Purposeful Quibbling

Let's Talk About Love - Celine Dion

2010-01-23T23:57:00.002+08:00

Everywhere I go all the places that I've been
Every smile is a new horizon on a land I've never seen
There are people around the world - different faces, different names
But there's one true emotion that reminds me we're the same
Let's talk about love

From the laughter of a child to the tears of a grown man
There's a thread that runs right through us and helps us understand
As subtle as a breeze that fans a flicker to a flame
From the very first sweet melody to the very last refrain

Let's talk about love
Let's talk about us
Let's talk about life
Let's talk about trust
Let's talk about love

It's the king of all who live and the queen of all good hearts
It's the ace you may keep up your sleeve till the name is all but lost
As deep as any sea with the rage of any storm
But as gentle as a falling leaf on any autumn morn

Let's talk about love - it's all we're needin'
Let's talk about us - it's the air we're breathin'
Let's talk about life - I wanna know you
Let's talk about trust - and I wanna show you
Let's talk about love

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:D

2010-01-17T02:05:00.003+08:00

Back in primary school, I was always inclined against lending my erasers to my classmates. And they probably thought I was being selfish. But it was merely that I had my principles.

You know, I still enjoy running my finger over the clean-cut regularity of a new eraser's edge. It is a delightful feeling, is the unfettered sharpness of such edges. It always reminded me of completeness, wholeness, pristine perfection. It was something like a crisp, blank sheet of paper; or else a glass of water standing perfectly still, full almost to the brim, without loose droplets clinging limply to its sloping sides; or maybe a newborn baby unadulterated by the delusions of the world. To an eight-year-old, this was so joyful.

Sometimes I reflect with pity that the things of the world disfigure themselves in service of the purposes for which they were ordained. White sheets of paper must forcibly be vandalised by ink, lines and coffee stains; water must slosh against the sides of the glass, and deplete itself, en route to a man's penis; and we must live. It was something of a wrench to apply an eraser to use for the first time. (Well, everything hurts the first time; just ask those who're* losing their virginity.) Reluctantly, hesitantly, slowly, delaying the moment as long as I could, my eight-year-old fingers would gently press the prized eraser against the surface of my worksheet, hoping to minimise the visible damage it incurred.

And always, I made sure to use only the same corner of the eraser. I wanted to leave the other three intact as far as possible, notwithstanding how being knocked around with the other stuff in my pencil case invariably made them marginally less perfect. Such efforts left my eraser, which started out as rectangular slabs, with an odd shape that resembled, more and more with time, a quadrant. I liked it that way.

Usually, I never got far with shaping my erasers into quadrants. People always intervened. They always remarked that my eraser came in a funny shape - but obviously not funny enough for it to be worth keeping. They would borrow it, peer at it for a split-second, and then proceed to erase whatever it was on their sheets with which they were unhappy. They would start with one of my unblemished corners, and rub vigorously for a mere few seconds. Then they would give a short sigh or exhalation, and apply another sharp corner to the erasing of a finer point or detail that eluded them the first time. Satisfied, they would return the eraser to me with a smile, and perhaps a cheerful "Thank you!" I never shared their enthusiasm for destroying perfection, but I never told them so either. Hiding my feelings and being emotionally opaque are not new traits to me, you see.

A substantial proportion of you will call me irrational, ludicrous, or a lunatic for this. And quite frankly, I don't care. I choose to find your pragmatic preoccupation with achieving end results (at the expense of a pretty eraser) equally misguided. Just because one wishes to rub off a tiny corner of a diagram without obliterating the useful bits of it, one irreversibly spoils the sanctity of an eraser's corner. He also disrespects the perfection whose preservation has been the preoccupation of a tender soul. And to be oblivious to this - to notice the eraser's shape is odd but not realise that it is deliberately and wilfully so, and should therefore be left as such - reeks of tactlessness and insensitivity.

When you next see me rubbing away with the blunt edge of an eraser, I am not insisting on doing things the hard way, but merely preserving what little morsels of perfection we haven't yet soiled with traces of our endeavours. You - that is, the world with its collective nag - may ask: What's wrong with trying to achieve the best using what we have, sacrificing the unblemished sanctity of numerous items in the quest to create one perfect composite? Well, you may not succeed; nobody guarantees that your best efforts are positive. Sometimes, perfection is meant to be received, not achieved, bequeathed, and not won. And that's all there is.

