Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Mydreamd8
After perusing most of the offerings on mydreamd8.com, re-minisce is bemused to find that the one candidate that he might consider actually going on a date with is... "host Sara".
Reading her a little more closely than before, the woman actually has a good head between her shoulders; she's funny, writes fairly eloquently and is just about his height. (that last gleaned by accident when she walked past him last Sunday) If only she wasn't so absurdedly skinny...
After perusing most of the offerings on mydreamd8.com, re-minisce is bemused to find that the one candidate that he might consider actually going on a date with is... "host Sara".
Reading her a little more closely than before, the woman actually has a good head between her shoulders; she's funny, writes fairly eloquently and is just about his height. (that last gleaned by accident when she walked past him last Sunday) If only she wasn't so absurdedly skinny...
Addendum
Oh yeah, I've been meaning to ask this for the longest time :
Do any of you remember a cartoon from our, or rather my childhood; it had these dragons in it. With armoured knights who rode the dragons and carried strange placard / banner thingies which emitted magic thingummies when they uttered rhymes of power. Yeah I know, I know, can he be any less specific?
Oh yeah, I've been meaning to ask this for the longest time :
Do any of you remember a cartoon from our, or rather my childhood; it had these dragons in it. With armoured knights who rode the dragons and carried strange placard / banner thingies which emitted magic thingummies when they uttered rhymes of power. Yeah I know, I know, can he be any less specific?
Starlight express
I caught myself thinking right at the start of the week : this has been a good holiday. If it had ended a week prematurely, I'd still have felt relaxed and recharged. Enough has happened to make me forget what it feels like - if only for a while - to be submerged in the chaos of A&E. Don't get me wrong, I love my work - but this has been good, too. Meeting up with old friends, meeting up with new. Buying a desktop, and making it work.
******
This last week has been occupied with making my new motherboard work. Warning : this section is uber-geeky, of the glazed-over-eyes variety. So for technophobes, just move swiftly on, nothing for you here.
First, I had to decide which mobo to buy. I've been out of the loop for quite a while now, since my Athlon XP 2000 was meant to last forever and ever and be fast enough for little old me. But unfortunately the two years it spent in an "always-on" configuration at the ex's house (since her broadband modem kept waking it up despite bios being set to "wake on lan = off") aged it prematurely, sending it to an early grave. So after a lot of review-reading and a few recce visits to sim lim square (the mecca of DIY computers in Singapore) I settled on an Athlon XP 2800 ("barton" according to the vendors, which shows you how much they know - bartons don't come in 2800s. 2800 is the last thoroughbred core before the barton appeared) with an Asus AVNX8-Deluxe Nvidia-based motherboard. It's got bells, whistles, a kitchen sink (make that two) and a whole tug-boat thrown in, with dual-lan, on board surround sound, wi-fi support and God knows what else. I figured, what the hey it's only another 60 dollars more (20 quid), which is really a lot of bang for buck (as opposed to P4s which are more bucks than bangs).
Choosing turned out to be the easy bit (much to my surprise). Plugging the whole thing up was a pain - the new mobo is so big I had to dismount EVERYTHING from the casing, hard-disks, casing fan, the works. Post-mounting everything back, turning on revealed a surprise - the mobo talks. It rather smugly reminded me (in a sexy american drawl) that I'd forgotten to mount the floppy disk (flarpy drives fail!) and then that the hard-disk wasn't working. A lot of head scratching later I discovered
1) sometimes the mobo comes up with the wrong error message, although the screen message is correct (bootup failed due to overclocking! when on screen it still says "floppy drives fail") making me suspect that it really is an american woman trapped in there after all, with the literacy of a small, unlettered peanut. Or mydreamd8 candidate. heh heh.
2) the mobo is, for some reason allergic to hard disks not set on "cable select".
So we get the hard disk up and running and the system zooms along at light speed up to the windows startup sequence. And even before the splash screen appears :
blue screen of death.
argh!
windows XP, that uber-customisable, ultra-intelligent creation of Willy Gates trips and falls at the starting line, even before the first hurdle.
re-minisce is so traumatised that he goes out and buys an ah-beng cooling fan (complete with red, green and blue neon lights) to mount on the inside of his case, since the system now idles at 50 degrees C, where before it idled at 30 degrees.
And then again the ambient temperature in singapore is 37 degrees. That might have something to do with it.
Lots more head-scratching and soul-searching later, it occurs to me that the change in chipset from via to nvidia must be causing a problem with one of the "taken-for-granted" startup drivers, even before windows starts and gets the change to tweak itself to suit the board.
an XP repair (thank you Willy Gates) later and we're good to go, except now windows blue screen of death (a new one) pops up after windows has started, apparently in response to ICQ, or perhaps my graphics software. That's okay though. Those're easy to isolate and fix.
Three days and we're still migrating to our new computer. Geez.
******
Borrowing from Clay Aiken's #1 fan, a bit of re-minisce trivia :
1) to debunk a few myths : re-minisce is nondescript-looking. Not particularly tall, nor particularly short. As it says on the left, occasionally bespectacled. Funny at turns, and not. Generally witty in large gatherings, but also more the quiet observer. Much more intimate in small group / one-on-one settings, chattier but also less funny.
In a nutshell - perfectly ordinary.
Oh yeah, and likes to slash at people with a long sword in his spare time. Long swords are hard to find so re-minisce settles for a sabre.
2) to fill in the gaps :
Re-minisce was chatting to a soon-to-be-married friend today about life, and love. Said friend faced the eternal challenge of stability over "magic" - having been traumatised by magic, she was all for stability.
Re-minisce doesn't believe in stability, or magic.
Re-minisce believes in stability, And magic.
The peaks and troughs that constitute magic - are wonderful if the troughs fall to ground level, and no lower. If magic alternates between ordinary, and exceptional. Rather than love and hate. If the sine-function alternates between stability and intensity.
Re-minisce believes that somewhere out there, someone like that exists.
Re-minisce isn't sure that he's got any conscious desires in an ideal partner. He never really liked to think he had a checklist, when he was younger. But age has given him... ?wisdom? or perhaps just made him finicky.
so this is how it goes :
1) must be near at hand. Distance is a Bad Thing. Only someone very, very special would deserve the mutual trauma of a long-distance affair. Someone who satisfied every criteria on the nonexistent mental checklist.
2) humour. A sparkling wit. Someone who makes re-minisce laugh with her spontaneous witticisms. Someone who communicated instinctively with him on a funny-scale. That sidelong knowing look when a sit-com joke presents itself - more than words. Far, far more than words. Or rather, even before words
3) Eyes. What, exactly - unknown. But re-minisce knows it when he sees it. It's vanishingly rare. It has something to do with expression of the soul. Not just a quiet murmur, but a glittering siren-call. An acuity of thought and life, spoken through naunces of eyebrow / eyelid and eye "gestures".
4) Self-effacement; humility - in the presence of ability. This is nearly extinct in Singapore, and pretty much the rest of the world. But re-minisce believes in them. And frankly, it's boring to keep hearing someone blow her trumpet over and over again. It destroys communication. It makes husbands switch off, and boyfriends tune-out. If someone is wonderful - she has only but to do. Re-minisce will notice - and appreciate, silently.
5) Height. This last is tenuous; re-minisce isn't sure that it's really entry-level criteria. But re-minisce is certain that he's attracted to women about his height - it has something to do with looking for an equal; a partner in every way. Something to do with making eye contact automatically. Without the time-lag of gaze adjustment. How silly is that?
6) Voice. Modulated. Heavily. With at least a neutral accent. Re-minisce doesn't like the pidgin Singspeak that he grew up with anymore. It probably has something to do with being immersed day in and out in Brit culture, but the odd hybrid we have back home of three-quarters american and one-quarter brit, and four-quarters Singaporean puts me on edge. It'll probably fade with time, once I've been back for a bit.
7) Race. Re-minisce, having lived in london for ages has unsurprisingly lost all racial preferences. He's learnt to appreciate almost all but south-african features. Although, truth be told, there's something wonderful about blonde hair...
Perhaps the ideal You doesn't exist. But once upon a time, I met You. And perhaps that's how the imaginary checklist came about - it's all Your fault. Entirely.
I caught myself thinking right at the start of the week : this has been a good holiday. If it had ended a week prematurely, I'd still have felt relaxed and recharged. Enough has happened to make me forget what it feels like - if only for a while - to be submerged in the chaos of A&E. Don't get me wrong, I love my work - but this has been good, too. Meeting up with old friends, meeting up with new. Buying a desktop, and making it work.
******
This last week has been occupied with making my new motherboard work. Warning : this section is uber-geeky, of the glazed-over-eyes variety. So for technophobes, just move swiftly on, nothing for you here.
First, I had to decide which mobo to buy. I've been out of the loop for quite a while now, since my Athlon XP 2000 was meant to last forever and ever and be fast enough for little old me. But unfortunately the two years it spent in an "always-on" configuration at the ex's house (since her broadband modem kept waking it up despite bios being set to "wake on lan = off") aged it prematurely, sending it to an early grave. So after a lot of review-reading and a few recce visits to sim lim square (the mecca of DIY computers in Singapore) I settled on an Athlon XP 2800 ("barton" according to the vendors, which shows you how much they know - bartons don't come in 2800s. 2800 is the last thoroughbred core before the barton appeared) with an Asus AVNX8-Deluxe Nvidia-based motherboard. It's got bells, whistles, a kitchen sink (make that two) and a whole tug-boat thrown in, with dual-lan, on board surround sound, wi-fi support and God knows what else. I figured, what the hey it's only another 60 dollars more (20 quid), which is really a lot of bang for buck (as opposed to P4s which are more bucks than bangs).
