Truths of Old

There's a reason I've been so quiet lately, and it's because I don't trust myself to write...

I need some time to think about things, to calm down, to let the disappointment fade a little.

And then I shall write - just a little - about the Patients Right to Choose.

And about why Paternalistic medicine is unethical, unsound, and undesirable.

And about how "cultural differences" are applied as a blanket cop-out term in South East Asia - or at least in Singaland - so that doctor's have a convenient excuse not to do what they're supposed to the most : empathise with their patients.

We are not doctors here. We are not nurses. We are not parameds.

We are medical technicians. Healthcare providers. Service providers.

Highly-paid prostitutes - and not even that highly paid.

I need to simmer for a while and think about things.

Deep breaths.

Registrar 1 (the boy scout) : Trust me, I very honest one, my mother always say I very honest boy.

Registrar 2 (the deadpan wit) : Yeeeah riiight. My mother also say I handsome...

*****
Nearly Four Point One

Singlish is not easy. Things nearly came to a... head... as cultures clashed linguistically in re-minisce's peabrain the other day.

Colleague : Trust me, Adidas shoes very good, I got lobang can get 40% off.

Re-minisce : Waah. You got lobang... I also wan'. Can I get into your... nnggggh.

Phew. Close one.

Singlish. Cannot DIY one.

*****
My Best Friends Doggy


She's a cutie...

Mmm?

flirting with the camera

shameless hussy

I'm only doing this mushy post because she is sooo beautiful...

The tables were white.

And you had a great laugh.

A wonderful laugh.

Sitting out in the sunlight this morning breakfasting on a cup of tea (okay this is probably going to fuel more silly Imported Western Decadence comments) I could almost forget that I was on-call till yesterday morning, and will be on-call again tomorrow.

I guess living somewhere cold and damp like the UK does change you. It's hard to forget what it feels like to be cold - really cold, not just slightly chilly in an over-airconditioned hospital or movie theatre, which are the only two types of establishments in Singapore that are kept uncomfortably chilly for some reason. Perhaps it is a learnt response, this sensation of gratification -- and even gratitude -- maybe I'm just imagining the rays of sunlight gently caressing my skin and unknotting the fatigued muscles in my back and shoulders... but what of it? We adapt and change with time, and take from each experience elements of our choosing.

I choose to bake gently in the sun, lying down with my Principles and Practices of Surgery next to my kaya toast and teh. I don't find it incongruous that I'm south-east-asian of origin, but have have come to relish the warmth all around us that I used to take for granted.

And that's all that matters.

*****
Bad Mojo

Some of you will probably find it fitting that I'm playing a game that casts me in the role of a cockroach. And I can't say it's a bad experience either, scuttling around in the dirt and eating cigarette butts for the sake of it.

Bad Mojo is one of those games that isn't so much a game as a story. The controls (arrow keys) are awkward and your hero-cockroach tends to zoom around like a brakeless formula-one car from the PC-games of yesteryear... or perhaps those little green guys from the Apple IIe Summer Olympics games of my childhood - anyone else remember that? but what gives this game its oomph are its haunting music and storyline, and the strange but colourful hand-drawn graphics viewed from weird camera angles, that place the player "high" in the sky running along tabletops, shower-curtain rails and even the undersides of chairs and tables (beware the chewing gum!) and the insides of transistor radios.

- spoiler -

The storyline isn't exactly a suspense novel or even a high-tech sci-fi's dream come true, but it is extremely poignant thanks to the various cleverly-placed video-clips the game features. One set of clips had me a little sniffy as I ran along a library wall bumping into and triggering picture frame-videos of my "dad"'s past, detailing his love for and marriage to his wife, the boom-days of their little eatery on the waterfront, and her untimely demise in the act of giving birth to his child, and his subsequent slide into near-madness, depression and poverty beyond.

Essentially, you're a mad scientist on the brink of embezzling research funds and absconding to mexico, when your mother's magic locket transforms you into a... cockroach. You then spend the rest of the game wandering around the run-down apartment block that your human self lived in, shuttling between your landlord's apartment, your apartment, and the toilet, and making the startling discovery that your landlord is in fact your long-lost father. Your spiritual guide for this journey through the realistically garbage-strewn mess that constitutes the separate apartments of two single men from two disparate generations is the ghost of your dead mother, who died giving birth to you (spooky) and a number of assorted cockroach / rodent / ant / slimyweirdwormybug sages who speak in frustrating Alice in Wonderland-esque riddles and rhymes, but thankfully also have telepathic abilities and project images of what you're looking for directly into your little cockroach brain.

There are four endings to the game depending on how nasty you are, ranging from evil, good, buggered and really badly buggered (pun intended).

I have to say it was a refreshing change from the usual sleek, visually stunning but soul-less blow-em/chop-em/shag-em-ups of today.

*****
Four-point-One

Yet another re-minisce-ism that will someday sweep the SMS-loving-generation by storm... not.

"I was four-point-oned yesterday by a fetching young lady" (or man, if you are female, but this is my story so I'm telling it my way...)

Four point one. Inappropriately-timed sexual reference during ordinary, non-flirt-speak.

eg :
"Yesterday I four-point-one her, then she three-point-jero me back, damn jialat."

... no this post isn't about sex. Sorry. You want high-crass, hang from banister athletic sex? Go read her.

Thick and fast is how the judgements fly on this utopian island city that I am becoming less inclined to call "home".

I'm being accused of being a rich, pretentious twat simply because I've made the heinous sins of mentioning my career, my forays into "fine" French dining in Singaland, and my passion for slicing people up with a sabre. It's almost enough to make a person want to stop writing, except re-minisce doesn't really care what his audience thinks about his life and just likes to ramble. (and anaesthetise them all gently into submission. Ha. You will leave credit card details after this post...)

Well, I don't know. It still warrants an answer of sorts, and though this will all read like a long, defensive response, it's not really. It's more of a dispassionate take on an issue that happens to involve myself, but that's not really fundamental to this discussion. Many of my posts are written that way, with me not really feeling particularly worked up about stuff and seeking to keep my tongue firmly in my cheek (and my head off the keyboard most days, thanks to my stupid on-call schedule) seeking to poke fun at the fabric of the sociological myths that keep us turning over as a nation. (fabric is wearing a bit thin though...)

Note the lack of angry mannerisms, obscenities, or even juvenile hand-drawn e-cards involving rude bits of male anatomy (re-minisce favours high-resolution cards featuring rude bits of female anatomy by the way.)

This time no hyperlinks will be posted, so the "author" of that particular post can rest assured that the sanctity of his sacred, funnyfull, interesting and enthralling-in-his-own-mind website shall remain inviolate. Meow.

First off, as everyone has been keen to tell me, different folks, different strokes.

I won't fall headlong into the stupidity-beartrap of claiming that I'm poor. My chosen career path ensures a stable income - I'm sure there's people out there who will resent even that, but... shrug. Stupid people exist the world over (look at the United States of WhositWhatsit, the whole country's being led by one...) and money wasn't the reason I chose to do this job anyhow. (somedays, sitting in silent reflection amongst my kin after being dealt that loaded question, the combined noise of gears turning furiously within our heads as we eloquently reply "because...

.......

..

."

is deafening. Then our wonderful reg saves the day by expounding about how, in our younger days, we must all have been more naive and idealistic.... in the old days. when a bowl of noodles cost five cents, and policemen wore shorts... and presumably, underwear...)