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* Any seeming similarity to other words is fully unintentional and acknowledged only in retrospect.

When You Say Nothing At All

2009-12-30T20:29:00.010+08:00

The municipal bus pulled into the inter-city bus terminal. The morning was grey and sullen; and perhaps it was just as well, for that made it easier to pretend the plumes of nauseating smoke were part of the innocuous foggy landscape. To say I found the place unpleasant in even the absence of this olfactory assault would be putting it mildly. The cumulative frustration of my previous experiences in the noise and filth of this disorganised jumble sagged in the pits of my heart. I observed a curved tyre mark on the light tarmac of the berth into which the bus moved; how it looked like a sneer! The rancid air of the terminal compound had so ingrained itself into my memory that I felt those familiar bouts of irritation well before I was due to step into it. As the double-doors swung open, I braced myself for a sensory onslaught.

Ticket-touts lined the narrow walkway leading from the berth to the main terminal building. This shabbily-dressed guard-of-honour produced an unintelligible cacophony of repeated place-names, and furiously waved pink and yellow slips of paper in the agitated faces of the travellers whose passageway they were clogging up. I eyed one of these touts with particular distaste as I approached the area where he was stood. Perhaps it was the way he energetically thrusted his wad of tickets at the travellers who passed him by, perhaps it was his penchant for making direct eye contact with anyone who afforded him any more than a cursory first glance, or perhaps it was the audibility of his voice above the general din of his colleagues, that drew attention to him. Perhaps, also, it was how he alone seemed to be perspiring profusely in clothes made scruffier by his exertions. I was immensely relieved that someone ahead of me took his bait, for it meant he had to busy himself issuing a ticket during the split-second it took me to dart away from him and his colleagues.

I heaved a sigh of relief as I entered the relative sanctuary of the building. Not that there weren't any touts in front of the stalls and littered about the aisles; somehow they were just less intimidating here than at the berths. I took rapid surveys, in all directions, of my immediate vicinity, and only then was I sufficiently satisfied to unplug my earphones from my iPod and save them for a rainy day. Right, down to business; I needed a ticket to Melaka.

I ambled along the aisle onto which the front row of ticket stalls looked. On their glass frontages were displayed names of the nation's major towns, along with a smattering of times and ticket rates. I snatched furtive glimpses of each of these glass panels, trying to get hold of a price without having to enquire of the overzealous stallholders who would subsequently be difficult to shake off. As a procedure of habit I walked to the end of this first aisle knowing full well the cheaper deals were to be found along the second aisle; stalls at the front, somewhat confoundingly, tend to find justification for being slightly more exorbitant in their pricing.

I pivoted and did a double-take onto the second aisle, and it was at this moment that a tout chose to haunt me. "Boss, nak pergi mana? KL, boss? Ipoh? Segamat? Seremban? Mana, boss? Boss?" I wanted so badly to pretend I had my earphones plugged in and was unable to hear his diatribe, and I did. Without glancing his way, without breaking stride, without even the slightest acknowledgement of his presence there, I walked on. Even so, I could not pretend to have missed his sensory assaults - I heard his raspy voice, saw his grimy clothes, smelled his cigarette breath - and this frustrated me. Under my breath, I grumbled something he had probably heard a million times over from other commuters. Still, "Nak pergi mana, boss? KL, sekarang?"

Thankfully, it wasn't long before I found a stall offering a decent price for a one-way passage to Melaka. Relieved that the daunting experience of wandering the ghoulish aisles of Larkin Bus Terminal was soon to be brought to a conclusion, I chose an agreeable time of departure, completed the formalities of exchanging sheets of soggy paper on which was printed the face of a certain monarch, and tried my hardest to listen to check-in instructions I knew I wouldn't really attempt to heed. Then, ticket in hand as a sort of protective charm against the pesky touts and their unworldly harassments, I strutted along the aisle, back the way I came. My mind drifted to more placid and sanguine places. I began to plan my itinerary for this upcoming trip, making mental notes of the people at whose homes my visit was due and of the food I wished to delect my palate with. I thought also of the gifts I needed to go shopping for prior to the trip. I reminded myself to call my uncle in Melaka who was to receive me at the bus-station there. Things were falling into place.