Choosing turned out to be the easy bit (much to my surprise). Plugging the whole thing up was a pain - the new mobo is so big I had to dismount EVERYTHING from the casing, hard-disks, casing fan, the works. Post-mounting everything back, turning on revealed a surprise - the mobo talks. It rather smugly reminded me (in a sexy american drawl) that I'd forgotten to mount the floppy disk (flarpy drives fail!) and then that the hard-disk wasn't working. A lot of head scratching later I discovered
1) sometimes the mobo comes up with the wrong error message, although the screen message is correct (bootup failed due to overclocking! when on screen it still says "floppy drives fail") making me suspect that it really is an american woman trapped in there after all, with the literacy of a small, unlettered peanut. Or mydreamd8 candidate. heh heh.
2) the mobo is, for some reason allergic to hard disks not set on "cable select".
So we get the hard disk up and running and the system zooms along at light speed up to the windows startup sequence. And even before the splash screen appears :
blue screen of death.
argh!
windows XP, that uber-customisable, ultra-intelligent creation of Willy Gates trips and falls at the starting line, even before the first hurdle.
re-minisce is so traumatised that he goes out and buys an ah-beng cooling fan (complete with red, green and blue neon lights) to mount on the inside of his case, since the system now idles at 50 degrees C, where before it idled at 30 degrees.
And then again the ambient temperature in singapore is 37 degrees. That might have something to do with it.
Lots more head-scratching and soul-searching later, it occurs to me that the change in chipset from via to nvidia must be causing a problem with one of the "taken-for-granted" startup drivers, even before windows starts and gets the change to tweak itself to suit the board.
an XP repair (thank you Willy Gates) later and we're good to go, except now windows blue screen of death (a new one) pops up after windows has started, apparently in response to ICQ, or perhaps my graphics software. That's okay though. Those're easy to isolate and fix.
Three days and we're still migrating to our new computer. Geez.
******
Borrowing from Clay Aiken's #1 fan, a bit of re-minisce trivia :
1) to debunk a few myths : re-minisce is nondescript-looking. Not particularly tall, nor particularly short. As it says on the left, occasionally bespectacled. Funny at turns, and not. Generally witty in large gatherings, but also more the quiet observer. Much more intimate in small group / one-on-one settings, chattier but also less funny.
In a nutshell - perfectly ordinary.
Oh yeah, and likes to slash at people with a long sword in his spare time. Long swords are hard to find so re-minisce settles for a sabre.
2) to fill in the gaps :
Re-minisce was chatting to a soon-to-be-married friend today about life, and love. Said friend faced the eternal challenge of stability over "magic" - having been traumatised by magic, she was all for stability.
Re-minisce doesn't believe in stability, or magic.
Re-minisce believes in stability, And magic.
The peaks and troughs that constitute magic - are wonderful if the troughs fall to ground level, and no lower. If magic alternates between ordinary, and exceptional. Rather than love and hate. If the sine-function alternates between stability and intensity.
Re-minisce believes that somewhere out there, someone like that exists.
Re-minisce isn't sure that he's got any conscious desires in an ideal partner. He never really liked to think he had a checklist, when he was younger. But age has given him... ?wisdom? or perhaps just made him finicky.
so this is how it goes :
1) must be near at hand. Distance is a Bad Thing. Only someone very, very special would deserve the mutual trauma of a long-distance affair. Someone who satisfied every criteria on the nonexistent mental checklist.
2) humour. A sparkling wit. Someone who makes re-minisce laugh with her spontaneous witticisms. Someone who communicated instinctively with him on a funny-scale. That sidelong knowing look when a sit-com joke presents itself - more than words. Far, far more than words. Or rather, even before words
3) Eyes. What, exactly - unknown. But re-minisce knows it when he sees it. It's vanishingly rare. It has something to do with expression of the soul. Not just a quiet murmur, but a glittering siren-call. An acuity of thought and life, spoken through naunces of eyebrow / eyelid and eye "gestures".
4) Self-effacement; humility - in the presence of ability. This is nearly extinct in Singapore, and pretty much the rest of the world. But re-minisce believes in them. And frankly, it's boring to keep hearing someone blow her trumpet over and over again. It destroys communication. It makes husbands switch off, and boyfriends tune-out. If someone is wonderful - she has only but to do. Re-minisce will notice - and appreciate, silently.
5) Height. This last is tenuous; re-minisce isn't sure that it's really entry-level criteria. But re-minisce is certain that he's attracted to women about his height - it has something to do with looking for an equal; a partner in every way. Something to do with making eye contact automatically. Without the time-lag of gaze adjustment. How silly is that?
6) Voice. Modulated. Heavily. With at least a neutral accent. Re-minisce doesn't like the pidgin Singspeak that he grew up with anymore. It probably has something to do with being immersed day in and out in Brit culture, but the odd hybrid we have back home of three-quarters american and one-quarter brit, and four-quarters Singaporean puts me on edge. It'll probably fade with time, once I've been back for a bit.
7) Race. Re-minisce, having lived in london for ages has unsurprisingly lost all racial preferences. He's learnt to appreciate almost all but south-african features. Although, truth be told, there's something wonderful about blonde hair...
Perhaps the ideal You doesn't exist. But once upon a time, I met You. And perhaps that's how the imaginary checklist came about - it's all Your fault. Entirely.
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Stones in his pockets
or rather, feet in his shoes.
Today has been rather interesting. I learnt what foot reflexology is all about. At present moment I'm trying to work out what masochistic tendancies drive people to re-present at a reflexologist. I have a sneaky feeling it'll come to me sooner or later.
I also saw a certain individual in pink, from the mydreamd8 in the flesh. Well, to be honest I saw almost all of them (save the ozzies who're the really good-looking ones, bugger it) in the flesh.
So um let's call her Ms Pinky, well first impressions (and honestly, a blog competition based on how many pictures there are in the blog is all about first impressions) were, my goodness. She's shorter than I thought. Otherwise she looks pretty much like the 1000124901 other pictures of herself posted on her blog. She sounded approximately as intelligent as a small pebble, but then again Ms generic Host (rather pretty, unsurprisingly) didn't give many of the contestants a chance to wow us with their wit, eloquence or verbal aptitudes. So I'm probably being harsh. Pinky was, amongst the crowd (?gaggle?) of other females, pretty unremarkable.
The looker of the lot was J, who, can it be, appeared to have the intellect of a rather much smaller pebble, or perhaps a grain of sand. I know I'm being harsh, but honestly. That demure act... puh-LEASE. Does she really expect us to buy that. Oh yeah. Singaporean crowd. Pause.
Let's put it this way :
Ms Generic Host : Say hello, J!
J : (subscript) hello...
Ms G H : You can do better than that, say hello louder, J!
J : (subscript) hello...
Roll eyeballs.
**********
So a certain Clay Aiken fan has not-so-subtly alluded to my failure to write about our meeting under the exotic eaves of Empire Place, Raffles Hotel.
Well, I was busy having my neck and feet realigned. And yesterday I was busy accompanying my mum on the piano. This being on holiday stuff is hard work.
Okay, lame excuses. But true!
Well, the meeting went okay. Ms Aiken's friends were rather opiniated, resulting in several heated, but ostensibly enjoyable discussions. They carried themselves with the authority, and uncommon grace of Consultant Orthopedic Surgeons. Nuff Said.
Ms Aiken herself was rather a surprise, being quite different to the vocal Valkyrie I'd imagined her to be, and rather demure. But then again, her friends were making enough noise for six I guess.
I'd also imagined her taller. I suppose it's the whole Valkyrie image-thingie. But hey. Welcome to the world of reality, transposed on virtual-reality. WYSINWYI.
But smaller and quieter isn't necessarily a minus. And first impressions, as we all know count for little.
I suppose it wouldn't hurt getting to know Ms Aiken, and perhaps even Ms Pinky better. Hmm. Or perhaps it would, that last one...
or rather, feet in his shoes.
Today has been rather interesting. I learnt what foot reflexology is all about. At present moment I'm trying to work out what masochistic tendancies drive people to re-present at a reflexologist. I have a sneaky feeling it'll come to me sooner or later.
I also saw a certain individual in pink, from the mydreamd8 in the flesh. Well, to be honest I saw almost all of them (save the ozzies who're the really good-looking ones, bugger it) in the flesh.
So um let's call her Ms Pinky, well first impressions (and honestly, a blog competition based on how many pictures there are in the blog is all about first impressions) were, my goodness. She's shorter than I thought. Otherwise she looks pretty much like the 1000124901 other pictures of herself posted on her blog. She sounded approximately as intelligent as a small pebble, but then again Ms generic Host (rather pretty, unsurprisingly) didn't give many of the contestants a chance to wow us with their wit, eloquence or verbal aptitudes. So I'm probably being harsh. Pinky was, amongst the crowd (?gaggle?) of other females, pretty unremarkable.
The looker of the lot was J, who, can it be, appeared to have the intellect of a rather much smaller pebble, or perhaps a grain of sand. I know I'm being harsh, but honestly. That demure act... puh-LEASE. Does she really expect us to buy that. Oh yeah. Singaporean crowd. Pause.
Let's put it this way :
Ms Generic Host : Say hello, J!
J : (subscript) hello...
Ms G H : You can do better than that, say hello louder, J!
J : (subscript) hello...
Roll eyeballs.
**********
So a certain Clay Aiken fan has not-so-subtly alluded to my failure to write about our meeting under the exotic eaves of Empire Place, Raffles Hotel.
Well, I was busy having my neck and feet realigned. And yesterday I was busy accompanying my mum on the piano. This being on holiday stuff is hard work.
Okay, lame excuses. But true!
Well, the meeting went okay. Ms Aiken's friends were rather opiniated, resulting in several heated, but ostensibly enjoyable discussions. They carried themselves with the authority, and uncommon grace of Consultant Orthopedic Surgeons. Nuff Said.
Ms Aiken herself was rather a surprise, being quite different to the vocal Valkyrie I'd imagined her to be, and rather demure. But then again, her friends were making enough noise for six I guess.
I'd also imagined her taller. I suppose it's the whole Valkyrie image-thingie. But hey. Welcome to the world of reality, transposed on virtual-reality. WYSINWYI.