Plus there are sacrifices. Okay, perhaps not quite as many selfless sacrifices as a model makes entering the lethal minefields of Miss Universe/Galaxy/Cosmos, but there are sacrifices nonetheless, and post-call today my body is definitely reminding me that sleep deprivation is not the least of these.

But I'd certainly hesitate to call myself rich. On our salary? Are you kidding? We make the same as teachers (some would argue even less) and we don't even get to torture hapless children while we're at it. Unfortunately this tends to result in unpleasant complaint letters from totally unreasonable, irate parents.

"Rich" are the kids (read - house officers) who drive to work in their evo eights, or their ferrarris. Whose parents earn monthly salaries that dwarf those of lowly minions (ie Medical Officerse) like myself, and who have no doubt told their children not to be stupid and sign up to the medical cause, when there are plenty of other jobs out there that pay better, and give you a decent shot at some form of quality of life.

(incidentally, re-minisce has yet to hurl himself into lifelong debt purchasing a car, which is probably why he can afford his supposedly poncy habits and hobbies...)

So no, re-minisce is not rich. But re-minisce does splurge occasionally on food - it's not to get into a girl's pants (well. Not usually. Heh.) mind you, but simply for the experience. People simply won't begin to understand when I write that fine dining isn't about how much you pay for the wine, or the miniscule main course, but about the whole experience. About the flawless service, the smiling somellier who genuinely takes an interest in his client's wavering inclinations and helps him/her choose the perfect wine, about the immaculate food that tastes as amazing as it looks, about the way everything blends into a unique and memorable experience - simply because it is the exception rather than the norm. And sex does not have to be the coup de grace of the evening... sometimes just going with a friend and having a couple of warm, quiet laughs is the finishing piece to an already perfect evening. Sometimes it's even about making the effort to take an hours trainride and another half hour trip by cab - a pilgrimage of sorts - across a barren land to reach your "mecca" of sorts - and be pleasantly surprised to find that it's everything you imagined, and more. Which is high praise indeed from a cynic.

Too often I've heard it said here that fine dining is about exorbitant prices, miniscule servings, and being seen (ie poncy gits flashing money).

It's not supposed to be that way; the times T and I have wandered out to posh restaurants in the UK we've gone as complete unknowns, and had wonderful evenings trapped in our own little bubbles, talking about weird mishmashes of brit/singaporean issues that nearly nobody else in either country would be able to follow.

The thing is, somehow there is this stereotype in singapore - and les amis falls headlong into it (which was why I was disappointed) that fine french is about insipidly anaemic eating and ridiculous prices.

And when faced with a rather poor, unremarkable evening and a large bill to boot I do feel cheated. We (ie us diners, and them restauranteer types) haven't figured it out yet... it's a two-way relationship. We demand - but pay for - quality, they provide it. (Iggy's at regents hotel does a fair job by the way.)

Yes, I do feel strongly about it. But no, perhaps Singapore isn't the place to voice my opinions, lest I be labelled a pretentious git.

Speaking of which, anybody who labels fencers rich poofs is, quite frankly, a fool who has never even attempted the sport. Fencing is addictive, and after the initial investment in equipment, not as expensive as everyone thinks. Different strokes, different folks. Some people choose to spend obscene amounts buying devices to stop them falling off mountains, others choose to splurge on ultra-smooth wheelie thingies that attach to their feet.

Some of us choose to spend what little remains of our salary on learning how to decapitate someone. Shrug. It's all good.

I've decided to join in the spirit of mindless abbreviation which pervades this little island.

So I'm coining a new one. Whenever someone exhibits a sheer and utter lack of humour - come on, say it with me - they're doing a "Three Point Zero".

"You ah, you're doing a Three Point Zero".

"Lose lah you, you Three Point Zero".

It has a certain ring to it, don't you think?

"Some people just Three Point Zero, don't know how to laugh one".

*****
Oh, the anguish, the pain, the guilt and horror.

This is the sort of thing that happens to other people. I am a doctor dammit... I'm naturally immune.

One thoughtless moment... I should have taken more care... I should have used prote...

...

...

I think I'm getting ingrowing toenail.
It hurts.

*****
Les Amis au Jardin

Having sampled their fare, the best thing I can say about Les Amis au Jardin is that it is set in beautiful surroundings. There is no access by car, and everywhere around it leaves wave in languid tropical harmony. Bats flitter from tree to tree, and the wind sings a quiet soothing song through myriad exotic leaflets.

The wine list is comprehensive albeit quite probably beyond the reaches of mere mortals like myself (dammit I want to try that Chateau D'Yqueam 1954... all I need is $11,000) and the food, well. Cough.

I've had better.

Service was tolerable albeit slightly lacklustre, and the sommellier was knowledgeable but perhaps a tad dismissive. Never admit your financial mortality when you visit a fancy restaurant...

to be honest these guys don't get it. If they sell their product enough, even someone like me might be tempted to try a $300-500 bottle of wine. But if they decide you're a certain "price-range" kind of guy and recommend a crappy wine to you, then... shrug.

Ah well. It was a pleasant evening nonetheless. It's a shame Les Amis au Jardin isn't quite a world-class restaurant... I reckon T. ought to take it over and run it. What say you T, let's leave our doctorates behind and start a restaurant..? :)

Okay everybody. It's about high time I realised this.

This gal is a babe. No, make that The Babe. She is The Authority on Anything and Everything there is in Singaland.

She's the bomb, complete with fiddly clockwork anti-tilt mechanisms and complicated red and green wires they always show in the movies.

She is so hot my keyboard is melting as I write this, so all you psychotic male freaks who read this blog trawling for evidence that re-minisce is losing it or as serious as an NMP, go do something constructive and browse her site.

Cough. (for anyone who's wondering and hasn't got the brains to figure it out by now, the whole cough deal is a discreet cough thingummybob.)

This post of course has everything to do with said female assisting re-minisce in obtaining a large quantity of... rather... entertaining items at bargain prices. No specifics.

If I try hard enough, I can even ignore the sound of the sea......

*****
Movie Moments

I dunno about the rest of you, but my life has been filled with a lot of movie moments, or at least freakish coincidences.

It's been a dry season of late (when I was younger, they came hard and fast, and were always attached to a particular female individual, and the way we... flirted around with each other. In Her aftermath, they've tailed off quite a bit) and most of them have been non-interactive, but of a decidedly more... odd nature.

Take for instance the girl on the train (you'll have to dig far, far back for this one) back in London whom I tempted fate to have me walk into again. Naturally, as I was thinking this, I walked into her again, quite literally.

Anyhow yesterday after teaching one of the junior doctors how to tie a knot (not like that, you filthy minded freaks... a surgical knot. NO NOT LIKE THAT EITHER.) I knocked off work, thought nothing more of it, drove across the country to the gym, abused myself for an hour-and-a-half, dragged myself out the gym and began the long haul back home. My mind, as ones mind does, wandered after a while and I thought a little tiny bit about her (cough. Nothing to do, of course, with the fact that she's quite probably in re-minisce's opinion anyhow rather aesthetically appealing), looked up and nearly bumped into her walking down the road.

Shrug.

*****
Phat!

Deep in conversation with the best buddy tonight over all sorts of superficial topics, conversation meandered.