And then I spied, out of the corner of my eye, ten feet diagonally in front and to the right of me, the same fellow whose advances I had purposefully remained oblivious to mere minutes ago. It was then that I considered how this was his livelihood, and I knew seeing me hold someone else's ticket in my hand would disappoint him; I tried desperately to avoid being seen. "Boss!" - I had failed. A feeling of dread came over me as I awaited the next developments. "Dapat?" Surprised by the mild tone of voice, I wondered how I should respond. As it turned out I dared not make eye contact, and directed a barely perceptible nod in his direction. I hurried along, but not before stealing a glance at this man. He had given me a thumbs-up, accompanied by a generous smile.

The Daily Mail

2009-12-11T21:59:00.005+08:00

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter,
And dark splotches pattern my grey jumper.
The sky rains down the blessings of heaven
To mark a brand new day in London.

Skyscrapers crane their necks of concrete
As you and I walk abreast in the street,
Barely glancing up or breaking our strides
To notice the tens and hundreds of people besides;
A pity - lovely women in lovelier raincoats - oh, it is such a sight!
(Black, brown, grey, blue; dark, though occasionally light)
I reckon these women must think so too,
Or why spend their gazes downward the way they do?

Do take a breath of the exotic air,
Of the awakening city and exhaust pipes needing repair.
A bus' engine sluggishly groans, then the brakes emit sprightly hisses
- there's the old man and, it seems, the missus.
Tyres squelch and frantic heels click. Voices yell,
Doors slam, and off goes a schoolbell.
Front row seats for the London Orchestras:
Tickets, anyone? I've got extras!

I stand beneath a masterpiece
A visage of immeasurable height
An endless stretch of shades of grey
A seamless composition without fault or fold
Infused with fluffy old dark fleece
And odd, miraculous cracks of light
The rooftops in rows that guide the way
They stand stock still as their story's told

And now that the rain is palpably heavier,
I run for cover.

Oxonians use the 2-minute respites in their reading schedules to write crap like this:

2009-11-12T22:16:00.003+08:00

I like the pattern of irregular dark splotches the falling raindrops make on my grey cardigan. They seem to have a significance I really should know.

The Trouble With Andrew

2009-10-30T04:46:00.009+08:00

Andrew put the foot on his shorter leg forward and took a tentative first step on his upward journey through eternity. His gangly frame lurched unstably, his shoulders dropped with an awkward jerk, and only by pulling his much longer right limb in line with the much shorter left did he regain his balance (in the sense in which he understood it). It was a familiar sensation for the man who through all the years of his long life had struggled valiantly with his disability, and attempted the arduous trek up the imposing Maxwell Hill on almost a daily basis. You could really forgive his heart for overflowing with dread and fear, for on all his previous attempts he had met with the sort of physical pain and discomfort that would put off even the most dogged and persistent. Not once had he reached the summit, and he was now a wizened old man playing a game that demanded the exuberance and energy of youth.

He had come to know the "Welcome to Maxwell Hill: Safety Instructions..." sign like the countenance of an old friend. If you bothered to stop and listen to him speak, he would have told you that this was, in all probability, his only friend. The first time he saw it all those years ago, he greeted it with caution, bending to examine the script that was engraved into its torso of solid wood. And then there was a time when in his haste to proceed on he barely noticed its presence, before there came a point when its familiar silhouette brought Andrew the reassurance that his daily routine was in progress and on course for completion. Of course, nowadays what was once a block of firm wood had aged into a moist lump shorn of its elegant edges, with its face beginning to reveal the wrinkles that blemish faces once perfect in their youth. The frequency of the freckles that dotted the sign also betrayed the good work of termites over the years. Reading the white print, which was now partly obscured by a gangrenous growth, brought Andrew a deep warmth in his heart of the sort you get by chatting affably with someone dear to you.

He drew out a long, meaningless sigh as he struggled to put one foot before the other. This daily trek up the wooded trail had long been a lonely furrow down the darkening depths of memory lane. Each time Andrew glanced up from the mushy soil underfoot, his gaze would be greeted by a landmark with its own story to tell. There was the large row of hedges which he had once fallen into after being knocked over by a cyclist who had lost control. Just up the road was a slight kink in the trail, not particularly worthy of notice but for the memory of how he had once been stopped there by a group of adolescents mocking him for his disability. Every so often the trail would pass by a pavilion by its side, in each of which Andrew was certain he had spent time waiting out those ferocious tropical thunderstorms that curtailed his adventures for the day. And then there was the ditch about three-quarters of the way up the hill, into which he had fallen, out of sight and hurtfully, that one fateful time when the blazing sun had left him severely dehydrated and exhausted. Factor in the number of times Andrew had simply tripped over the outgrowing roots of trees or on the gravel, and still you would be nowhere near the full picture. But we have to leave all that for another day, for it was a new chapter that Andrew wanted to write today.