But smaller and quieter isn't necessarily a minus. And first impressions, as we all know count for little.
I suppose it wouldn't hurt getting to know Ms Aiken, and perhaps even Ms Pinky better. Hmm. Or perhaps it would, that last one...
Friday, March 26, 2004
The Final Verdict
Okay, after much deliberation, re-minisce has come to the following decisions:
1) Compaq presario 2524AI laptop - seems to have a lot of bang for buck, has good processor and ram. drawback - heavy, XP home. who cares? :) And XP can be reinstalled...
2) Asus A7N8X deluxe with XP2800+ processor
fast mobo, good features and good reviews. And who really needs an AMD64 or FX. For that matter, who can really afford them?
if anyone has any words of caution, speak now or forever hold your peace...
Okay, after much deliberation, re-minisce has come to the following decisions:
1) Compaq presario 2524AI laptop - seems to have a lot of bang for buck, has good processor and ram. drawback - heavy, XP home. who cares? :) And XP can be reinstalled...
2) Asus A7N8X deluxe with XP2800+ processor
fast mobo, good features and good reviews. And who really needs an AMD64 or FX. For that matter, who can really afford them?
if anyone has any words of caution, speak now or forever hold your peace...
Thursday, March 25, 2004
Zzzzzzzzz
today was spent mainly in the attic risking life and limb to set up a network cable which wasnt ultimately well received.
after that a bout of extremely opiniated dinner conversation, and i'm now falling asleep in my chair.
Yesterday was better.
today was spent mainly in the attic risking life and limb to set up a network cable which wasnt ultimately well received.
after that a bout of extremely opiniated dinner conversation, and i'm now falling asleep in my chair.
Yesterday was better.
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
Retrospectively speaking,
Barts app, check
Colch app, check
council tax, check
sleep.
oh yeah, I knew there was something that I forgot to do.
*******
Big baby
Okay, so I watched the Last Samurai on the plane, and yknow what, I think it sucked.
Sure there was a lot of effort put into costumes, and swordplay which were great. But the whole, draggy two hours of it is just a Tom Cruise fantasy of White Man meets Orient and Wins Their Respect with his Honour thingie. And he gets to shake a big sword around a bit too.
Sure, it's nice and moving, hordes of samurai being mowed down by a chaingun (That's a good death?!?) with Tom Cruise, of course, receiving superficial flesh wounds. Oh yeah, and of course the pretty Japanese wife of the man he killed has to kiss the alluring white man at some point. And of course, Tom Cruise has to get beat up a lot by the samurai whose respect he finally wins.
It's just so much macho bullshit wrapped poetically, over and over again. It left me feeling slightly nauseas.
Think about it. Hundreds of samurai dead for no real reason, and sure they killed a lot of soldiers armed with rifles. Net result at the end of the day, thousands of dead Japanese people, dying in the name of... their country?
And nobody stopped to think, there has to be a better way, huh. Honour before brains.
Yes, quite.
*******
re-minisce has discovered evanescence
Barts app, check
Colch app, check
council tax, check
sleep.
oh yeah, I knew there was something that I forgot to do.
*******
Big baby
Okay, so I watched the Last Samurai on the plane, and yknow what, I think it sucked.
Sure there was a lot of effort put into costumes, and swordplay which were great. But the whole, draggy two hours of it is just a Tom Cruise fantasy of White Man meets Orient and Wins Their Respect with his Honour thingie. And he gets to shake a big sword around a bit too.
Sure, it's nice and moving, hordes of samurai being mowed down by a chaingun (That's a good death?!?) with Tom Cruise, of course, receiving superficial flesh wounds. Oh yeah, and of course the pretty Japanese wife of the man he killed has to kiss the alluring white man at some point. And of course, Tom Cruise has to get beat up a lot by the samurai whose respect he finally wins.
It's just so much macho bullshit wrapped poetically, over and over again. It left me feeling slightly nauseas.
Think about it. Hundreds of samurai dead for no real reason, and sure they killed a lot of soldiers armed with rifles. Net result at the end of the day, thousands of dead Japanese people, dying in the name of... their country?
And nobody stopped to think, there has to be a better way, huh. Honour before brains.
Yes, quite.
*******
re-minisce has discovered evanescence
Monday, March 22, 2004
Like cool, dude
I'm riding the waves of insomnia-induced euphoria right now.
Upon arriving back home at my nice warm flat in chilly london, and settling into my nice warm bed, I discovered to my horror (thank you, paranoia!) that I'm flying today instead of tomorrow. Nevermind that I agreed tomorrow with the SQ flight agent, and wrote it neatly down on my rota - apparently SQ decides when we fly, not us. Ringing up the agent confirmed that the date on my ticket was indeed correct.
So my barts app had to be done in a hurry, and now the Lister app as well. And I have yet to pack, and I will get precisely 0 hours of sleep over 36 hours till I board the plane.
It's not so bad. It actually feels pretty good.
Catch me saying that after I've lugged my luggage to the airport.
I'm riding the waves of insomnia-induced euphoria right now.
Upon arriving back home at my nice warm flat in chilly london, and settling into my nice warm bed, I discovered to my horror (thank you, paranoia!) that I'm flying today instead of tomorrow. Nevermind that I agreed tomorrow with the SQ flight agent, and wrote it neatly down on my rota - apparently SQ decides when we fly, not us. Ringing up the agent confirmed that the date on my ticket was indeed correct.
So my barts app had to be done in a hurry, and now the Lister app as well. And I have yet to pack, and I will get precisely 0 hours of sleep over 36 hours till I board the plane.
It's not so bad. It actually feels pretty good.
Catch me saying that after I've lugged my luggage to the airport.
Twelth Night
It's just struck me that I don't know how to spell that. Twel...veth? twelfth. twlthtltlelnevermind.
Increasing evidence of re-minisce's inner-self taking over. That being the BSE of course.
Tonight is the last shift. Okay, Seventh Night, to be fair. This time tomorrow, I will be at home, hopefully having completed my Bart's application, sorted out my council tax fiasco (blasted Camden Council), caught some downtime in bed, and be just about ready for some fancy dining with a fancy-dining friend of mine.
And packed and ready to fly. Bizarre. All that in a day; right now I'm still in "work-mode". Scrubs, stethoscope and jacket. (yeah I wear a jacket at work in the UK. I feel strangely naked in scrubs, having gotten used to wearing a white-coat in my last job. That, and it's chilly in A&E.)
Pray God that tonight will be a nice calm shift, with few patients.
Having just come awake, re-minisce has wandered around the net a bit, and discovered that A L (wuyuetien) has tried playing a cello. Hey, so have I. And I can't wait to get home and fiddle (ha,ha) with my mom's cello a little bit. Mom has been learning how to play the cello (having moved on from her virtuoso-hood in piano and violin) and taught me a little bit for a laugh. I don't have the finger pads for it, but it does sound nice. Now if only someone would teach me how to play the flute. I've been yearning for learning (ug) in flute for a decade now.
I also found this on line :
http://www.diary-x.com/proposal.dx
now that is a brave man. That's a movie moment made flesh.
That's the kind of thing we, some of us, wish we had the guts to do, but never really do. Or, when we do, feel self-consciously aware of doing it, and somehow... cheapened.
This guy reads like it's coming straight off his head, into his fingers and onto the screen. And he really means it.
This guy's living a movie moment, and for his, and her sake, I hope she says yes.
If not for anything else, then simply for the fact that he's not doing it for himself; well not entirely for himself. Because this represents something more than selfishness. Because he's laying it all on the line, and perhaps something greater will come of his temporary leave of sense - perhaps forty years from now, when he's sat down with all his grandchildren, he can wheeze a little and say "yknow, back in the good old day, your grammy and me, well ysee i propsed onli...."
pause.
oh.
how sad.
Yes, I am nasty aren't I?
P, the other SHO doing nights with me thinks I'm very nasty.
P is pretty much the heart-throb of A&E. He's a BBI, and has the Clooney looks that women dig. The nurses pinch his butt all the time (poor guy). The other day this rather alarmingly large woman asked specifically (for some reason brit's pronounce that "pacifically") for him, although another doctor had already treated her. I did the usual "ah, I see you've made a fa.. riend" thing on him and he said it's always nice to be appreciated, and I said ah, yes, appreciated. And he told me I was nasty...
I wonder why?
It's just struck me that I don't know how to spell that. Twel...veth? twelfth. twlthtltlelnevermind.
Increasing evidence of re-minisce's inner-self taking over. That being the BSE of course.
Tonight is the last shift. Okay, Seventh Night, to be fair. This time tomorrow, I will be at home, hopefully having completed my Bart's application, sorted out my council tax fiasco (blasted Camden Council), caught some downtime in bed, and be just about ready for some fancy dining with a fancy-dining friend of mine.
And packed and ready to fly. Bizarre. All that in a day; right now I'm still in "work-mode". Scrubs, stethoscope and jacket. (yeah I wear a jacket at work in the UK. I feel strangely naked in scrubs, having gotten used to wearing a white-coat in my last job. That, and it's chilly in A&E.)
Pray God that tonight will be a nice calm shift, with few patients.
Having just come awake, re-minisce has wandered around the net a bit, and discovered that A L (wuyuetien) has tried playing a cello. Hey, so have I. And I can't wait to get home and fiddle (ha,ha) with my mom's cello a little bit. Mom has been learning how to play the cello (having moved on from her virtuoso-hood in piano and violin) and taught me a little bit for a laugh. I don't have the finger pads for it, but it does sound nice. Now if only someone would teach me how to play the flute. I've been yearning for learning (ug) in flute for a decade now.
I also found this on line :
http://www.diary-x.com/proposal.dx
now that is a brave man. That's a movie moment made flesh.
That's the kind of thing we, some of us, wish we had the guts to do, but never really do. Or, when we do, feel self-consciously aware of doing it, and somehow... cheapened.