Re-mi : Yeah so you yanks (best buddy has spent long time in the states, and is there again full-time, and now says "different than". Ha.) say Phat like it's a good thing right, so yeah tomorrow I'll go tell that house officer (re-minisce tends to dwell on things.... not many conversation-worthy things happen in his life so he dwells. okay?) that she's Phat!

You're Phat!

Best Buddy : You're pathetic. (okay, he said something else but it was equally uncomplimentary, and alluded in two syllables to re-mi's utter incompetence wrt american-english linguistics.

3.0 No sense of humour

Gee. Some people take things way too seriously.

I guess being upstaged is not something Singalanders can tolerate - male or female. Shrug. For the second time then, that last post was tongue in cheek. Translation - don't take it serously. Well, not entirely anyhow.

Bemused that there's been talk of someone "losing it" / "losing marbles" (never really did get into that, re-minisce prefers bridge), perversion of copyright etcetc.

Anyway, moving swiftly on to lighter things.

Re-minisce has been asked by one of his more psychotic unusual readers to sanction his (said reader, not, heaven forbid, Re-minisce) upcoming marriage to SheWhoShallNotBeNamed, because this site, apparently, is my chapel on earth.

Pause.

Err, for what its worth, I almost pity the poor girl. Ah, the price to pay for fame.

I hope it's a beautiful wedding....

"I dare you."

The words slid viscously through the air like treacle, much the same way they must have done a very long time ago in the Garden of Eden. (Although treacle probably hadn't been invented back then, and there were probably still some perverse creatures around which might actually have enjoyed it before they went extinct, like Winnie the Pooh for instance.)

Her eyes met his.

His heart didn't lift, stop or quicken. Time didn't stop, or even stumble a little. But he did raise an eyebrow a fraction of an inch, as the usual words of Wet Blanket Wisdom slipped unbidden into his mind : "I'm too old for games. I don't care what..." and slipped uncharacteristically out the other ear. (that's what you get for cleaning your ears too often. Thought incontinence.)

He thought "Oh, what the hell" and said to the petite waitress, "Oh, by the way, my friend here thinks you have a cute smile."

She blushed, and smiled, and looked down at her feet.

To be utterly honest, it was a lovely smile - not cute per se - he would never, upon pain of death employ that particularly hideous Americanism. But it was a gentle - and at the moment - extremely embarrassed smile. It looked better this way too, somehow.

He wondered if she was thinking "Oh God, why does this keep happening to me...", but in her silence he detected a fervent wish to escape from this obvious predator poseur, so the follow-up quip : "This really isn't a come-on line... My friend here is straight. Sometimes." froze in his mouth. This wasn't the right kind of girl to kid around with. She was sweet, demure, and utterly defenceless.

She scurried away.

The moment passed.

He looked his smirking friend in the eye and growled "You set me up..."

She laughed.

I shall have my revenge...

*****
Heavy Metal

Oog. The gauntlet has been thrown. Clean across the room in fact, and right through the French window-panes, the downstairs Greenhouse, Spot the wonderdog, and Ms Marple. Blimey, someone hand me a club bat, these emancipated new-age 90s women-types sure can throw.

Naturally, as a genuine 100% au-naturel "local Chinese Male" I am behooved to move to defend my noble bretheren...

Pause.

Wait, who am I kidding here, if I had a middle name it'd probably be Arnold, and we're not talking Schwarzie here. (Must I spell it out... Benedict. Okay, that one flew right by the cuckoo's nest, didn't it. Moving swiiiiftly on.)

Thank you Jean for your most exhaustively-researched "THE TITANIUM LIST OF ATTRIBUTES THAT CAUSE CHINESE MEN TO WANE IN POPULARITY"

Having never dated, nor for that matter ever even been faintly inclined to date a "local Chinese male" I'll simply have to agree with the bia... err lady, and bow deferentially.

Indeed, life as a local Chinese woman must be frustrating indeed. There simply aren't enough ang-moh men around these days, shakes head. Tis a shame they ceded sovereignty back to the aboriginal chinese immigrants and left forescore and umpteen years ago, innit?

(as a complete aside, one of my female friends once postulated that I must have a thing for blondes because of their "novelty" factor, in 99.999% oriental Singaland. Baaap. Wrong answer. Do remember that Re-minisce has spent nearly a third his life in a little backwater they call "The United Kingdom" freezing various bits of his anatomy off, foremost amongst which was the hellhole quaint little village they call "colchester".

Pregnant pause.

Baby pauses.

More baby pauses.

Mmmmmmm. Where was I? Oh yes. Colc... cough. Anyhow, no. Re-minisce is fairly certain he just likes flaxen-haired goddesses. It's not, apparently, a Y-chromosome specific defect either. In mitigation, I at least can plead that I have no desire to bear any blonde's babies. And God forbid, certainly not to stick around should that unthinkably happen. Cough.)

Allow me therefore, in my own extremely verbose and convoluted manner, to contribute to this racist and mysogynistic meaningful and constructive debate with my own racist and mysogynistic insightful and penetrating societal stereotypes. confabulations. Err. Thoughts I mean.

THE STRONGTIUM MANUAL DETAILING THE (local) CHINESE WEMMEN'S WANING ALLURE

1.0 They have naturally-dyed browny-streaky-goldy hair.
Upon closer inspection, re-minisce is begining to wonder if perhaps a particularly virulent strain of fungus has descended upon the headpieces of the hapless female denizens of the police state garden city, and rendered their crowning glories into lacklustre, straggly imitations of the Real Thing. Which re-minisce must add in all fairness, is also straggly, split-ended, but at least does not, cough, shall we say, forget its roots.

I dunno. Sometimes one really has to wonder who the Singalandic female is dye-ing for. Or... for that matter... why?

Mmm. Perhaps a quick career switch to dermatology is in order here. Heh heh.

1.1 They are either too shy for most Singaporean saps men, or too noisy for said macho-men's mothers.

Little-known (ha) fact about re-minisce is that the first-ever love of his life was no wilting flower. "New-age Women" in Singapore like to imagine that they are speaking their minds, when in fact they are sadly mistaken in their beliefs that they actually own minds to begin with. Too rarely does re-minisce encounter women warriors with rapier wits in this country... just little creatures carrying big words and preening lots. Strangely, over in the Land of Eternal Sun-shone-last-year, there were a lot more... extremely engaging females (of both the oriental and caucasian variety) who were engaging and witty, and a joy to interact with.

Having said that, local Chinese women who do not fall in the "all attitude no marriage-certificate" mold often shimmer gently instead in their "demure flower" stereotypes (translation gleaned from SheWhoMustNotBeNamed : "Shu-nu"), in order to, like the proverbial Fly Trap, ensnare an unsuspecting bee.

If there's one thing re-minisce hates more than a brazen obnoxious hussy, it's a spineless shell of a girl-child who has yet to figure out the essence of Modern-day Womanhood. If you're going to be a pushover, then for heavens sakes don't be surprised when he starts slapping you around and the "dream-marriage" falls apart.

Rule one. The less you have to prove - of either being ultra-subservient or uber-sassy : the more attractive you become.

Uh, caveat. To re-minisce, that is. Rule One may well not hold true for other less defective specimens on the Singalandic Male Meat Market. Or their Mummies. Especially their Mummies.

