Truths of Old

He watched them over dinner.

She was very pretty, in a conventional way. Large eyes, delicate features, perfect skin.

He was : familiar. He was everyday, he was work, he was his boss.

They looked down as they ate, and spoke once in a while, once, when she pointed to his shirt to tell him it was dirty, sometimes when he made incredulous noises at her comments that it was hot today, so hot, and so, so hot, went home and took a cold shower, wah. And that her mother had made prawns for a snack.

As he watched, he felt a deepening sadness... perhaps not for them. They seemed comfortable, letting words and moments wash over and past them... it was very ordinary.

Very mundane.

It lacked... magic.

******
He watched them, after dinner. By accident, most of the time, since his sleep-deprived mind had him hazily floating on fumes as he lay spreadeagled on the floor. Once, when they thought he wasn't watching, he knelt down as she lay on the sofa to kiss her.

There was a magic between them, moments shared, eye contact returned instinctively...

He remembered.

******
Perhaps it reminded him of exactly who he was, and what he remembered from his past - and hoped for, from his future.

Perhaps it reminded him that it had all been a fantasy once... a silly fantasy, with no more truth to it than a childish desire, a random, over romanticised dream.

******
Last minute costume party (Zouk) ideas...

err.
uhh.

okay, let's wear scrubs and stethoscope...

As we strutted walked past, someone said in hushed tones... wah. That's the real thing lor.

Strangely, I don't think they were talking about the authentic "localbrand" variety my unnamed friend was wearing... but about the dark blues I had brought back from the UK, marked CGH (Colchester General Hospital) which puts most of the paper-thin "baju" healthcare workers wear here to shame...

******
And so it seems the nation's favourite attention whore pink-child has attracted bad press by slagging off a group that's finally prepared to fight back - without risking the ire of her two thousand rabid devoted slaves fans. Worse still... apparently many of her legion are bound by their own codes of decency and are pausing for thought.

Well, to be honest, I feel sorry for her.

And I'll write more later.

Right now I have to go out and get drunk, yet again.

******
Addendum

I didn't get drunk. To be honest, I haven't ever gotten drunk - and not for want of trying. God, it seems, has seen fit to provide me with a liver which prevents me from experiencing the alcoholic joys of life everyone rapturously used to describe in uni. (And then I threw up here, and then there, and then everywhere... right into ___'s lap...)

In fact, and this is rather exciting for me...

I actually came home early tonight. If you call 23.30 hrs early.

And I didn't have anything (alcoholic) at all to drink all day!

For the first time in three weeks.

And we exercised! Sun! Sea! Surf! Kayak!!

How come I don't feel any healthier. frown.

Anyhow, evening drinks with the german friends were cancelled, leaving me to chauffer two lovely ladies back to their abodes.

And now, listening to Craig Armstrong roaming around on the piano, I'm feeling a little too... content... to really want to write much.

******
About a girl

I actually feel a little sorry for XX.

Not because I don't think she had it coming. She's taken it upon herself to slag off countless individuals and groups now (I seem to recall something about all doctors being overpaid MC prescribing machines...) and it was only a matter of time before she hit a group or individual that the public would prefer to herself.

I feel a little sorry (in a non-patronising way) for her because I think she's being cruficied for a little lack of foresight.

My friends think that it's not really her fault - she's so young! Only twenty one!

I beg to differ - not because I wasn't quite like that at twenty one (but I wasn't...) - but because she's been... consistent. Over the years. She isn't gaining that mantle of maturity...

... and that's why I feel sorry for her.

We are shaping her - we, the community. The media, the public. The very people she whores herself to... we dictate who she is, as well.

We laud her for speaking her mind - she feels pressured to continue writing irreverantly, thoughtlessly. She doesn't feel a need to do her research before slamming professionals (doctors. yeah, i have a chip on my shoulder. haha)... She writes as much out of youthful ignorance as childlike enthusiasm. And we tell her she's doing good by being honest.

She swears on her blog, and we react like it's a good thing - somehow, in our opinions, she's being a sassy and spunky girl for daring to fuck the world.

We even "endorse" her with monetary rewards from... "attitude" clothing labels. She's found a winning formula, and she's going to stick with it...

Shrug.

We did this to her. In a strange way, we were the parents, and she the child.

Except this country - this media - this government...

We are, ourselves - immature. Thoughtless. And graceless.

I hope that one day she finds it within herself to grow. To learn to be more than she is. To shrug aside her fetters of popularity, and transform from the petulant child into a creature of grace, courage and maturity. Despite us all.

Unfortunately, churlish parents that we are...

... we will forget and neglect her, when she does.