This guy reads like it's coming straight off his head, into his fingers and onto the screen. And he really means it.
This guy's living a movie moment, and for his, and her sake, I hope she says yes.
If not for anything else, then simply for the fact that he's not doing it for himself; well not entirely for himself. Because this represents something more than selfishness. Because he's laying it all on the line, and perhaps something greater will come of his temporary leave of sense - perhaps forty years from now, when he's sat down with all his grandchildren, he can wheeze a little and say "yknow, back in the good old day, your grammy and me, well ysee i propsed onli...."
pause.
oh.
how sad.
Yes, I am nasty aren't I?
P, the other SHO doing nights with me thinks I'm very nasty.
P is pretty much the heart-throb of A&E. He's a BBI, and has the Clooney looks that women dig. The nurses pinch his butt all the time (poor guy). The other day this rather alarmingly large woman asked specifically (for some reason brit's pronounce that "pacifically") for him, although another doctor had already treated her. I did the usual "ah, I see you've made a fa.. riend" thing on him and he said it's always nice to be appreciated, and I said ah, yes, appreciated. And he told me I was nasty...
I wonder why?
Sunday, March 21, 2004
ME
aka myalgic encephalomyelitis. Questionably fictional entity, along the lines of Santa Claus, Tooth Fairy, and Weapons of Mass Destruction.
For the benefit of Jen Jen.
aka myalgic encephalomyelitis. Questionably fictional entity, along the lines of Santa Claus, Tooth Fairy, and Weapons of Mass Destruction.
For the benefit of Jen Jen.
Saturday, March 20, 2004
Telly Tubby
Okay, I'll admit it. It's getting to me. Either I've contracted M.E, or else the nights are getting to me.
Re-minisce is turning into a telly junkie. It's been a long time since I've had a television to myself. You know how it is, when you're at someone else's place and you politely demur the telly remote. Watching TV is one thing, mastering it is another.
So now that re-minisce has an on-call room with a tv in it, he pretty much spends 10/7 (ie the waking hours) watching tv. There's a lot of rubbish on which he watches, including a bizarre TV series that makes people shack up together and go on serial dates for the day, before having one of them choose to boot one of the others out. The blonde bimbo with the body made for sin (who actually works as a topless dancer by night and a nude model by day) just got the boot today from the astrophysics graduate, who's looking for an intellectual equal (doh!). Till yesterday the "in control" person had been a bloke who fancied the pants off topless barbie (pun intended). Nuff said.
Something that IS really good is a kid's show entitled "Feather Boy" (the fact that I'm watching CBBC probably says it all about my current existence) which is a slightly sad story about a boy dealing with his parents divorce in the real world, and strangely living his ?dreams at the same time. It's complicated and difficult to explain. I suggest doing a google search for Feather Boy BBC for an idea. (The lead is that kid from "About a Boy", yknow, Hugh Grant?) But it truly boggles my mind that they make stuff like that here for kids, and adults. Powerful, timeless stories about... stories. With adult themes of infidelity and divorce, sure - as bad things, and with a lingering sadness reflected by the music - but yet set in childhood, with childhood issues of bullying and hope mixed into one.
They paint a picture of the intense richness of childhood in this country - and yet at the same time remember the sad reality of how wrong society is today.
They put my childhood, which I barely remember, to shame. There was something very sterile about growing up in perfect little Singapore; where unemployment and pornography are sins, and where stories for children, are (?were?) stories for children.
But that might not be such a bad thing.
**********
Watching Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail! I reflected that:
Firstly, it's strange how we, almost all of us (even blokes) crave at some level movies about life and love, that embody, (and are meant to represent?) the ideal lives we desire. And yet our own lives are, sadly more like Reality TV. Which we also feel compelled to watch.
It appears that we either want to watch utter lies, or grim truth. In between thingies are mediocre. Movies that almost reflect our lives, and movies that our lives almost reflect.
Secondly, I don't really know how this ties in, but I remember As Good as it Gets. I don't remember the movie at all. I remember ruining it for You, in the Aftermath. I didn't say this at the time, or perhaps I did, but I'm sorry about that. It wasn't a particularly memorable movie anyhow. I'm sure your "friend(s)" felt the same way.
Okay, I'll admit it. It's getting to me. Either I've contracted M.E, or else the nights are getting to me.
Re-minisce is turning into a telly junkie. It's been a long time since I've had a television to myself. You know how it is, when you're at someone else's place and you politely demur the telly remote. Watching TV is one thing, mastering it is another.
So now that re-minisce has an on-call room with a tv in it, he pretty much spends 10/7 (ie the waking hours) watching tv. There's a lot of rubbish on which he watches, including a bizarre TV series that makes people shack up together and go on serial dates for the day, before having one of them choose to boot one of the others out. The blonde bimbo with the body made for sin (who actually works as a topless dancer by night and a nude model by day) just got the boot today from the astrophysics graduate, who's looking for an intellectual equal (doh!). Till yesterday the "in control" person had been a bloke who fancied the pants off topless barbie (pun intended). Nuff said.
Something that IS really good is a kid's show entitled "Feather Boy" (the fact that I'm watching CBBC probably says it all about my current existence) which is a slightly sad story about a boy dealing with his parents divorce in the real world, and strangely living his ?dreams at the same time. It's complicated and difficult to explain. I suggest doing a google search for Feather Boy BBC for an idea. (The lead is that kid from "About a Boy", yknow, Hugh Grant?) But it truly boggles my mind that they make stuff like that here for kids, and adults. Powerful, timeless stories about... stories. With adult themes of infidelity and divorce, sure - as bad things, and with a lingering sadness reflected by the music - but yet set in childhood, with childhood issues of bullying and hope mixed into one.
They paint a picture of the intense richness of childhood in this country - and yet at the same time remember the sad reality of how wrong society is today.
They put my childhood, which I barely remember, to shame. There was something very sterile about growing up in perfect little Singapore; where unemployment and pornography are sins, and where stories for children, are (?were?) stories for children.
But that might not be such a bad thing.
**********
Watching Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail! I reflected that:
Firstly, it's strange how we, almost all of us (even blokes) crave at some level movies about life and love, that embody, (and are meant to represent?) the ideal lives we desire. And yet our own lives are, sadly more like Reality TV. Which we also feel compelled to watch.
It appears that we either want to watch utter lies, or grim truth. In between thingies are mediocre. Movies that almost reflect our lives, and movies that our lives almost reflect.
Secondly, I don't really know how this ties in, but I remember As Good as it Gets. I don't remember the movie at all. I remember ruining it for You, in the Aftermath. I didn't say this at the time, or perhaps I did, but I'm sorry about that. It wasn't a particularly memorable movie anyhow. I'm sure your "friend(s)" felt the same way.
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
Nightmare Shift from Hell
re-minisce is beginning to suspect that patients accrue their pathologies intentionally so that they can unleash them all upon re-minisce after midnight, during his week of nights.
monday night was pretty bad.
yesterday night was worse. Just when re-minisce thought he was getting a handle on things - it'd been abdo pain night all night, steady trickle, always 1 in the box waiting to be seen, no time for breaks... but nothing re-minisce couldn't handle, after all half of them were nutters who didn't need admission, and one was a real (repeat offending) nutter who'd just come in for pethidine (who, thanks to some clever re-stacking of priorities on re-minisce's part, never actually got seen before she self-discharged! hehe)
said nutter came in screaming and shouting. she had her own folder dedicated to her. a full length ring binder. comes in every 3 days for pethidine or so it appears, final dx : IBS. of late the consultants had been denying her pethidine, which usually makes her discharge in a huff.
instead, last night after putting her at the back of the pile for the third time (an acute urinary retention HAS to be more important than some fat women screaming her head off in "agony" who clearly isn't really that unwell) four acutely ill patients arrived at the same time at 6 am. 3 chest pains and 1 infec exac COPD.
enough said?
1x NSTEMI, +/- aortic dissection
1X ACS
1x thrombolysable anterior MI... re-minisce almost kissed her when she said in response to "so do you have any other medical problems" "oh, I had a stroke last month..." (and he only just bit-back the oh thank God just in time)
and of course Mr Premature Discharge for infec Exac COPD with his PO2 of 8 and Ph of 7.2
re-minisce felt right shattered after that. close to bubbling. or babbling. or whatever he was close to.
Sleep. must. sleep now. thank goodness for on call rooms.
re-minisce is beginning to suspect that patients accrue their pathologies intentionally so that they can unleash them all upon re-minisce after midnight, during his week of nights.
monday night was pretty bad.
yesterday night was worse. Just when re-minisce thought he was getting a handle on things - it'd been abdo pain night all night, steady trickle, always 1 in the box waiting to be seen, no time for breaks... but nothing re-minisce couldn't handle, after all half of them were nutters who didn't need admission, and one was a real (repeat offending) nutter who'd just come in for pethidine (who, thanks to some clever re-stacking of priorities on re-minisce's part, never actually got seen before she self-discharged! hehe)
said nutter came in screaming and shouting. she had her own folder dedicated to her. a full length ring binder. comes in every 3 days for pethidine or so it appears, final dx : IBS. of late the consultants had been denying her pethidine, which usually makes her discharge in a huff.
instead, last night after putting her at the back of the pile for the third time (an acute urinary retention HAS to be more important than some fat women screaming her head off in "agony" who clearly isn't really that unwell) four acutely ill patients arrived at the same time at 6 am. 3 chest pains and 1 infec exac COPD.
enough said?
1x NSTEMI, +/- aortic dissection
1X ACS
1x thrombolysable anterior MI... re-minisce almost kissed her when she said in response to "so do you have any other medical problems" "oh, I had a stroke last month..." (and he only just bit-back the oh thank God just in time)
and of course Mr Premature Discharge for infec Exac COPD with his PO2 of 8 and Ph of 7.2
re-minisce felt right shattered after that. close to bubbling. or babbling. or whatever he was close to.