1.2 Indirect.

Chinese women need to know that if they really fancy a guy, then for Chrissakes spit it out already. Re-minisce has counselled what must feel like thousands of damsels in not-yet-distress pining over their spurned affections because the guy just don't get it. If you're going to play the coy lady (here, fishy fishy...) then at least make sure your target is a male capable of reading the signs (usually so subtle they would befuddle even the guys who built the Enigma machine). Unfortunately, literate males who take the time to read signs are usually either old enough to be your daddy, or gay.

So what if he ups and runs for his life? (which re-minisce has done a few times.) It's not like we're worth pining over, anyhow. Move on... (the way Jean seems to imagine you all do. Ha. Tell me another one, sam.)

1.3 Regardless of what they say, looks are always extremely important to women.

Ah, but a pretty face isn't sufficient these days, what with the proverbial Caucasian Man invading our besieged land. Nowadays women want The Body. Some women quote "muscle tone". Others just salivate or wet themselves over six-packs. You think we believe that you just... like to see, that's it? Ha. Tell us another one.

Confidence is important too. All women want a confident, gallant knight in shining armour who knows what he wants and has the swaggering arrogance to step up and take, and ravish it. And yet, at the same time, they want...

Humility, of the Teresian variety. They must not be arrogant per se, you see. Oh no, only women are permitted to be arrogent in these exhiliratingly emancipated times. Their men, on the other hand must be humble, but confident. Humble enough to see them as equals... (or in the case of... some... superiors.)

Other appealing personality traits :

Swaggering, but not brash.

Brave, but sensitive.

Strong, but gentle.

Firm, but loving.

Rich. But rich. Barring that, just have the earning power to single-handedly support the woman, the potential child or three, her academic interest in expensive shopping, jewellery and clothes.

Oh yes, and they must never, ever upon pain of death even insinuate that their woman is ,perhaps dear, just a teensy weeny bit over-demanding....

1.4 Mercenary
It doesn't matter if these guys "click" with them, have IQs above 180, crack show-stopping whoppers, or are just fascinating to the cannot-tear-your-eyes-off-him-extent to talk to. As long as their wallet is not large enough, the women will not have them.

1.5 Egoistical
It's even better if the guys prostrate themselves on their doorsteps and plaster themselves to their front-gates in a vain attempt to win her spurious affections. Which Chinese woman wouldn't want her ego masturbated now and again?

1.6 Imperseverant
Many Chinese women like to think that they actually deserve to have real hunks, who just happen to be Sensitive New-Age Gym-bunnies. Unfortunately, as their due-date approaches (ie 22) they relinquish their dreams like so many rats abandoning a sinking ship, and settle for some sap they think is utterly hideous instead. Thirty years of He's Not Handsome but I Love Him Anyway jokes later, they wonder why their husbands are leaving them for some preteen who thinks the world of him...

1.7 Deluded
Some Chinese women just have levels of self-confidence that are 1000ft-above Mount Everest and imagine that they are at least as gorgeous as Cindy Crawford, without, thank God, that ugly mole, and that their ugly little man would never, ever leave them. Not even if she cheats on him. Or thinks about cheating on him, and very considerately of course, tells him all about it.

1.8 Inferiority complex
Some Chinese women have been so well brainwashed by their mothers that they feel that they cannot appear richer, cleverer, smarter or more educated than their man in public. Woe betide our hapless hero into thinking he has it good though,
once in private Shrinking Violet's true colours show, and poor Forrest Gump is wondering how on earth he's managed to hook up with a sheer and abject schizo just like his mummy when he'd been so careful...

Truth is we don't want someone to stand behind us. We want them to stand beside us. Well, at least I do.

1.9 Unable to stomach criticism
Any bloke who dares prick a Chinese bird's ego is labelled as a bastard by her, her friends, her extended family, and her adoring entourage. Very discreet one, no questions asked, no attempt to clarify misunderstandings - auto-bastard mode, engaged. If he happens to be a working professional, or speak in complete sentences then this is also automatically held against him. Should he employ logic in his line of defence then he is merciless and cold-hearted to boot, however were he to wield wit then he would be guilty of obfuscation and being manipulative. Any intelligent man worth his salt would simply... not prick a Chinese bird's ego to begin with. Heh.

2.0 All words and all words.
That's what many Chinese women in relationships are guilty of. Yakyakyak, yakyak. Yak. (The more perceptive of us occasionally notice, but never of course point out that many of the yaks are not quite in consensus with one another, but what can you expect from shaggy white mountain goats anyhow)
And then they blame their men for seeking solace in the arms of a female friend who actually understands how to listen. So what if, ahem, one thing leads to ano...

2.1 Exhibitionalistic (See "inferiority complex", "egoistical", "deluded", and add "vain".)
Chinese women want to dress with their dresses cut down to there, and their skirts slit up to there, even when the couple's just going to a there as high-society as a hawker centre. Worse still, they also expect their man to dress to the nines complete with dinner jacket and bowtie in a tropical climate.
Okay, perhaps that was unfair. Only some women (ugh, another bad memory) expect this. Many women don't give a toss what their man is wearing, as long as they can dress beautifully enough to be ogled by everyone else's boyfriend. And then they wonder why their man gets jealous... or when he does the old reversi trick and ogles someone else's girlfriend (hey, fair's fair) they get all mopey and upset. Geesh.

2.2 Won't talk about sex
Sex is a taboo subject to talk about if you want to impress a Chinese woman. Dirty jokes on a date are a definite no-no. She'll just think you're the player that you are, and then for some funny reason, hold it against you.
Instead, talk about loving dogs, children, and home-cooked meals, and building empires (so that she will not need to bring home any bacon. Women love being tai tais for some reason.)

2.3 Self-centred
Lots of local Chinese women hate it when their male counterparts shop a lot for themselves. Their excuse, "If you really had so much money, why didn't you spend it all on me instead? Are you homo?"

(the correct answer in this case is to preen, and say "no, I am metro!"

2.4 Emotional Leeches
The importance of romance in relationships increases exponentially the longer your stay together gets, judging from the actions of many a Singaporean Chinese woman. It gets exhausting to the point that one simply doesn't feel inclined to try anymore.

So what if I forgot our third second-anniversary-of-the-day-after-we-met? So what if I'm neglecting you while I study for the Biggest Exam I will Ever Take in my Entire Life which will Make Me Unemployed If I Fail It??

Why can't you see that the things I do do for you, I do because I love you... instead of focusing on all the things I didn't do for you?

And why are you keeping score?

Wake up, women. If you want your man to stay romantic, don't demand it of him... do in kind, and trust that he will continue to be. Unless of course he is straight. Cough.

God's honest truth now. If he really loves you, he will remain romantic till the day you die. Or he dies.

2.5 Know-it-alls
Most Chinese women like to think that their opinions are greater than fact. This is a fact, as evidenced by re-minisce's aunty's assertion that tea has more caffeine in it than coffee. This fact is borne out more obviously the older a woman gets, and by the time she becomes a mother-in-law it shines forth like a beacon of darkness in the shining light to the unsuspecting new boyfriend / daughter's love interest.
Though it be fact, re-minisce suspects some woman's opinion is about to supercede it shortly...

2.6 Bad Listeners
Chinese women lack the ability to listen.
They are always too busy talking. They never notice when your initial look of intense puzzlement fades into glassy-eyed disinterest, and for some reason construe this as a look of intensity, when in fact you are thinking "I wonder what's for dessert" or "I wonder who won the football tonight".