It surprised Andrew that it took him half the journey to the summit to develop the first hints of cramp. It was normally this, of course, that heralded the onset of the overwhelming fatigue to which he invariably succumbed. He first felt the stitches behind his ankles, an enveloping tightness that made him dread those moments in time when his foot was off the ground and the ankle had to bear its load. From that point on, his efforts at accommodating this new companion merely seemed to invite more of its kind to other parts of his deformed anatomy. Soon the curve of his foot began to tighten up as a response to the alteration of its natural trajectory, and when it spread to his abdomen and stomach Andrew began to sense the coming of those doubts which never seemed to quit plaguing him. The trouble with these things is that you cannot stop to rest and nurse them away, for once the adrenaline ceases its circulation, your problems will simply mount. And he hadn't many hours of daylight left either.

Andrew's debilitation was brought on by the dull, nagging pains. They were also augmented by the constant fear that things would take a downward turn and he would have to face the stark reality of his physical impediment once again. He took to scanning his field of vision for those distance markers attached to lampposts, for they would tell him how much further his unobliging body would need to be dragged (not that knowing this would make the peak come any closer to him). His gaze was expectant as one of these markers, bathed and glinting in the light of the baking sun, appeared in the distance. In his despair, he had taken (as usual) to counting down the number of metres to the promised land, to laboriously working these lengths into fractions and proportions of the entire distance he had had to traverse. He crossed his fingers and flailed at hope as fortune's representative came into view. Two seconds later, he found himself starting in bemusement as the board revealed he, in spite of what seemed to be an ominous bout of cramp, had made it to within sixty metres of the summit.

The sudden and unexpected knowledge that he had come closer than ever to achieving the goal of his life seemed to arm Andrew with extra ounces of strength. He looked around him at the other climbers, but the consummate ease with which they took their steps perturbed him no longer. In fact, it was probably these other people who had reason to be envious - oh how they wished surmounting the challenge of a modest hill could bring them such unbounded joy too! - as they watched Andrew's already-clumsy motions get more awkward as he struggled to rein in his delight. He grinned up at the cawing crows. Even they had the right to sing today. He saw the lines of trees on either side of the trail come to their conclusions not too far ahead. He began to catch sight of the landing which served as the observatory; in the glorious sunshine it seemed to beckon with a golden glow. Even the ground on which he walked had taken on a rosy hue. He straightened himself up, fixed his gaze forward so as to assume a look of steely composure, and strode into the unimpeded sunshine with a royal-esque dignity you think only possible in fables.

He scanned the faces of the other victors at the summit. Some of them displayed a quiet and peaceful satisfaction, some of them wore a relaxed smile, and some of them seemed preoccupied with the world they should have left behind. Was this all it meant to them to finally get to the very top? Feeling underwhelmed, Andrew slowly edged toward the precipice to obtain a view of the surrounding lands. He approached tentatively, wondering, no doubt, if he should find what he thought he would. He closed his eyes, envisioning a lush landscape with rolling fields of an intense green on one side, dotted by the deep blue of restful ponds; with the bustling town on the other, fighting to contain its energy within its resplendent array of shapes and buildings; and a silent river in between to harmonise the two worlds in its permanent fixity. He opened his eyes, and there it all was! It was as though he was returning to a scene he had once captured in his mind's eye. But there he was, looking at the wonders of the world for the first time, instantly marvelling at the sights he saw in the distance. He thought he smelt the dew from the lush grass in the mornings, felt the rush of wind left in the wake of a speeding car, and heard the phenomenal din that was the marketplace; he thought he heard them somewhere deep, deep down in the pits of his heart. He leaned over the railing as his tears of triumph deprived him of his one sensory reality. He attempted another glance at the horizon, but through the cloudy moisture of his eyes all he could make out was the wistful smile of the now-setting sun. He turned and retreated as the imminence of twilight dawned upon him.