Sleep. must. sleep now. thank goodness for on call rooms.
Tuesday, March 16, 2004
Milan Madness
So I'm sitting here at the hospital internet cafe. Me, reduced to this. Thank you, week of nights. Hopefully the registrar's office will have a computer free later so I can do more job apps.
The news today is Milan, milan, milan - and the London underground. I remember feverishly making my Addenb. app on Sunday while not-really listening to a friend's boyfriend -- whom I've now probably rather unjustly pegged as rather a dimwit - scoffing at the Met's plans to use the public as its eyes and ears. In his world, the Labour government is spreading paranoia and admitting to the weakness of it's intelligence service by enlisting the general public. The shock and awe effect on the public will be oh so tragic.
I'm sorry, but I have to disagree.
The Spaniards had a sophisticated intelligence service of their own which stopped a previous train-bombing attempt. All the intelligence in the world merely staved off the inevitable. Over one thousand people severely injured, hundreds dead.
The scenario plays out frighteningly in my mind whenever I go to King's Cross to catch my train to work. What if, what if, what if. And I'm not even taking the underground - I'm just walking above it.
And I can't help but be glad that someone is trying to do something about it. I applaud British Transport police for trying to enlist their greatest and most numerous weapons - the lay public. I'd rather have rampant paranoia floating around than be caught in the middle of the night switching to red alert and triaging horrific casualties arriving in droves from the nearest trainline.
Or being caught in the middle of a series of mass explosions. And losing a limb. Or dying.
So I'm sorry, but I've pegged your boyfriend as a bit of a fool. You can stand up for him all you like, but the fact remains - if you died tomorrow - or he did - because the government and police thought the way he did - because a stray bag left unattended on a train - or eight - was ignored by an apathetic public (after all, how often do you see policemen on the underground? or even underground staff?) suddenly exploded --- all the blame in the world, all the guilt - would be too late.
All for what? Molly coddling the imaginary psyche of a British public bred through centuries of war on a cold, desolate island.
Is the benefit of not asking a complete stranger "excuse me, is this your bag" greater than the risk of thousands of people dying in a single, fiery moment?
********
In other news, re-minisce is slightly puzzled at how his last entry paralleled xena's.
He's also rather wishing he'd walked up to that yank/canadian bird after all...
So I'm sitting here at the hospital internet cafe. Me, reduced to this. Thank you, week of nights. Hopefully the registrar's office will have a computer free later so I can do more job apps.
The news today is Milan, milan, milan - and the London underground. I remember feverishly making my Addenb. app on Sunday while not-really listening to a friend's boyfriend -- whom I've now probably rather unjustly pegged as rather a dimwit - scoffing at the Met's plans to use the public as its eyes and ears. In his world, the Labour government is spreading paranoia and admitting to the weakness of it's intelligence service by enlisting the general public. The shock and awe effect on the public will be oh so tragic.
I'm sorry, but I have to disagree.
The Spaniards had a sophisticated intelligence service of their own which stopped a previous train-bombing attempt. All the intelligence in the world merely staved off the inevitable. Over one thousand people severely injured, hundreds dead.
The scenario plays out frighteningly in my mind whenever I go to King's Cross to catch my train to work. What if, what if, what if. And I'm not even taking the underground - I'm just walking above it.
And I can't help but be glad that someone is trying to do something about it. I applaud British Transport police for trying to enlist their greatest and most numerous weapons - the lay public. I'd rather have rampant paranoia floating around than be caught in the middle of the night switching to red alert and triaging horrific casualties arriving in droves from the nearest trainline.
Or being caught in the middle of a series of mass explosions. And losing a limb. Or dying.
So I'm sorry, but I've pegged your boyfriend as a bit of a fool. You can stand up for him all you like, but the fact remains - if you died tomorrow - or he did - because the government and police thought the way he did - because a stray bag left unattended on a train - or eight - was ignored by an apathetic public (after all, how often do you see policemen on the underground? or even underground staff?) suddenly exploded --- all the blame in the world, all the guilt - would be too late.
All for what? Molly coddling the imaginary psyche of a British public bred through centuries of war on a cold, desolate island.
Is the benefit of not asking a complete stranger "excuse me, is this your bag" greater than the risk of thousands of people dying in a single, fiery moment?
********
In other news, re-minisce is slightly puzzled at how his last entry paralleled xena's.
He's also rather wishing he'd walked up to that yank/canadian bird after all...
Monday, March 15, 2004
Intimate Stranger
She had remarkable eyes, standing alone with her two nondescript friends beside her at the post office on the corner of Russel Square. Her origins were difficult to discern - native american? mexican? oriental? or all, or some of the above? Re-minisce couldn't help but stare as he queued up to post his (hopefully life-altering) job application. Her eyebrows slightly drawn together, and eyes : dark, slightly preoccupied, bordering on the brink of sadness - yet able at a flash to transform into sheer mirth. Staring blandly into infinity as her two friends exchanged their canadian notes for English currency. There was something hauntingly familiar about her, this complete stranger.
It's difficult, in England to tell if a female on the street is physically attractive - they usually come bundled up heavily against the cold in frumpy jackets (often with furry collars). Sometimes they wear sleek figure-hugging overcoats, and rarely they flaunt it all with an ecstatic shiver. The last are usually anything but, the over-coated are 50-50. The first are anyone's guess.
She fell in the first category. But it didn't matter to Re-minisce. His worst fears confirmed - he's an Eyes man.
A younger and strangely more intrepid Re-minisce would have walked trance-like up to her and blurted "I just had to tell you, you have remarkably beautiful eyes". The re-minisce of today was sorely tempted to...
Their eyes met as she noticed him, noticing her. He walked on past.
A cup of mochaccino later on Russel Square, en-route to Home, re-minisce spotted her again, still standing in the doorway of the post-office staring out to space. They noticed each other again. Re-minisce disregarded the subtle messages his feet were trying to pass to him, and turned the corner.
It would have been the second time in his life he did anything remotely like that.
Ten minutes later, at home, he realises he's forgotten to go to the bank. :|
Deja-vu?
*********
Re-minisce has to date met several females he considered pretty, and one or two beautiful women. A few with rather nice eyes. But eyes like that - to die for... well, twice in twenty-seven years isn't so bad, hey?
**********
Nicknacks hithero unposted (but intentions are what counts, right?)
- Re-minisce cooked himself dinner on Saturday; it's been quite a while since he did that. a 24 hour marinaded lamb experiment which got cancelled at last minute's notice and shoved into the freezer for a month, thawed out and stir-fried. It was pretty good. I should cook for myself more often. Washing-up, now that's a bummer.
- I got a crank call Friday, 2 minutes of silence in response to my slightly irritated "Hello??"s, and then a short slice of music. What's the deal with That?? Or was 12 Mar the date of something important. I wish I was better with dates...
- A chance comment from a friend of a friend resulted in Re-minisce discovering that he's been paying far too much council tax over the last two years as a single, very-unmarried batchelor. The result : Next year's bill will amount to £40. How sweet is that?
- Re-minisce has cash in the bank. But how on earth will he get it out of the bank when he goes home to buy his computer parts and laptop. Sim Lim is notorious for needing cold, hard cash. How exactly does one, as a foreigner in his land of birth withdraw one thousand pounds from a bank halfway around the world? Drat. Perhaps I should have left a stash in Singapore after all.
She had remarkable eyes, standing alone with her two nondescript friends beside her at the post office on the corner of Russel Square. Her origins were difficult to discern - native american? mexican? oriental? or all, or some of the above? Re-minisce couldn't help but stare as he queued up to post his (hopefully life-altering) job application. Her eyebrows slightly drawn together, and eyes : dark, slightly preoccupied, bordering on the brink of sadness - yet able at a flash to transform into sheer mirth. Staring blandly into infinity as her two friends exchanged their canadian notes for English currency. There was something hauntingly familiar about her, this complete stranger.
It's difficult, in England to tell if a female on the street is physically attractive - they usually come bundled up heavily against the cold in frumpy jackets (often with furry collars). Sometimes they wear sleek figure-hugging overcoats, and rarely they flaunt it all with an ecstatic shiver. The last are usually anything but, the over-coated are 50-50. The first are anyone's guess.
She fell in the first category. But it didn't matter to Re-minisce. His worst fears confirmed - he's an Eyes man.
A younger and strangely more intrepid Re-minisce would have walked trance-like up to her and blurted "I just had to tell you, you have remarkably beautiful eyes". The re-minisce of today was sorely tempted to...
Their eyes met as she noticed him, noticing her. He walked on past.
A cup of mochaccino later on Russel Square, en-route to Home, re-minisce spotted her again, still standing in the doorway of the post-office staring out to space. They noticed each other again. Re-minisce disregarded the subtle messages his feet were trying to pass to him, and turned the corner.
It would have been the second time in his life he did anything remotely like that.
Ten minutes later, at home, he realises he's forgotten to go to the bank. :|
Deja-vu?
*********
Re-minisce has to date met several females he considered pretty, and one or two beautiful women. A few with rather nice eyes. But eyes like that - to die for... well, twice in twenty-seven years isn't so bad, hey?
**********
Nicknacks hithero unposted (but intentions are what counts, right?)
- Re-minisce cooked himself dinner on Saturday; it's been quite a while since he did that. a 24 hour marinaded lamb experiment which got cancelled at last minute's notice and shoved into the freezer for a month, thawed out and stir-fried. It was pretty good. I should cook for myself more often. Washing-up, now that's a bummer.
- I got a crank call Friday, 2 minutes of silence in response to my slightly irritated "Hello??"s, and then a short slice of music. What's the deal with That?? Or was 12 Mar the date of something important. I wish I was better with dates...
- A chance comment from a friend of a friend resulted in Re-minisce discovering that he's been paying far too much council tax over the last two years as a single, very-unmarried batchelor. The result : Next year's bill will amount to £40. How sweet is that?