"Conversation" (Solliloquay in "me" sharp major) topics often include Themselves, Themselves, Their Clothes, and Themselves.

2.7 Quick to leap, slow to read
When Chinese women read god's honest truth, like "singaporean girls on the other hand are often hideous, whingy, chinky, mercenary, boring as a wet towel, and superficial in the extreme." they take the huffy highground that the writer clearly isn't getting any.

Read again, babe. "Are often... etc" was an observation. Which is a hell of a lot less inclusive than "When Chinese men... they". It at least gives the benefit of the doubt to the few good Singaporean women out there who don't fit the mold.

2.8 Can I meet your grammar?
Chinese women have poor spelling and grammar. Eg. it's "Chinese men have poor grammar" and not "Chinese men, have poor grammar."

It's okay. I'm not picky. Honest.

Who am I to pick on anybody's England anyhow, me, I'm just a regular guy who scratches in the dirt with my club like everyone else. The only puncturation I'd like to do is... snigger.

I don't hold a person's educational background against him/her. Education is acquired. Language is an ability, not a talent.

It's resistance to improvement that irks me.

2.9 Salacious
Many Chinese women like to live in themselves. They just love digging up everyone else's former scandals to make themselves look and feel good.

*****
All written tongue in cheek of course. heh heh.

Re-minisce is well aware that there are a few good (local Chinese) women left out there. Feel free to leave your telephone numbers here. Or better yet, credit card details. Preferably titanium.

Right back at ya. Do your worst.

(reproduced without permission from the Staits Times, Sat Jan 15, 2005)

The highly publicised trial on the SAF dunking death came to a close as the sentences were meted out. Selins Lum and Tracy Sua report.

>> THEY DID THE DUNKING

Divanandhari Ambat Chandrasekharan, 29, and Jeff Ng Chin Fong, 28, were each jailed for nine months.

Accused of: Dunking the trainees into the tub several times and "digging" into their noses to stop them from holding their breath, and preenting them from surfacing.

Defence: Divanandhari claimed he did not dunk either man as he was away from the tub. Ng claimed none of the trainees he handled had collapsed.
In mitigation, Divanandhari's lawyer, Mr Shiever S.R., said Divanandhari was so loyal to the army that "he was married to the army".
Ng's lawyer, Mr Gurcharanjit S. Hundal, said it was a grave misjudgement on his part as he had not read the lesson plan or questioned what he was required to do.
He said Ng "appreciates that he could have been more careful".

District judge Ng Peng Hong said: The way in which they dunked Second Sergeant Hu Enhuai and Captain Ho Wan Huo -- defenceless trainees with their hands bound behind their backs -- was "shocking and seneless" and "torturous and inhuamne".
The trainees' heads were held underwater, with help from other instructors, and no sufficient opportunity was given to let them recover between dunks.
During the trial, the two insinuated that the prosecution was hiding evidence by raising the issue of alleged missing photographs, and had claimed that the lesson plan for the course was nowhere to be found, implying that the Singapore Armed Forces was disorganised.

>> HE GAVE THE INSTRUCTIONS

Pandiaraj Mayandi, 34, is appealing against his conviction and three-month jail term.

Accused of: Instigating Divanandhari and Ng to cause the death of 2nd Sgt. Hu and endanger the life of Capt Ho by instructing them to dunk trainees four times, for up to 20 seconds each time.

Defence: He admitted telling instructors to do exactly that in a safety briefing because he believed it was the correct method, and told them not to manhandle trainees.
In mitigation, his lawyer Mr Selva K. Naidu, said Pandiaraj was merely following existing practice and another person in his shoes would probably have done the same.
The dunking carried out on Aug 21, 2003 was a result not only of Pandiaraj's briefing, but also a result of a systemic lapse in the conduct of the course.
A testimonial by Chief Commando Officer Colonel Yeo Eidek said Pandiaraj's performance in all areas "has been nothing short of exemplary and outstanding".

District judge Ng Peng Hong said: Pandiaraj did not dunk 2nd Sgt Hu and Capt Ho or give instructions to Divanandhari and Ng to "dig" trainees noses and mouths.
However he had given instructions to submerge trainees three to four times, for up to 20 seconds each time, which were a direct contravention of the lesson plan.
His outstanding military career and contributions as part of SAF's troops in former East Timor under the United Nations peace-keeping operations were considered.

>> HE FAILED TO STOP THEM

S. Balakrishnan, 45, is appealing against his conviction and his two-month jail term.

Accused of: Failing to stop Divanandhari and Ng from dunking 2nd Sgt Hu and Capt Ho several times and preventing them from surfacing to breathe.

Defence: He did not see the dunking of either traineeS (?? of either trainees? Fire the ST editor. Now.) as he was walking around most of the time.
Balakrishnan was only following the chain of command -- Pandiaraj Mayandi was his superior and the two lieutenants who did the dunking were of a higher rank than him. Lawyer Christopher Bridges stressed that Balakrishnan thought dunking was approved, as high-ranking officers did not object to it.
In mitigation, he tendered a testimonial from Chief Commando Officer, Colonel Yeo Eidek, who said that Balakrishnan, a former member of the elite Special Operations Force, was a very dedicated and obedient soldier.

District judge Ng Peng Hong said: The fact that Balakrishnan had taken pictures of Ng arm-locking a trainee in the tub showed that he was aware of such dangerous acts but did nothing to stop them.
As an experienced soldier, Balakrishnan knew there was a lesson plan and the proper method of conducting water treatment but chose to follow Pandiaraj's order.
Balakrishnan did not also highlight to Pandiaraj, who was new to the Commando Training Wing, that dunking was contrary to the lesson plan.

*****
Questions

1) What crime were they actually charged with?
It's funny. All those words, but the crux of the matter remains unanswered.

Be mindful of the difference between being charged with a crime, and receiving sentence.

In this instance

charges - unknown.

Sentences - 2 months. 3 months. 9 months. 9 months.

Mitigating factors - loyalty to the army. not reading the lesson plan. following existing practice (or rather, since clearly stated in the ST article, believing - incorrectly - that one was following existing practice), exemplary and outstanding performance in the army, dedication and obedience.

2) Are the sentences commensurate with the crimes?

*****
Seek ye Answers

From Wikepedia (American) -

In the legal sense, Murder is the crime of causing the death of another human being, without lawful excuse, and with intent to kill them, or with intent to cause them grievous bodily harm. When an illegal death is not caused intentionally, but is caused by recklessness (not in Australia) or negligence (or there is some defense, such as insanity or diminished capacity), the crime committed may be referred to as manslaughter or criminally negligent homicide, which is considered to be less serious than murder. In the United States, manslaughter is often broken into two categories: involuntary manslaughter and voluntary manslaughter.

(presumably not in Australia since recklessness is practically a way of life...)

From the UK Home Office, 2000 (British)

At present in English law there are two general homicidal offences - murder and manslaughter. The most serious, murder, requires proof of an intention to kill or cause serious injury. If there are mitigating circumstances, such as provocation or diminished responsibility, then the offence is one of manslaughter - often referred to as "voluntary manslaughter". However, if someone kills but did not intend to cause death or serious injury but was blameworthy in some other way, then this is often referred to as "involuntary manslaughter".

