I'm almost ready to step boldly into my new life.

Just one more note before I do, to someone who may or may not read this.
*******

There are precious few reasons males suspect other males of jealousy. It doesn't take a psychiatrist to connect the dots :) (actually, it takes a pen or pencil)

Initially I'd meant to give you the benefit of ten no-holds barred questions, since I figured, what the heck, the firm's ended anyhow.

But that never got to happen, and in the mad rush that was today, I gave you the URL to this page instead. I'm beginning to regret it already...

I don't know if you ever stopped to wonder why. But, for the record, well, it wasn't to set you straight (or I'd have told all the other house officers) - but to set your mind at ease. This bizarre world we live in is filled with yesterday's one-way streets; perhaps these pages will reassure you that this particular highway of tomorrow's possibilities is wide open, and unobstructed. Well, not by me, anyhow!
The popular myth was, but a popular myth. I bore my silence because protesting would have done little to change its popularity.

I have no doubt that we'll never meet again, despite the civilities we exchanged. Be well, live long, and decompose slowly :)

An explanation to two people, reading this, who have advanced wild theories as to why I may have been slightly off colour last night, and possibly today.

Jealousy? I'm far too simple a person for that. I reserve jealousy for the girls I am in love with, and even then, I use it sparingly.

Neglect? I have stood alone for the better part of this life. Neglect would not sadden me; attention though does the converse.

The reason was far simpler.

Today, I spent the better part of the day slow-broiling on the london Underground. Not quite what I had in mind, for my first and last day off from the Urology Department, Whittington Hospital. I didn't walk down the thames at sunrise, I didn't iron my clothes, and I didn't get to pack my bag.

It is the How that saddens me, rather than the Why.
An honest mistake. I can forgive - everybody forgets things on occasion.
A a spur of the moment decision, a moment's irresponsibility - I can forgive as well. In fact, given the circumstances - someone is developing a rather strong afflic... I mean affection for someone else - and it even seems rather sweet. Two kindred (enigmatic) spirits verbally touching, deep into the night - and I smile to myself at the five-lettered word that flashes through my mind... it's just a word, a little word.
But the urgency of the matter rears its head. I will not have my farewell gifts to give to my team tomorrow.
I wait, and no solution is proposed. No apology advanced. No request for help raised. And I am saddened. And so my hand is forced, and I offer to inconvenience myself - there is no other way, really. And I receive in return, no apology, and no word of thanks, to take the edge off it. I am, in this equation, irrelevant.
The "sorry", when it comes, in retrospect, is hurried, and initially misplaced, for perceived neglect. Insight has not made much of an appearance, has it?

A friend does not use another friend.

It doesn't matter anymore to me. Water under the bridge - is soon forgotten. And in a short while, I will go to church and pray for the strength to forgive a friend, and then I will pack and prepare myself for the new life I am about to begin.

Hmm. It seems you've joined the ranks of the Madding crowd.