- Re-minisce has cash in the bank. But how on earth will he get it out of the bank when he goes home to buy his computer parts and laptop. Sim Lim is notorious for needing cold, hard cash. How exactly does one, as a foreigner in his land of birth withdraw one thousand pounds from a bank halfway around the world? Drat. Perhaps I should have left a stash in Singapore after all.
Dirrrty
Walking home in the light drizzle that characterised most of today, really, I couldn't help but wonder - what IS it about England. Why do they painstakingly restore all those historic buildings, over and over again so they LOOK like they haven't been restored? Is that all culture is, cakes of dirt and congealed smog accrued through the centuries? If I was Mayor of London for a day, I'd get those water-jet guns out in force across the capital. And blast down those buildings, mebbe give em a lick of paint while I'm at it. And those grubby brackish-red london buses. And those underground trains, nevermind that they'll probably get blown up tomorrow. Speaking of which, I'd also mount missile launchers on top of the BT Tower, and possibly the London Eye as well. Well... it wouldn't hurt would it. It might even make those incomprehensibly camera-hungry little Japanese people think twice about lighting up the grey twilight that is London's daytime with their insufferably (but expensively) cheery Nikon / Canon flashes.
For some reason, brits like Dirty. The country is practically the Capital of Depravity. Compare it with Oz for instance. In oz, they make soaps about characters who, when they throw a strop walk out of the house. And strangely everyone gets really upset by it. Sometimes, in a clever plot device they've discovered, known as a Twist, they throw their boyfriends out of the house.
In the UK, when a character throws a strop, he joins the police force, tracks down his long-lost birth-mother, and then seduces (that's shags for all you slightly less educated Poms out there) his mother. And the music's always about getting down and dirty with someone.
The national preoccupation is Me, and how Me can get Dirty.
And for the longest while, I've been getting slowly infected by it.
So, you ask, you live here. How can you sell out like this. Well, I'm not Brit. Plain and straight. This is very definitely becoming my home, but
1) I don't like curry enough and
2) I don't sound Indian enough
to qualify.
What am I then? Well, at the risk of contradicting myself above, I'm nowhere. I don't feel like I belong, anywhere. Whinge whinge whinge. But seriously. I don't really belong back "home" either. I walk and talk funny now, and I kinda like my overcoat too much to abandon the richness and variety of life abroad for the perpetual summer of Singapore. And me-culture is, if anything even more prevalent back home. Except it's not how Me can get Dirty, but how Me can get seen with cool people, how Me can hang out at cool places, and how Me can get rich quick enough to afford a car, condo, and a cool woman / man to get jiggy with and make little kids to further the Me enterprise.
While I'm ranting, I might as well confess that I miss Yesterday. I don't know if I necessarily miss the You of yesterday anymore - I probably do. But the You today I don't know at all... and right now I'm too hung up on missing Yesterday, when things were so much simpler. So black and white. When the straight and narrow didn't have an elaborate network of alleyways branching out from it, where it could be easy to turn - grey. Like the city I live in now.
Forgive me. I'm slightly off my rocker. I'd have sent this as an email to Her once - just as it looks now, out of... I dunno. Just a need to be heard, and to hear I guess. A good need. Something that completed me.
Right now I'm just ranting out of distress. A Me need. A bad one. No real objective, no fulfilment. I stand at the brink of the Longest Week (well one of them). The Week of Nights. And after that, the Golden Chalice - a free flight home (thank you Kris Air!) to the stresses of family, and buying a new laptop and a new motherboard for my now deceased desktop.
On the bright side, I caught the final ever episode of Star Trek Voyager today. So at least I know that... Janeway died a hero. Pooh, bah, she always dies a hero in almost all the episodes, then comes back to life, or else was a clone of the original or something.
Why couldn't they make that vulcan guy die as the big hero for once. Or make seven of nine pregnant. Hmph.
Oops. There I go again. Dirrty.
I need out...
Walking home in the light drizzle that characterised most of today, really, I couldn't help but wonder - what IS it about England. Why do they painstakingly restore all those historic buildings, over and over again so they LOOK like they haven't been restored? Is that all culture is, cakes of dirt and congealed smog accrued through the centuries? If I was Mayor of London for a day, I'd get those water-jet guns out in force across the capital. And blast down those buildings, mebbe give em a lick of paint while I'm at it. And those grubby brackish-red london buses. And those underground trains, nevermind that they'll probably get blown up tomorrow. Speaking of which, I'd also mount missile launchers on top of the BT Tower, and possibly the London Eye as well. Well... it wouldn't hurt would it. It might even make those incomprehensibly camera-hungry little Japanese people think twice about lighting up the grey twilight that is London's daytime with their insufferably (but expensively) cheery Nikon / Canon flashes.
For some reason, brits like Dirty. The country is practically the Capital of Depravity. Compare it with Oz for instance. In oz, they make soaps about characters who, when they throw a strop walk out of the house. And strangely everyone gets really upset by it. Sometimes, in a clever plot device they've discovered, known as a Twist, they throw their boyfriends out of the house.
In the UK, when a character throws a strop, he joins the police force, tracks down his long-lost birth-mother, and then seduces (that's shags for all you slightly less educated Poms out there) his mother. And the music's always about getting down and dirty with someone.
The national preoccupation is Me, and how Me can get Dirty.
And for the longest while, I've been getting slowly infected by it.
So, you ask, you live here. How can you sell out like this. Well, I'm not Brit. Plain and straight. This is very definitely becoming my home, but
1) I don't like curry enough and
2) I don't sound Indian enough
to qualify.
What am I then? Well, at the risk of contradicting myself above, I'm nowhere. I don't feel like I belong, anywhere. Whinge whinge whinge. But seriously. I don't really belong back "home" either. I walk and talk funny now, and I kinda like my overcoat too much to abandon the richness and variety of life abroad for the perpetual summer of Singapore. And me-culture is, if anything even more prevalent back home. Except it's not how Me can get Dirty, but how Me can get seen with cool people, how Me can hang out at cool places, and how Me can get rich quick enough to afford a car, condo, and a cool woman / man to get jiggy with and make little kids to further the Me enterprise.
While I'm ranting, I might as well confess that I miss Yesterday. I don't know if I necessarily miss the You of yesterday anymore - I probably do. But the You today I don't know at all... and right now I'm too hung up on missing Yesterday, when things were so much simpler. So black and white. When the straight and narrow didn't have an elaborate network of alleyways branching out from it, where it could be easy to turn - grey. Like the city I live in now.
Forgive me. I'm slightly off my rocker. I'd have sent this as an email to Her once - just as it looks now, out of... I dunno. Just a need to be heard, and to hear I guess. A good need. Something that completed me.
Right now I'm just ranting out of distress. A Me need. A bad one. No real objective, no fulfilment. I stand at the brink of the Longest Week (well one of them). The Week of Nights. And after that, the Golden Chalice - a free flight home (thank you Kris Air!) to the stresses of family, and buying a new laptop and a new motherboard for my now deceased desktop.
On the bright side, I caught the final ever episode of Star Trek Voyager today. So at least I know that... Janeway died a hero. Pooh, bah, she always dies a hero in almost all the episodes, then comes back to life, or else was a clone of the original or something.
Why couldn't they make that vulcan guy die as the big hero for once. Or make seven of nine pregnant. Hmph.
Oops. There I go again. Dirrty.
I need out...
Death of a Friend
Well my computer has decisely stepped off the steep drop to oblivion. It's mortal coil has, uh, uncoiled.
0500 am : sudden pump failure and E... uh EED
Despite aggressive resuscitation techniques and complete pump (system fan) transplant, the team was unable to resucitate the subject. Time of Death, 11 am.
Truly, I am saddened.
Worse still, one of my half-complete job apps was left unfinished on my Hard Disk. Typically, it was an electronic application. Thankfully the document has been salvaged thanks to help from a friend.
In other news, fame? Is that what you people call it, having strangers peruse your blog, and link to it?
I think not. And if that's what fame is, give me obscurity anyday.
Actually, even if fame was public recognition, papparrazzi and lots of freebies I think I'd still choose obscurity. beats me why.
I'll leave it to her to enjoy "fame".
This weekends been spent feeling a little sad about my past. Two and a half relationships appears to have been the sum total of my existence in this life. That and a fledgeling career that's proving quite a lot of effort to develop. But heck, it's had its moments.
How's Yours been?
Well my computer has decisely stepped off the steep drop to oblivion. It's mortal coil has, uh, uncoiled.
0500 am : sudden pump failure and E... uh EED
Despite aggressive resuscitation techniques and complete pump (system fan) transplant, the team was unable to resucitate the subject. Time of Death, 11 am.
Truly, I am saddened.
Worse still, one of my half-complete job apps was left unfinished on my Hard Disk. Typically, it was an electronic application. Thankfully the document has been salvaged thanks to help from a friend.
In other news, fame? Is that what you people call it, having strangers peruse your blog, and link to it?
I think not. And if that's what fame is, give me obscurity anyday.
Actually, even if fame was public recognition, papparrazzi and lots of freebies I think I'd still choose obscurity. beats me why.
I'll leave it to her to enjoy "fame".
This weekends been spent feeling a little sad about my past. Two and a half relationships appears to have been the sum total of my existence in this life. That and a fledgeling career that's proving quite a lot of effort to develop. But heck, it's had its moments.
How's Yours been?
Friday, March 12, 2004
Summertime...
It's snowed this year for more days than all the previous 7 years I've been here now.
Global warming my eye.
In other news, re-minisce is slightly bemused at all the links he's inadvertently discovered to his rather personal blog.
weird. :
me? sensible and thoughtful? these - well written posts?
weird :|
It's snowed this year for more days than all the previous 7 years I've been here now.
Global warming my eye.