Perhaps Singaporean law, historically based on American and British law, has evolved to the extent that it surpasses its originators. It appears that we can now commit homicide without actually committing murder, or manslaughter. Or perhaps it was simply not reported by the ST reporters.

Let us suppose instead that the charges were indeed of manslaughter. Let us be optimistic, rather than cynical about our judiciary processes.

*****
From the Jersey Legal Information Board (US)

Sentences :
8–10 years starting point for manslaughter arising from supply or administration of Class A drugs—starting point of 8 years if defendant (a) administered and supervised injection; (b) did not instigate drug-taking; (c) introduced deceased to injecting drugs at deceased’s request; (d) knew risk to deceased increased; (e) tried to save deceased’s life:Harris v. Att. Gen. (C.A.), 2001 JLR 362
10 years’ imprisonment justified for manslaughter almost amounting to murder—with mitigation for youth and previous good character, 7 years appropriate:Att. Gen. v. O’Brien (C.A.), 1979 J.J. 187

mitigation—guilty plea, co-operation and remorse insufficient to reduce period of imprisonment by 4½ years:Harris v. Att. Gen. (C.A.), 2001 JLR 362

*

Vancouver :

Vancouver -- A man who helped beat and stomp a crack addict to death has had his eight-year prison sentence reduced by B.C.'s Court of Appeal.

A jury found Jason Richter guilty in the January, 2002, death of Mark Baptiste outside a Sechelt crack house. He argued the term was too long for a manslaughter conviction.

The Appeal Court panel cut his sentence by one year, saying the lower court judge placed too much emphasis on denunciation, and not enough on the prospect of rehabilitation. CP

-- Seven years.

*

Cambridge, Massachusetts

CAMBRIDGE, Mass. — A Harvard grad student was spared the possibility of life in prison without parole as a jury cleared him of first-degree murder but convicted him of voluntary manslaughter in the stabbing death of an 18-year-old father.

Alexander Pring-Wilson, 26, appeared stricken but calm as he was sentenced to six to eight years in prison for the fatal street brawl. He could have received as many as 20 years in prison or as little as probation.

Family and friends of the victim, Michael Colono, were visibly upset by the verdict and asked the judge for a stiffer sentence Thursday afternoon.

"Pring-Wilson may be a smart man, but I think he made a big mistake taking a life for egotistical reasons," Colono's older sister, Damaris, told the judge.

*
United Kingdom

Couple's sentence branded too soft Jan 14 2005
By Andy Probert, Evening Mail

The real grandmother of the tragic toddler who was poisoned with salt by his adopted parents today said the cruel couple should have been jailed for life.

Christian Blewitt, aged three, died after his new parents deliberately fed him large doses of salt.

As Ian and Angel Gay were sentenced to five years each after being found guilty of manslaughter but cleared of murder, Christian's grandmother Susan Osik slammed the punishment as too soft.

She said:" I wanted them to get life. They should lock them up and throw away the key.

"A couple with all they had should have been able to give Christian a better life.

"I just wanted to ask them why they did this to a little baby, it is terrible." Pensions adviser Angela Gay and engineer husband Ian poisoned Christian with salt and caused fatal brain injuries following a trial adoption placement.

Mrs Gay, 38, and her husband, 37, of Lutley Lane, Hayley Green, near Halesowen, were cleared yesterday of the youngster's murder but convicted of an alternative charge of manslaughter by a jury after more than eight hours deliberation at Worcester Crown Court. They denied the charges.

Afterwards, Angela Gay's parents Margaret and Royston Swain, both 61, of Compton Grange, Whitehall Road, Cradley Heath, reacted with fury at the verdicts and said "British justice stinks".

Mr Swain said: "The last two years have been an absolute nightmare for all our family but we always thought they would not be found guilty.

"This case has been hanging over the family for a very long time and we still believe they did not put a finger on Christian, or indeed fed him salt."

Sentencing the couple, Mr Justice Pitchers said they must have made the deliberate choice "in cold blood" to subject Christian to ingest salt.

He criticised Mrs Gay for going back to work within days of the placement starting and also while Christian lay desperately ill in hospital.

The couple were living a luxury lifestyle when Christian and his twoyearold brother and sister, from West Bromwich, were placed with them by Sandwell social services at their former home in Greyfriars Drive, Bromsgrove, in November 2002.

The prosecution claimed Christian had been force fed four teaspoons of salt - nearly six times the average a body can hold - and caused brain injuries by slamming him down on a mattress or by shaking him.

*
The Judicial Commision of New South Wales (Australia)

231 manslaughter offenders were sentenced to a term of imprisonment (or penal servitude). The median term of imprisonment was 7 years and the median non-parole period was 4 years 3 months

*
Commensurate?

9 months. 3 months. 2 months.

A combined sentence of twenty three months between four convicted now-criminals over the death of an individual who leaves behind only memories of himself, with his parents, siblings, friends, and loved-ones.

Twenty three months. Not even two years.

Spread between four complicit individuals.

The maximum sentence for manslaughter in both the UK and US is ten years in jail.

Manslaughter distinguishes itself from murder by dint of a lack of intention to kill or cause serious injury.

These four individuals would have been lucky (although expected) in another country to have had their charges diminished from murder to manslaughter.

Commensurate? You tell me.

Lie number...

1) You must conform.
- Of course blind conformism is encouraged. It's a tool employed by large organisations to discourage dissent.

2) You must be different because it's cool to be different.
- a variant of blind conformism, playing up to everybody's inner teenager. (or in the case of teenagers, their inner, uh, selves.)

3) Marriage will make you happy.
- and when it doesn't, you feel that something is missing. so you decide

4) Children will make you happy.
- and when they don't, you're trapped in a loveless marriage that, for the sake of the children you must maintain. For a lifetime.

Increasing numbers of children make people who worry about national birth statistics happy.
Children make parents at turns proud, frustrated, angry, happy and... many other things. Children are not small undertakings.

Neither are puppies. Nobody looks at you funny if you buy your troublesome teething puppy a biting pole.

5) Cash will make you happy.
- and if it doesnt,

6) Credit card will make you happy.
- has anyone caught the stupid platinum advertisements playing ad nauseum on class 95? See points 1, and 2.
It almost sickens me the way the advertising meatheads sat down and collective took the path of least resistance, and creativity. Hmm, what will sell? Power. Sex. Money. How about this guys? "There's a new look in town, and it's platinum. Power."

I spit in your pathetic platinum covered arses. My UK Gold card has an eight thousand pound credit limit, and I pay a total annual fee of zero pounds to maintain it.

It doesn't particularly make me feel happy. Does it make you feel happy?

7) Safety and cleanliness first.
- culture. Diversity. Open eyes. Open minds. Touch. Taste. Colour. Drabness. Beauty. Ugliness.

Imagination.

Humanity.

Freedom.

First.
Some degree of safety and cleanliness - assumed.
Excessive safety and cleanliness - sterile.

8) Support the party.
- support the country.

9) Random lies we hear / don't hear but live almost everyday.
- ? truths that some people perceive.

10) One is safe. Big brother is nice, really.
- expect that knock on re-minisce's door anytime... now...

Time is sliding by.

Every insiduous second, fading silently into the oceans of my past.

None of this life makes sense to me.

I never really chose a path. I never made a choice. I wandered where my feet took me.