梦在手里 - 蔡淳佳

2009-10-26T17:50:00.002+08:00

我把每天都看成一道风景
雨天或是晴天都值得纪念的美丽
我把每天都当成一个节气
感动和悲喜回忆的痕迹都用心聆听

我不去相信上天注定
梦想握在手里
相信只要努力会有奇迹
爱可以操纵天气

当狂风暴雨遮蔽了眼睛
让爱暂时喊啼
我不让希望再旷野流离
梦想一直前行

当幸福只剩下檫肩距离
我决不会放弃
只要守着坚定他总会有
属于我的动人剧情

总有一天幸福会同行

Ahh meerck tea, storebelly flavour one

2009-09-27T17:57:00.001+08:00

Goodbye. :'( I will need new sources of entertainment.

Stare

2009-09-13T22:59:00.005+08:00

I stand at my window counting raindrops. One, two, thr - no, only two and a half, for this one by my right finger is ostensibly smaller. So is that one, that one that struck my pane at an angle leaving its mark as a nasty diagonal slash. And there, that one there exceeds one, but shorts shy of two. Its perfect curvature is interrupted right at its bottom, where the boundary line takes a shortcutting arc through the circle that should be, giving it the outline of a flatspotted tyre. I hear its voice scream, scream "Let me be free!", free from the surface tension that holds part- but only part - of its molecular blob still, free to continue its descent down the length of the windowpane, free to do what it was ordained to do, free, free, free.

I continued watching the raindrops. I continued being perturbed by the one sitting three inches off centre just on the left of the windowpane. I would have liked to have known its shape, but there it stood no more than a tiny speck. It could have been nicely round, or it could have been elongated, or sharp at one end, or not. But there it crouched, there it stayed huddled, there it hoped to avoid my probing gaze, for it must have been afraid. Afraid that it might be known the contours of its imperfect form, the story of its unillustrious past, the secrets of its very being.

Thirty-one, thirty-one-and-a-half, thirty-tw - what happened there? I watched, half taken aback and half madly intrigued, as my eyes having retraced their steps back to the origin of their arduous count failed to find the scatter pattern whose permanence for granted had been taken, and saw instead an unfamiliar new arrangement. Flustered, I searched for those drops whose profiles I had carefully studied and learnt. But I found nothing I could recognise. Recognise for the location which it had to call its own, recognise for the words it had once uttered to me, recognise for the gait and appearance and countenance and expression I thought I would always know.

Instead I settled to watch as, gradually, the droplets zigzagged towards the foot of the pane, leaving behind discernible traces of their passage. I knew that little drop there, that one that appeared pointed at its head, to have traversed the distance from X to Y with a minute change in course as it skirted around a large cluster of other jousting droplets. My gaze made the reverse trip from Y to X, but never made it that far. I saw a second round blob whose trail had formed a junction with that of the first, and which was just leaving that junction in the direction the first droplet had gone. This demarcated route it stuck to with immaculate precision, and it seemed to gain in momentum so as to close in on the back of the pioneer of that very route. I felt my heart pounding away, begging in its fury for a stay of execution, begging for fortitude against submission, begging, in vain, "No, dont..."

Staring at the mundane in the depths of the night is all I can do to stay awake.

新马歌曲10佳选

2009-09-11T00:26:00.002+08:00

对不起哦，我真的好无聊。

1。《有你多好》 - 蔡淳佳
2。《遇见》 - 孙燕姿
3。《孤单北半球》 - 欧得洋
4。《童话》 - 光良
5。《无条件为你》 - 梁静如
6。《放了爱》 - 郭美美
7。《日日夜夜》 - 张栋梁
8。《一千年以后》 - 林俊杰
9。《入戏》 - 曹格
10。《小小幸福》 - 张玉华

慢慢享受吧！人家累得不断地打哈欠了……

Hands up, who thinks this is hot?

2009-09-07T19:15:00.007+08:00

And shut up, those who think it is not. Atypical indecision dictated that I should have uploaded both of the pictures I took of this SGD149 Fred Perry manbag, rather than astutely select one from a paltry two. (The camera-savvy will point out that this is an issue of flash [mis]management.) Okay folks, meet the latest resident in my wardrobe.

Pangs of honesty impel me to reveal that opinions on the wisdom and sensibility of such a purchase have been well and truly split. The conservative are cringing at the striking hue of the red trim (and more ostensibly, red side panels). The pragmatic are scratching their heads wondering how I am to integrate something unabashedly metrosexual with the more classic styles that my wardrobe is known to conjure up. The chic and trendy have given me the thumbs-up. The courteous make excuses and avert my questions. Go, taste my scorn.