In other news, re-minisce is slightly bemused at all the links he's inadvertently discovered to his rather personal blog.
weird. :
me? sensible and thoughtful? these - well written posts?
weird :|
Monday, March 08, 2004
California Dreaming
Quite possibly the worst thing about dreams is how impossibly real they feel while you're having them. And that the feeling - the lie- filters over for a while, during the journey from that limbo between the worlds of the sleepers and the living, and even through to the living, for just a moment. And you find yourself wondering did that Really hapen? Just for a moment. Reality settles in like an icy shower on a blisteringly hot day.
Just for a moment, you catch yourself trying to go back to sleep, because maybe... and then you shake yourself fully awake.
Why medical notes of all things.
Quite possibly the worst thing about dreams is how impossibly real they feel while you're having them. And that the feeling - the lie- filters over for a while, during the journey from that limbo between the worlds of the sleepers and the living, and even through to the living, for just a moment. And you find yourself wondering did that Really hapen? Just for a moment. Reality settles in like an icy shower on a blisteringly hot day.
Just for a moment, you catch yourself trying to go back to sleep, because maybe... and then you shake yourself fully awake.
Why medical notes of all things.
Thursday, March 04, 2004
She sells seashells...
One of the useful capabilities re-minisce has acquired over the years is the ability to shuck oysters with his handy oyster-shucking-thingummagiggy, purchased for him by an ex. Strangely, all save one of re-minisce's exs gave him knives at some point. But let's not dwell on that.
This Shucking Oysters Skill (+2), combined with cheap oysters at Borough market (£5 for 10) and some easily accessed info online about how to prepare raw oysters has once previously resulted in a surprisingly pleasant gastronomically splendiferous evening-in for two, sans side-effects.
(one of the other - and these are rare - useful traits re-minisce acquired during This Life was the ability to clean, shell and prepare crabs. However, as this was during the Dark Ages of National Servitude, re-minisce denies all recollection of these events, his mind having been mysteriously wiped clean of similar atrocities, warcrimes and what-nots)
Now if only re-minisce could find some pleasant female company who enjoyed oysters as much as he... all his friends seem to be freaks who hate oysters and sashimi, arguably two of the best things in life.
(Going it alone seems just a trifle sad...)
One of the useful capabilities re-minisce has acquired over the years is the ability to shuck oysters with his handy oyster-shucking-thingummagiggy, purchased for him by an ex. Strangely, all save one of re-minisce's exs gave him knives at some point. But let's not dwell on that.
This Shucking Oysters Skill (+2), combined with cheap oysters at Borough market (£5 for 10) and some easily accessed info online about how to prepare raw oysters has once previously resulted in a surprisingly pleasant gastronomically splendiferous evening-in for two, sans side-effects.
(one of the other - and these are rare - useful traits re-minisce acquired during This Life was the ability to clean, shell and prepare crabs. However, as this was during the Dark Ages of National Servitude, re-minisce denies all recollection of these events, his mind having been mysteriously wiped clean of similar atrocities, warcrimes and what-nots)
Now if only re-minisce could find some pleasant female company who enjoyed oysters as much as he... all his friends seem to be freaks who hate oysters and sashimi, arguably two of the best things in life.
(Going it alone seems just a trifle sad...)
A crop below the rest
After a series of mis-clicks, I ended up at mydreamd8.com
oh brother.
now there's a contest for you... the contest objectives aren't even set. it's just.... the best wins $10,000. The best... what? body? (one of them's stripped to her underwear in a rather weak bid to claim the throne). The best face? and it's apparently sponsored by home grown singaporean talent. the youngest, pimple-lest face then. yeah that must be it.
having said that, some of the girls from australia are pretty good looking though. hubba bubba. okay, cold shower...
it's funny that they're using "best blog" as a weak excuse to host the competition. Half of them can't string a sentence together without a nailgun. And together they've probably got a combined intellect of butthead, minus beavis. okay i'm being mean.
but seriously folks, when a certain xiasomeoneorother is actually one of the most eloquent writers of the fold, then... yeah okay you get my drift.
well, again the ozzie girls are pretty eloquent. and one of them has a nice picture of her overflowing over a nice red car...
doesn't it bug anyone that all the guys have the same hairstyle as well? Ah, the wonders of cheap gel and a comb. I think I'll wear my hair to work standing rakishly up today.
(I did it once by accident courtesy of a flagging alarm-clock and the patients were uneasily asking to see the Doctor, please so I've gone back to the traditionally gelled-forward "geezer" look which, for some reason, doctors tend to wear. that or cropped-short which is a no-no-NO for me. Bad memories, short hair. Bad memories)
oh yeah and the host (Sara) herself is a poseur. The New Paper idol, engineered to rouse (and arouse) male interest, "cool-looking" (in her own words a homebody cursed with party-animal looks) and a closet computer geek to boot!
For christs sakes, quit fooling yourself girl. You're a bubbly airhead with a great smile and a great body (and also a pretty good command of english to be honest) and all the guys just wanna shag you till your geeky brain explodes into an ascending datastream of hex-adecimal.
honest.
which, strewth, makes you the uber-stereotype of the singaporean dream-girl. bo-ring.
After a series of mis-clicks, I ended up at mydreamd8.com
oh brother.
now there's a contest for you... the contest objectives aren't even set. it's just.... the best wins $10,000. The best... what? body? (one of them's stripped to her underwear in a rather weak bid to claim the throne). The best face? and it's apparently sponsored by home grown singaporean talent. the youngest, pimple-lest face then. yeah that must be it.
having said that, some of the girls from australia are pretty good looking though. hubba bubba. okay, cold shower...
it's funny that they're using "best blog" as a weak excuse to host the competition. Half of them can't string a sentence together without a nailgun. And together they've probably got a combined intellect of butthead, minus beavis. okay i'm being mean.
but seriously folks, when a certain xiasomeoneorother is actually one of the most eloquent writers of the fold, then... yeah okay you get my drift.
well, again the ozzie girls are pretty eloquent. and one of them has a nice picture of her overflowing over a nice red car...
doesn't it bug anyone that all the guys have the same hairstyle as well? Ah, the wonders of cheap gel and a comb. I think I'll wear my hair to work standing rakishly up today.
(I did it once by accident courtesy of a flagging alarm-clock and the patients were uneasily asking to see the Doctor, please so I've gone back to the traditionally gelled-forward "geezer" look which, for some reason, doctors tend to wear. that or cropped-short which is a no-no-NO for me. Bad memories, short hair. Bad memories)
oh yeah and the host (Sara) herself is a poseur. The New Paper idol, engineered to rouse (and arouse) male interest, "cool-looking" (in her own words a homebody cursed with party-animal looks) and a closet computer geek to boot!
For christs sakes, quit fooling yourself girl. You're a bubbly airhead with a great smile and a great body (and also a pretty good command of english to be honest) and all the guys just wanna shag you till your geeky brain explodes into an ascending datastream of hex-adecimal.
honest.
which, strewth, makes you the uber-stereotype of the singaporean dream-girl. bo-ring.
Did I mention that the 58 yr old chap from the previous post had his headache prior to the RTA? clinically there was no suspician of head injury from the RTA. a red herring. except for the "funny turn" which made me ? reduction in GCS. I haven't found out what happened to him in the end... i'm not sure I want to.
anyhow it's been a good 24 hrs off. Flat is now much cleaner and more organised. computer has gone back to being dead but that doesn't bug me anymore. Money is now nicely sorted out in organised chunks that are actually earning me reasonable interest. and that which isn't is already, eventually will do.
Terry Pratchett's Last Continent has been devoured (No Worries mate! - gotta love the man, give the man a 'Roo). and the weather, after the snow and frost, has been bizarrly warm. That's london for you. One day snowing fit for Hades (on a cold day, while freezing over) and the next day warm enough to take a walk down the Thames (which I did).
Whilst not-quite watching the seagulls pinwheeling in the air, and the airplanes tracking across the sky and leaving their snowy vapour trails in their wake, and staring out across sunlight reflected off the wavelets, and the general human refuse in the Thames, I couldn't help but notice a girl standing near me, with her head in her hands looking out over the water. She was there when I arrived, and there when I left an hour and a half later. She hadn't moved. I started reading my ATLS manual after an hour. It made me wonder : there are very few reasons someone would come to a secluded spot, and stare aimlessly out to "sea" like that.
What secret sorrow does she harbour, I wonder?
anyhow it's been a good 24 hrs off. Flat is now much cleaner and more organised. computer has gone back to being dead but that doesn't bug me anymore. Money is now nicely sorted out in organised chunks that are actually earning me reasonable interest. and that which isn't is already, eventually will do.
Terry Pratchett's Last Continent has been devoured (No Worries mate! - gotta love the man, give the man a 'Roo). and the weather, after the snow and frost, has been bizarrly warm. That's london for you. One day snowing fit for Hades (on a cold day, while freezing over) and the next day warm enough to take a walk down the Thames (which I did).
Whilst not-quite watching the seagulls pinwheeling in the air, and the airplanes tracking across the sky and leaving their snowy vapour trails in their wake, and staring out across sunlight reflected off the wavelets, and the general human refuse in the Thames, I couldn't help but notice a girl standing near me, with her head in her hands looking out over the water. She was there when I arrived, and there when I left an hour and a half later. She hadn't moved. I started reading my ATLS manual after an hour. It made me wonder : there are very few reasons someone would come to a secluded spot, and stare aimlessly out to "sea" like that.
What secret sorrow does she harbour, I wonder?
Tuesday, March 02, 2004
Well it seems the ex is vindicated by my faulty memory and unscrupulous bank staff. okay, well good.
feeling : terrible, after work. a 58 yr old chap I admitted with a hx of RTA, and next to no signs but a hx earlier in the day of headache, suspicious to me of a small SAH then suffered a massive bleed a few hours later on the medical ward.
I actually re-read my notes, and I wrote :
Dx : SAH / ICH, ? SOL (mild signs), RTA - no head injury evident, ? LOC
Plan : refer medics for admission +/- CT
his only sign had been a mild tongue deviation to the right. which the medical SHO had been unable to reproduce when she saw him.