It's all good; my career is being built a single stepping stone at a time, andantissimo, at a leisurely pace.

(as an aside, cine-leisure is pronounced cine-leh-sure and not cine-lee-sure. And I hate that stupid harvey norman advertisement with a vengeance.)

If its all good... why is every moment here slipping away? Where are my memories, where is my future. Where is my... fate?

Is this all there is to this life? Work. Home. Work, play. Work, home.

Of course there is more. I exaggerate. There is God. There is fencing. There is the gym.

But so much of it feels like a distraction, to make myself forget... something.

Time is sliding by. Already I have lived a third of my life.

Time is sliding by.

Fifteen years.

It has been fifteen years since I first knew You.

I am growing old, really and truly. Once upon a time everybody around me thought like kids, or that was how it felt to me.

Now they really are kids, in relation to me. Soon, they will be saplings, and I the weathered oak, tremulously recounting the days of my youth.

When I remembered living. And loving. And laughing.

This place, this here and now - this is bad for me.

I've just found out that there IS something worse than doing an on-call and getting zero hours sleep. And that's doing an on-call while being unwell, and getting zero hours sleep.

To be honest, the take wasn't really that busy, but being saddled with a presentation at the eleventh hour (okay, the fourth hour post noon) for the next day is always a bad thing, and so I spent most of the evening wandering between wards reading up case notes and dozing off, and sneezing. Sneezing, incidentally, can be extremely tiring and I rather suspect someday someone will come up with an exercise programme that involves a lot of snuff.

It struck me while I wandered around in my illy-insomniac haze that the house officers here are truly remarkable. These guys literally keep the hospital running in the wee hours of the morning, tirelessly (? robotically?) trawling all the wards over, and over, and over again.

Back "home" in the UK we always officially knocked off at eleven or twelve. It was The Law - part of the Calmann act to ensure adequate sleep - and thus safety - of the staff. Senior house officers (ie MOs) provided the late-night cover for the hospital, and only on demand, ie when telephoned to do chores; otherwise the hospital was run by nurses, and nurse practitioners (who worked night shifts).

I have to admire these guys for their fortitude, yet at the same time I honestly think the system needs to be overhauled.

Oh, and while we're at it, it would be nice if there were more pretty female house officers, can we make that part of the selection criteria...

I was in a mood today (tomorrow I'm on call. 'Nuff said) and so I went to the gym and punished myself.

One of the staff must have seen me hitting the treadmill (to be honest I was doing a rather sedate speed of 12, but it was... some effort thanks to the fencing class yesterday) because he struck up a conversation with me as I was leaving and said it was good once in a while, but not to do that too often.

This full-time working-life thing sucks. I don't get to the gym often enough to actually work on slicing that time down still further; in fact I'm making a backward slide and am currently barely holding at 11:40.

I tell myself that it is because my thighs hurt from all that lunging. Yes, all you girlies, fencing is extremely good for toning those thighs.

*****
Subliminal

I think my UK-made telephone (with torchlight. That always wows the crowd here for some reason, even though it does not have colour, camera, or even polyphonic ringtone) is trying to tell me something.

Everytime I try to key in the word "mum", the predictive text neatly inserts "nun" instead.

And when I painstakingly press-in "home" I get "good".

No amount of dropping it on the floor has cured it of its goody-two-shoed-ness. Currently threatening it with upgrading to a Panasonic with everything which my brother keeps trying to give to me. There must be a catch somewhere, so I am holding off...

*****
Illogical

You'd think, after all this time, and all that I've written, that randomly re-elicited memories of Her would either upset me or be easily shrugged off.

Instead, they still make me smile.

As commander Spock himself might have said, Humans are not a logical race.

*****
Cracked

One of my more long-term friends helpfully filled in a sentence for me the other day, while I was rambling about life, love and all sorts of other things beginning with the letter L. (except lust, which I don't ramble about, so much as enthuse. heh heh.) While I was commenting about certain trivial things about this country which might have led me to leave it in the first place, including the way particular places elicited memories of a certain person, and how strange returning was... and because they still had that same effect, and... , she interdicted that I re-visited these places often?

I paused for a moment. The whole universe seemed to pause with me, and hold it's breath as my answer hung in the balance. I thought.

Is that how the world sees me? Is that how my friends see me.

Man. What do you all think I am, some kind of crackpot...

I'm just a regular guy. I don't hunger for pain. I avoid it. The neurology may be slightly frayed, but it is most certainly wired up within normal limits. If something hurts, I avoid it.

You just get caught offguard, sometimes. Is all. That was my point.
I think.

*****
Apologies

Apologies are a bit like buns. They start to become stale after a while, and after too much time they become worthless.

I should know.

I will admit that I'm not very good at them. It's not so much a case of face, or pride, but... what someone else described on his own blog (pertaining to me) as a heightened sense of self-righteousness. (there were some other choice phrases that amused me, although one suspects that was not the intention at the time of writing) But I'm not so blind as to pass over the truth when I bump into it.

So maybe I am anal retentive about certain things, and the truth, and, well, wanting the good guy to win are things that really, really, really drive me.

Maybe it's because once upon a time a certain strange guy lost... almost everything he held dear, because... he wasn't very good at spelling out the truth directly. The other things that everyone else including his parents holds dear, car, credit card, cash, condo... well. Those are nice, but those are - can't you see it? - distractions.

Anyway, this is probably coming too late since the first more conventional attempt has fallen flat, but V, I apologise. I can of course see why you got angry, and I can see that my choice of actions was not perfect.

But there were reasons, behind everything. And in a sense, it was a choice between the devil and the deep blue sea.

Sometimes silence is more harmful than the truth.
And though actions may speak louder than words, this is me saying sorry anyhow.

And to K, I apologise. It's all water under the bridge now, I know.
But somedays, when the memories hit hard and I'm... somewhere back there in the past, remembering how I knew I was making a mistake even as I made it, and knowing that this far down the line... it would still suck bigtime, I remember how it felt. It felt like I didn't have a choice.

But I did. And perhaps I could have done it some other way; and I just wish I had found it.

Perhaps nothing was worth hurting one of my tried-and-tested-est friends in the world.

I am sorry. And these aren't just words.

*****
Dedication

You took your coat off and stood in the rain,
You're always crazy like that.
And I watched from my window,
Always felt I was outside looking in on you.
You're always the mysterious one with
Dark eyes and careless hair,
You were fashionably sensitive
But too cool to care.
You stood in my doorway, with nothing to say
Besides some comment on the weather.

Well in case you failed to notice,
In case you failed to see,
This is my heart bleeding before you,
This is me down on my knees, and...

These foolish games are tearing me apart,
And your thoughtless words are breaking my heart.
You're breaking my heart.
You're always brilliant in the morning,
Smoking your cigarettes and talking over coffee.
Your philosophies on art, Baroque moved you.
You loved Mozart and you'd speak of your loved ones
As I clumsily strummed my guitar.
You'd teach me of honest things,
Things that were daring, things that were clean.
Things that knew what an honest dollar did mean.
I hid my soiled hands behind my back.
Somewhere along the line, I must've gone
Off track with you.

Well, excuse me, guess I've mistaken you for somebody else,
Somebody who gave a damn,
Somebody more like myself.