The prospect of lugging copious numbers of voluminous volumes around my university town was the driving force behind my decision to grab a carrier with size on its side. Undoing the zipper that runs along its upper face reveals cubic acres of storage space which seems to accommodate any permutation of bulky objects from my working demands. Impressively, the main compartment is spaciously built to allow two 'XL' History texts to sit abreast. (XL = A4-sized pages) In addition to this, there is a hard base that was conspicuously absent in the SGD199 Ted Baker model which gave this beauty the impression of sturdiness. There is also a pocket in which a notebook can comfortably sit, and an exterior compartment for the more trivial bring-alongs.

It does take a historian to pick the point up that I haven't answered the REAL question that instigated the furore. (Like, who else cares about what is ABSENT from the narrative!) Question being: Why this audacious colour? Any suggestions? I'm out of ideas.

This Is Ridiculous

2009-08-28T17:49:00.005+08:00

I don't think I made a secret of my protracted quest to procure local artiste Joi Chua's compilation album 《淳佳精选17首》. I would, however, downplay any association made between my recent appreciation of the said singer's works and one Mr. Tan Wee Boon's selection of a song of hers as the focus of one of his many memorable Chinese lessons, and deny categorically that this recent craze was ignited by the heightening sense of nostalgia transpiring from my idle reminiscences about HL3, much as the latter might inherently be true. Perhaps unpardonably, my seminal encounter with a Joi Chua song was indeed Ah Boon's tutorial (Having lived in Singapore for in excess of a decade, I somehow managed to escape her songs). If you bear this in mind, the (admittedly not overly obscure) irony of yesterday's turn of events will be to you very apparent.

I paced up and down the lanes in one of the Sembawang Music outlets that figured on my itinerary, peering intently at the CDs racked along the shelves and searching for my quarry, with my customary obstinacy precluding the presumably wiser move of asking an attendant for assistance. When, as it usually does, good sense prevailed, I was asked "So you looking for what title?" in reply, to which I answered, "《淳佳精选17首》，蔡淳佳", with my elocution suffering for the change of language in neither crispness nor accuracy, I hasten to add. The next line caught me by surprise.

"Har you talk Chinese one ah? 哦我还以为你不是华人leh!"

"Eh, 我是哪里不像华人？"

"不知道lor，就是一点怪怪leh."

Was it my favourite grey suedes, admittedly an uncommon possession among your typical rank-and-file Chinese man, that were giving me the air of refinery perceived to be exclusive to the classier "ang moh pais"? 就算是的话，所谓的“ang moh pai”难道一接受这新的身分后就不再是华人了吗？更重要的问题是：“我们华人什么时候开始那么自卑，什么时候开始瞧不起自己的言语，把它看待成一个‘低级’人士的沟通方式呢？说实话，我本人究竟几次耻笑受中文教育人士讲英文结结巴巴呢，我心里有数。但即将出国念书的我突然被“震”醒了。可能是快要和别人的生活方式与习俗碰面的关系吧，使我比较强烈地珍惜那属于自己的文化。

昨天的现象不是第一次发生，但关键是这一回的对方也是黄皮肤的。好几次我回马国时给马来德士司机问我类似的问题。说我样貌像泰国人，像葡国人，像“混血人”的都有。但他们又不是华人，整天驾德士口又闲，叫我怎么去介意呢？对，我是“ang moh pai"，我这一辈子无论开口说话或下笔写字，中文就是和英文打败仗，但我依然坚持说一个人运用的言语和他所谓的“class”（若上伟汶老师课的话，早就有人把它翻译为“班级”乐哦:D) 毫无关系。而且，我也估计自己在外国时会无特别地怀念那些八频道的连续据（我不是依靠字幕的！）

还有哦，这个“ang moh pai” 考中文B HL 考到7分呢！你告诉我，去年全新加坡有几位学生领到那样优秀的成绩呢？:P

I'm Having A GOOMEUF Moment

2009-07-27T23:05:00.005+08:00

I had the bleeding misfortune of being sat behind a bloke with serious body odour issues on the bus today (I would have switched seats but, well, there wasn't another vacant one). Mind you, it was a reasonably-lengthed journey from the heart of town right through beyond Marine Parade. Can someone tell me why some people just STINK? This idiot reeked of prior perspiration dried and coagulated layer upon layer on his well-blemished skin, and donned a top so limp and filthy a sow would have been hard-pressed to feel comfortable in it. Let me just add that even the kindest (or most impotent) of eyes would have done extremely well to avert the sight of his balding pate made to shimmer in the sunlight by copious and abominable quantities of unidentified (gladly left so) grease.