I dunno why but I feel terribly guilty. If only he could have had his urgent CT tonight, although he was table for 4 hours in A&E with a GCS maintained at 15/15 and b/p normal, HR normal.
If only I had pressed the point of SAH more firmly - except the taking over medical SHO had agreed with my Dx, and her clerking even exaggerated many of the things I had written (sudden onset (R) frontal headache became Sudden onset headache "like punched")
Perhaps if I had told the family that although his signs were minimal he might bleed again, like he did. Instead I told them that he might have had a small bleed or stroke, but he didn't have much in the way of signs which was a good thing, and that we would probably CT in the morning (which was exactly what the medics decided to do).
Fortunately, the medical SHO said exactly that to the family.
So perhaps the only thing wrong this time around was the system. Perhaps we should just CT everyone with a moderate clinical suspician, at 2 in the morning. Perhaps radiologists should get off their bums and wake up out of their bed, to turn on their computers and view the tele-conference linkup of the CT scans.
Perhaps many unnecessary CT scans that cost heaps of time, staffing and money are better than the odd CT scan that isn't quick enough - and only because ultra-quick when it's too late.
sigh.
feeling : terrible, after work. a 58 yr old chap I admitted with a hx of RTA, and next to no signs but a hx earlier in the day of headache, suspicious to me of a small SAH then suffered a massive bleed a few hours later on the medical ward.
I actually re-read my notes, and I wrote :
Dx : SAH / ICH, ? SOL (mild signs), RTA - no head injury evident, ? LOC
Plan : refer medics for admission +/- CT
his only sign had been a mild tongue deviation to the right. which the medical SHO had been unable to reproduce when she saw him.
I dunno why but I feel terribly guilty. If only he could have had his urgent CT tonight, although he was table for 4 hours in A&E with a GCS maintained at 15/15 and b/p normal, HR normal.
If only I had pressed the point of SAH more firmly - except the taking over medical SHO had agreed with my Dx, and her clerking even exaggerated many of the things I had written (sudden onset (R) frontal headache became Sudden onset headache "like punched")
Perhaps if I had told the family that although his signs were minimal he might bleed again, like he did. Instead I told them that he might have had a small bleed or stroke, but he didn't have much in the way of signs which was a good thing, and that we would probably CT in the morning (which was exactly what the medics decided to do).
Fortunately, the medical SHO said exactly that to the family.
So perhaps the only thing wrong this time around was the system. Perhaps we should just CT everyone with a moderate clinical suspician, at 2 in the morning. Perhaps radiologists should get off their bums and wake up out of their bed, to turn on their computers and view the tele-conference linkup of the CT scans.
Perhaps many unnecessary CT scans that cost heaps of time, staffing and money are better than the odd CT scan that isn't quick enough - and only because ultra-quick when it's too late.
sigh.
Monday, March 01, 2004
Miscellaneous Soundbites
from my past :
"Left is right and right is Wrong"
"I'm... just foraging for breakfast..."
"Wake up... first years aren't allowed to sleep past..."
"I don't know why I'm calling, I'm just calling because... Ineedtogoandshowernowbye"
and
"Don't stop... You're funny".
well, so were You. And not just moderately - moderately was me.
I must have BSE. I'm dealing out retrospective compliments. And I'm getting flashbacks. It's that or PTSD.
from my past :
"Left is right and right is Wrong"
"I'm... just foraging for breakfast..."
"Wake up... first years aren't allowed to sleep past..."
"I don't know why I'm calling, I'm just calling because... Ineedtogoandshowernowbye"
and
"Don't stop... You're funny".
well, so were You. And not just moderately - moderately was me.
I must have BSE. I'm dealing out retrospective compliments. And I'm getting flashbacks. It's that or PTSD.
Fatal Exceptions
I made a fatal error yesterday.
I switched my computer off. It's gone back to refusing to come back on.
Methinks I'll take it back home with me this march and overhaul it.
In other news, today has dawned unnaturally sunny. It's a strange country, is england. The air is oh, so cold - cold enough that snow left on the sidewalks in shadow remains frozen. But in the absence of a breeze, the sunlight - low on the horizon, and strangely penetrating - warms the skin. It leaves one feeling slightly thermally confused. Especially when stepping into the leas of tall buildings, then back out into the full unbridled force of the sun.
A night shift tonight, then another day off. I love my rota.
To be honest, A&E has been such a wonderful change from the mundanity of daily brain-numbing ward-rounds. And it's been exciting, and a great learning opportunity. And I'm almost good at it now. But perhaps the time has come to move on, and I'm ready. To face the rest of my life with ward-rounds. And tediously long theatre sessions. Now I just need someone to bloody accept my application...
*********
Last night, another experience. Eating dinner with a friend and her newly-acquired partner, I observed with amusement his occasionally slightly touchy-feely interaction with her - where her previous partner had been a little bit of the opposite persuasion. Cultural differences, I suppose.
And predictably, I was thrown back to another time. My life seems to be increasingly filled with flashbacks. Perhaps it's my subconscious working against me, trying to surreptitiously slip a note under my nose onto the cluttered workdesk of my daily waking life.
I remembered. Another meal, with similarly ubiquitous food. And another couple, Her, and Her bloke. I remembered Him trying to feed Her in front of me. Then, it felt forced, sort of an ownership thing. (Nothing like last night, which this story is in no way meant to relate to, except from the starting point of a reawakened memory) I remembered the look in Her eyes as her entire body reacted. I remembered the subtle but furious refusal. I remembered Her face. Priceless.
I remembered what happened after that too.
And part of me still laughs at the memory. And part of me grieves that my memories are limited, and fading.
And part of me wants to see You again.
And part of me doesn't, but why - the rest of me doesn't know. Or rather, refuses to let me know.
It's always confusing, living between two times, a memory burning so vividly in your mind that you can almost reach out and touch it. And yet, from a distance, another life occurring, to which you have to smile automatically, and pull yourself back to occasionally to make the odd witty one-liner expected of you. Or to just be disagreeably acerbic, which is also usually expected of me.
I stood in front of a wall in my flat yesterday, just for a short while, where a couch used to sit. And I remembered You.
Just for an instant.
We wouldn't have danced. I wouldn't have agreed to it, either.
Time moves inexorably on. It's not time that's a funny thing. It's humanity.
********
In still other news, I'm feeling slightly betrayed today. Nothing important, and it might have stopped at the appropriate time. In fact, I'm confident it would have. But you should have told me first. I suppose it must be hard for you, given all that we'd been through, and all that we didn't, after. I don't really know what happened to you either in the end. I seem to be good at losing touch with people; especially people who don't want to keep in touch.
But if you had only asked, first, I might have given you everything. I still will - just ask. Or don't. It's yours.
*********
I don't know why I do this either. But to any of you reading this, who know me. Any of you at all. Whatever became of Her? I'd genuinely like to know.
I made a fatal error yesterday.
I switched my computer off. It's gone back to refusing to come back on.
Methinks I'll take it back home with me this march and overhaul it.
In other news, today has dawned unnaturally sunny. It's a strange country, is england. The air is oh, so cold - cold enough that snow left on the sidewalks in shadow remains frozen. But in the absence of a breeze, the sunlight - low on the horizon, and strangely penetrating - warms the skin. It leaves one feeling slightly thermally confused. Especially when stepping into the leas of tall buildings, then back out into the full unbridled force of the sun.
A night shift tonight, then another day off. I love my rota.
To be honest, A&E has been such a wonderful change from the mundanity of daily brain-numbing ward-rounds. And it's been exciting, and a great learning opportunity. And I'm almost good at it now. But perhaps the time has come to move on, and I'm ready. To face the rest of my life with ward-rounds. And tediously long theatre sessions. Now I just need someone to bloody accept my application...
*********
Last night, another experience. Eating dinner with a friend and her newly-acquired partner, I observed with amusement his occasionally slightly touchy-feely interaction with her - where her previous partner had been a little bit of the opposite persuasion. Cultural differences, I suppose.
And predictably, I was thrown back to another time. My life seems to be increasingly filled with flashbacks. Perhaps it's my subconscious working against me, trying to surreptitiously slip a note under my nose onto the cluttered workdesk of my daily waking life.
I remembered. Another meal, with similarly ubiquitous food. And another couple, Her, and Her bloke. I remembered Him trying to feed Her in front of me. Then, it felt forced, sort of an ownership thing. (Nothing like last night, which this story is in no way meant to relate to, except from the starting point of a reawakened memory) I remembered the look in Her eyes as her entire body reacted. I remembered the subtle but furious refusal. I remembered Her face. Priceless.
I remembered what happened after that too.
And part of me still laughs at the memory. And part of me grieves that my memories are limited, and fading.
And part of me wants to see You again.
And part of me doesn't, but why - the rest of me doesn't know. Or rather, refuses to let me know.
It's always confusing, living between two times, a memory burning so vividly in your mind that you can almost reach out and touch it. And yet, from a distance, another life occurring, to which you have to smile automatically, and pull yourself back to occasionally to make the odd witty one-liner expected of you. Or to just be disagreeably acerbic, which is also usually expected of me.
I stood in front of a wall in my flat yesterday, just for a short while, where a couch used to sit. And I remembered You.
Just for an instant.
We wouldn't have danced. I wouldn't have agreed to it, either.
Time moves inexorably on. It's not time that's a funny thing. It's humanity.
********
In still other news, I'm feeling slightly betrayed today. Nothing important, and it might have stopped at the appropriate time. In fact, I'm confident it would have. But you should have told me first. I suppose it must be hard for you, given all that we'd been through, and all that we didn't, after. I don't really know what happened to you either in the end. I seem to be good at losing touch with people; especially people who don't want to keep in touch.
But if you had only asked, first, I might have given you everything. I still will - just ask. Or don't. It's yours.
*********
I don't know why I do this either. But to any of you reading this, who know me. Any of you at all. Whatever became of Her? I'd genuinely like to know.