You took your coat off,
Stood in the rain,
You're always crazy like that

- Jewel, Foolish Games

Somewhere out there lives a forgotten score with the words "From B, to A" on it, that I dearly wish I had a copy of.
Right now, this song goes out to the dozer, and the stormie-one.
Because sometimes, it just isn't anybody's fault. But it sucks anyway.

Love is a two-way street. Watch out for oncoming traffic.

You know, the thing that celebrities have in common with gods is that without the hordes of hormonal groupies wet between the thighs / worshippers foaming at the mouth, they're reduced to pale, powerless shades of who they once were, or who they could have been.

Terry Pratchett writes tongue-in-cheek about forgotten, emasculated Gods in his novel Small Gods, and Neil Gaiman gave the issue some thought too in "American Gods".

And it strikes me that that's exactly what most celebrities are, small gods. Here today, gone tomorrow (eg Geri Halliwell, whatever happened to her) or here today, gone tomorrow, back the day after (eg Anna Nicole Smith) Bigger and Bouncier Better, and then after that... gone again.

"Celebrities" need to be loved. Much more so than us ordinary folks. That's probably why they decide to chase down dreams and become celebrities in the first place. Somewhere inside them, they have a burning desire to be recognised, to be wanted. To be loved, in a way that the people around them or their partners cannot provide.

It must be a very sad and lonely life, being loved barely-enough one day, and not the next - or never enough in the first place. The not-quite celebrity who never-quite makes it big... is the unwanted child. The beautiful baby that... never quite grows up.

And once you're on your perch, how easy it must be to fall off into dreaded, mundane obscurity - the kind of stuff other people - ordinary (shudder) mortals are made of.

Sometimes the simple ravages of time do the dirty, as voluptious curves gradually fill out and high cheek bones begin to round up, and the World loses Interest. And the job offers slow down. Or the two-bit roles become the only options.

It's funny moving between two worlds, two cultures. Two sets of very different Gods. Looking at our mini-gods in Singapore and realising their mini-flocks of followers are... just enough for them, but in the big bad arena of the world... just insignificant dewdrops in a vast ocean of worship and veneration, and Celebrity.

This post has nothing to do with my spotting Mark Richmond (?and Beatrice Chia? Dunno. Some rather tall, rather ordinary-looking -to me anyhow- girl sans-makeup) at fencing, tonight. Honest.

It's nice to be a mere mortal.

And I really mean that. =)

*****
Every

One of the things that bugged me in one of the relationships that didn't work out was how the then-squeeze didn't understand :

That every hello should be a surprise.

And every farewell may be our last.

Every second sipped together is a lingering ambrosia in the brewing

Every petulent tantrum unleashed an indelible scar in our pasts.

Every moment, every immortal permanence taken for granted

is a step towards our eventual demise.

- re-minisce.


I too could not remember, towards the end. Perhaps that is the simple truth - pick your battles, and your allies wisely. Only the right ones will endure.

*****
Checkmate

I checked. Yesterday.

I shouldn't have, but I was weak, and so I checked.

And it was renewed.

And so I knew. I am here.

And You are there. For Real.

How strange this life is. How very, very strange.

East is East, and West is West, and East is West, and West is East, and never the twain shall meet again.

They say that Post Call Day 2 is the worst of the lot.

I agree; the sheer and utter fatigue that saps you through the day is usually debilitating enough to make me fall asleep assisting in operations.

For some reason, today I stayed bright eyed and awake enough to understand what was going on in the ops. It wasn't till I took the long twenty-minute (long. hah. I remember two hour train rides to work...) drive home that i had to pinch myself, bite down hard on my finger, and sing along to stupid class 95 songs (which I like) in order to stay awake and not wreck the mother's spanking new shiny mazda 6 wossname car.

I like op days, they're a chance for me to read the papers. Most other days I come home and die after work, or else I go to the gym, then come home and die. Some days I meet up with a friend or two, then come home and die. Op days are different; during the five minutes we have for lunch I get to flip through the papers and look at all the pictures.

Recently all the news has been about Tsunami Aid, and how much Singapore is contributing, how poor the Indonesian response was, and how crap the Americans are at contributing to South East Asian crises (funnily enough though, turn the page and there are articles and pictures detailing how desperate villagers and victims are for food and water aid being delivered from US helicopters.)

Well, I don't know how the situation stands, but I am glad that Singapore is putting in money and effort into helping those affected. It's all good, no matter what anyone may say.

Sod the nationalistic stories about obnoxious Ozzy evacuees whinging about how they should have been treated better. Reporters who waste column space on feel-good-about-ourselves-in-this-time-of-crisis articles should be beaten about the head and sent back to journalism school (if there is such a thing). This IS a bad period for the region, and the world. It's bigger than us as individuals, and bigger than us as a country.

Let's just think about it, read about it. Try to empathise with the thousands who are suffering, and at least fail trying to empathise. And maybe, if we see fit, try to help in our own little ways.

Found a page on the local hospital intranet today about volunteering to provide aid in the affected areas, and am toying with the idea. I'm sure the mother and father will have choice words to share with me for even contemplating the idea; but, I dunno. Wonder if they'd have any use for a barely-trained surgeon, and a fairly incompetent medic. All I'm good for is Airway, Breathing, Circulation, Disability and Refer. Heh.

I received two emails recently from two of the people who read this blog. I shan't call you guys my "readers", or "blodgers" (xiaxue speak for loyal slave follower). But you guys are both wrong to some extent.

1) You do not know me.

Regardless of how intimately I may seem to be writing, I keep a lot of myself back. I show only a single facet - I may seem to show it often, and in detail, but in truth these represent small parts of the sum total of who I am. And anyone who reads me - only - will never really know who I am, or what I really think about things. There is no substitute for knowing a person in real life, and being close enough to hear, smell, and touch them (although that last is optional in most instances). Reading their thoughts - to me at least - does not translate into anything more than... reading their thoughts.

Do not presume to know me simply because you have read these pages for a year, two, or even three.

2) I do not agree. I don't think I write well enough to be published, and even if I did - that is not the reason for which I write.

I've written this before, countless times now. I'm rather tired of writing the same thing over and over again, so I shan't.

I honestly don't know why I write.

Once upon a time, when I first started writing in the Forgotten Age of Personal Webpages, I suspect I put my thoughts to e-media in the vain hope that someday someone (specific) would read them. It was like casting a letter in a bottle into the sea, and hoping that one day it would reach the love of your life.

Perhaps it was a coping mechanism. Perhaps it was an experiment by a not-terribly touchy-feely soul in romanticism.

As the wheel of time turns, and the seasons change, so too has my mind. And now, I don't know a lot more things; I don't know that I'm as right as I used to think I was (I used to think in black and white, now in shades of grey); I don't know if I was ever really in love with a particular Her (it becomes harder to remember) - although I do know that I still miss that person from time to time -

and I do know that whyever I am writing : whatever my motivation is

It is not for you. Or even for You.

It is for me.

Because I want to. And oftimes because I like to.

And sometimes, because I must.

The truth doesn't always set you free. Sometimes it even creates a hell of a mess. But in the Aftermath this was my take-home lesson, and by this shall I live for the rest of my life :

The truth must be spoken - even should it bring suffering. Because in the absence of truth : what do we really have, to remember the past by, and to guide our futures towards? How much more suffering will keeping our silence entail, in the long run?

I believe the answer to that last question is - too much. Far too much.