Look, durians are banned aboard the public transport vehicles precisely because they emit an odour, one SOME among us find unpleasant. Why don't we outlaw stinky individuals the MASS MAJORITY among us would be euphemising to merely describe as 'unpleasant'? I am not asking everyone to spend wads of money on Davidoff or Dunhill or even Zara fragrances like I do (just by the way "Only the Brave" by Diesel is my favourite scent for this summer, and, at S$99 with free gifts thrown in, is a real steal). There is no need for one to 'wow' the rest of the bus (though I do appreciate being 'wowed' by pleasant olfactory surprises) or to prominently assert their status through ostentatious fashion articles, but it is far from courteous to force those around you to have to hold their breath for prolonged periods of time.

Is it too much to ask that individuals maintain a decent level of personal grooming and presentability? Start by keeping parts of your own treasured anatomy clean (all the more pertinent with H1N1 making its presence felt), and if that doesn't work there are such friendly items as deodorants costing not more than three bus rides widely available in most convenience stores and supermarkets, and hence dirty old boys have little excuse for their state of being. In a society that rightly prides itself on high standards of hygiene and cleanliness (and on good moral groundings not excluding the extension of basic and fundamental courtesies to other individuals), such ugly stains must be expeditiously cleaned up.

Ka-Ching!: 10 Reasons Why One Should Gamble On A Holiday In Macau

2009-07-22T14:28:00.007+08:00

A mere sliver of the South China Sea away from the bustling global city of Hong Kong sits another former European colony - Macau. This writer visited these two East Asian islands in quick succession, and remembers being taken aback by the vast dissimilarity between them that belies their apparent physical proximity.

Jetting into (and, eventually, out of) Macau ensures that your first (and final) impressions of the island are not far off the mark. A tiny airstrip pretended to be an airport runway, just as a warehouse took on the guise of a terminal building. Walking on the continuous tarmac that served both the Airbuses and the tour buses, and looking across the airport compound comparable in size to the average Hong Kong apartment, one is slowly immersed into Macau's backwater charm. And then you gradually take in everything else you miss here in Singapore: the woodland four hundred yards away, the mountains in the distance, the... huh did someone just see a shopping mall?

Yes, that's right. And just who do I think I'm kidding? Ladies and gentlemen, Macau is casino land! Affectionately referred to as the "Las Vegas of the East", Macau has a tourist directory that reads like a who's-who of the casino world. Sitting within one-mile-radii of one another, the hotel-owned casinos found in the Mandarin Oriental and the newly-opened Grand Lisboa (amongst others), and the global brand MGM give you ample opportunity to have your flutter. And if you do start feeling aggrieved that this island hasn't got a proper beach, do remember that you can still find Sands along the Avenida Dr. Sun Yat Sen.

Indeed, it is these little hives of activity on which the daily operations of downtown Macau pivot. Each of the big-name casinoes boasts an affiliation to a plush and luxurious hotel catering to the needs of its cash-rich clientele. In particular, the Grand Lisboa, a swanky new premises slap bang in the centre of Macau, deserves special mention. Dazzling chandeliers, majestic stairway arcs, exquisite ornaments and a tastefully-designed lounge area are housed within a clear glass structure that modestly fails in its attempt to keep them from sight. The breadth of the main hotel building increases as you move up the floors, an aspect of the design which combines with the ingenious use of lines and curves to give the Grand Lisboa a striking resemblance to an oversized wad of bills that opens up at one end. Add to that the array of colours that embellished this outline after dusk falls, and it is easy to see why the Grand Lisboa stands out even amidst the psychedelic flurry of neon that is the sum total of Macau's casino-hotels preening in the night sky. That said, looking extremely fashionable is not their exclusive prerogative. Chanel, Dior, Louis Vuitton, Giorgio Armani, Vertu, Hermes, Hugo Boss... ... Shopping, anyone?