Today.
I fled from the Madding Crowd. One of the things about being an Empath is that you know, by a certain hesitation, a certain nonchalence... and the mental pieces fall into place. You catch a glimpse of the blueprints for the evening, and back out gracefully. Some things are more important than you are, and it doesnt really bug you much.
I toyed with the idea of walking home or going out, and decided on a whim that if, by the time I reached the bus-stop ten yards away, a bus heading towards Borders appeared, I would get on it; otherwise I would go home. I didn't even have to break stride as a bus pulled up and its doors opened in front of me.
I had KFC chicken and gravy for dinner, and surprisingly, enjoyed it. For those not in the know, KFC UK (yes, indeed intentional) doesn't have whipped potato, but gravy. Fast track to a coronary event, but somewhat enjoyable, in a greasy, finger-lickin' kinda way.
I walked down the Thames as the sun set, for only the second time in Summer, ever.
I figured that people who jump off bridges over the Thames probably don't die from the impact alone. The bridges are too low off the water to kill anyone. But I realised that the jumping points generally have large outcrops of stone below making up the support columns. So you bounce off a concrete block and knock yourself senseless before going under.
I knelt with my chin on the backs of my hands and hugged a stone column for its warmth, and watched a blood-red moon fading gently into cream, and a pale-blue sky darken rapidly into black. I watched the last reds fade from the sky and the water, and remembered once upon a time, when I fantasized about Your coming over here to do Your elective. I remembered how I'd have - at that spot, I reckon, Blackfriar's bridge - taken Your hand, and I remembered the flourish I'd have made with the other. And instead, half a decade later, I just whispered, silently, into the callous breeze, "all this I give you, milady. Welcome to my Kingdom."
I painstakingly keyed this SMS message to You :
"I wish I knew what to say to you, to get to talk with you the way we used to. I never did learn how to forget you"
but couldn't hit the OK button, as usual.
I watched two males viciously kicking a man lying on the floor, crying out for help, in the head several times, and logged a call to the police. They left shortly after and I reached the prostrate figure struggling to get to his hands and knees in the little pool of blood around him. I eyeballed his shiny new shoes and his clean jacket, and his bag of medications and asked him if he was homeless, which he admitted to. Speaking clearly, no SOB, minimal blood loss, GCS 15/15, PERLA, no apparent limb weakness, no base of skull. I noted his warfarin and discovered that they were for DVTs, and when the ambulance men arrived I told them the little I'd seen and my basic assessment, and one of them looked at me appraisingly and asked me if I was a doctor.
I stood for a while under the millenium bridge and remembered a time when the bridge hadn't existed yet, when I'd sat on those same steps and felt overwhelmed by memories of You. Those same steps which are now replaced by the struts of an incongruous looking structure bridging the Thames.
I walked across Tower bridge, backlit by brilliant floodlights for the first time ever, at midnight and realised first-hand how much prettier it looks, at night.
I drank in a myriad of orange-lit windows reflected in the calm waters of St Katherine's docks, and remembered coming here with you. I don't know if you read this page, and I'm guessing you don't. But we had some good times, eh kiddo, you and me? I remember that we were there in the day, though, and it was sunlight coming off the water. Regal, rather than pretty. And I felt sorry. I wasn't a very good boyfriend, was I? I'm sorry for all the times I let you down, and for all the times I hurt you, and all the times I hurt me as well. In retrospect, I suppose we should have stayed friends, the way Alice and I are, and saved each other the pain. I was weak, and for that, I am sorry.
Towards the end of it all, I found myself wondering what it would be like to meet someone a little kinder, a little nobler, a little taller. And then I realised I'd already met Her.
I wondered, if You'd let me walk with You, that last day, down the Thames whether things would have turned out differently; perhaps in the excitement of showing You all the wonders of sunset, over "my Kingdom" I'd have forgotten to hurt us. Perhaps I would have realised it didn't matter after all. Perhaps I would still hear Your voice today, and not just the echoes in my head. Perhaps I wouldn't get pangs of sadness when I tease someone and feel my eyes doing what Yours used to do, once - and try to stop myself, in the act.
Today, I ran far from the madding crowd, to be alone inside my head, and it saddened me, but it was Good, and peaceful.
We get by, as best we can.

It's funny how you can live your life a listener. A good listener also asks the questions that need to be asked. The irony is that they in turn, I suspect, are rarely asked the questions which offer them relief - or perhaps as lainey likes to say, "catharsis".
Catharsis is a strong word for me; and also I suppose I'm not that great a listener. I wouldn't know, I've never listened to myself listening to someone.
So for the record, these are some of the answers to the questions nobody thought to ask.
Yes, I haven't been sleeping much either; why? Yes, I suppose because I too don't want to wake up feeling tired. Certain dreams wear me out, and maybe if I make myself tired enough, the four hours a night I snatch will be dreamless.
Yes, that is a ring I'm wearing. Why am I wearing it, still? Because it was given to me with a certain purity of intention. Because it has become part of who I am, because it has somehow fundamentally changed my life. Because something like that you don't just throw away; sometimes it is the thought that counts.
No, I didn't enjoy working for you, thank you very much for patronising me yet again. I wish you well and hope you succeed in your life and career, but if I never meet you again that will be too soon for me. But do know that I forgive you.
No, she wasn't just some fat girl to me; I could see that she wasn't fat then, and later on I Knew that she was special. And if I had had a bit more guts, I would have shouted at you. Or perhaps, like her, raised my hand to hit you - but caught myself in time.
Whose sister was it who moved to taiwan? Would I answer that I wonder. Well, why not, her sister's maiden name would be Xie.
How do I know not just someone like you? Five years later and I'm a little bit closer to knowing with absolute certainty.
Do I like Alice? Of course I like Alice. Amongst all my other once-upon-a-time female friends.
Would I do anything about it? Why on earth would - and should - I?
Why not? Let me tell you a story...
Why am I still here? I think I'm killing time, before the rest of my life begins. I think maybe the rest of my life scares me.
Do I have any regrets letting someone like that go? Not many, I suppose - she's so happy now, and that's what I wanted to happen. I suppose the regrets are I'll never know what her hand would have felt like in mine, or how we would have been up close to each other - but those are small regrets in the grand scheme of things.
Do I have any regrets about letting someone like Her go?
Almost every day.
Do you still care about Her? I hope She never loses Her sense of wonder...
Do you still love Her?
How can you, still love someone, not having seen them for half a decade. Common sense decrees to me that it's impossible. People forget... and people change.
So why do I run so hard from memories of You? And why does the prospect of never seeing You again still hit me so hard.
Can I?
I don't know. I'd rather not think about it.
Alice calls this "devotion", I think. The devotion of a paladin?
I don't have the words for it. But surely I wouldn't despise devotion?

I hope you dance.