Intrinsic to the unique appeal of Macau, however, is the ability of the city to alter its apparent character in an equal degree equal to that of the hue of the sky. One is forgiven for wondering, as he is greeted by the Macau dawn, if he hadn't, after all, been spat out on the other half of the planet by a time machine. The narrow sidestreets, cobblestone-paved in sweeping arcs and lined by the all-too-familiar five-foot-walks fronting two-storied shophouses with distinctly European facades, unequivocally proclaim Macau's dualistic postcolonial identity. In contrast with the high-voltage lights and sweeping lines of nights gone by, daytime Macau ambles at a leisurely pace that gives one the licence to soak in the yesteryear-tinged atmosphere. For the historically-inclined (and that means any half-intelligent tourist), Macau does not want for places of interest. With temples, cathedrals, museums, a wartime fortress and a sprinkling of monuments, Macau offers an eclectic mix of attractions catering to the broad spectrum of historical interest (a :P is irresistible here). With the Portuguese street names heightening the sense of cross-cultural exoticism, the notion that one must be a casino-goer to enjoy Macau can't be any more untrue.

Okay, so we may have invented the telescope all those years ago, but still nothing delights us Chinese people quite like gastronomy does! The sidestreets of Macau are dressed in rows of coloured shopfronts bearing various fonts, whose role it is to supersede the general din that is the dialect from Canton with the message, 'FOOD IS SOLD HERE'. The enticements of mainstream Cantonese cuisine (dim sum, in particular), Mecanese fusion food (most notably the signature Portuguese egg tarts), an odd sprinkling of culinary delights from across the globe, and a vast variety of endemic snacks (Careful! Don't be taken in by the butter almond biscuit or the pork floss cookie or whatever else it is that sounds more universally Chinese than should be found on this far-flung island, though I grant that the aforementioned, while not genuinely Mecanese, are nonetheless tantalising.) leave one ceaselessly fighting bouts of chronic salivation. I must also squeeze in a mention of The-Restaurant-Whose-Name-I-Can't-Recall-But-Which-Sits-On-The-Grand-Lisboa's-Eighth-Floor. It is here that, for the modest price of 238 Macau dollars (~S$48), you can indulge from a 200-foot-long buffet table. Though Mecanese cooking accounts for a majority of the half-thousand items, there is an ample selection of international cuisines and, may I add, a healthy range of sinful desserts (which is all I care for sometimes!) to tease your tastebuds. With an exceptional standard of freshness and culinary expertise, this rightful pinnacle of Mecanese dining snugly typifies the island's gastronomic scene. And with swarms of hungry folk (Mecanese and tourists alike) making their beelines in an attempt to snatch the last empty booth at these outlets big and small, you can see why getting a stomachful is more than occasionally a frustrating pilgrimage. This is where you need to get smart, try to second-guess where everyone else is headed, and hope you find yourself somewhere with a vacancy. In other words, you need to play a bit of poker.

The sumptuous food and the artful buildings aren't Macau's only draws. This writer arrived in the middle of winter and was presently surprised to find himself in a position to bare his shins and forearms with the ambient temperature settling in the high teens (or the mid-sixties, if you insist on Fahrenheit). Tiger Airways will obligingly ferry the budget-conscious among you to the amiable climes of Macau on one of its twice-daily flights from Changi (I might be wrong about the frequency, don't count on it!). Speaking of budgets, I have yet to reveal Macau's final trump card it uses against its costlier rivals in the holiday-making business. With an approximate land area of 15 square kilometres within which most tourist activity is conducted (again, factual information is unreliable when I am the source!), it is possible to explore Macau on foot. But of course, should you really require them, wheels are never in short supply in a casino city. If you do indeed exhaust all possibilities during your stay in Macau, bear in mind that it is just a short punt to both Hong Kong and mainland China (okay, ferry ride, whatever), which do make excellent day-trips if you are based in Macau. It is these factors which, in sum, make it difficult to bet against this happy Macau-tripper making imminent returns. I'm sorry, Sentosa, but Macau is the island for which "once is never enough".
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Okay, this is 8 months overdue. Sigh. And I never got to 10 reasons, but well I don't count when I'm on holiday. Especially not when I include the casino on my list of destinations. Don't need to depress myself after a good holiday, you see :D

Why must everything have names, have titles, have little misleading conveniences

2009-06-30T23:30:00.003+08:00

Yeah, why? Having spent the last few months refusing to compose or write in fluent prose, acts which I decreed to be willing submissions to an existing order and system (yes, language has laws. Imagine if it had courts of judgement too, some of us would be facing the gallows), I AM BACK. Sean Lim's offhand reference to his blog last night brought me face-to-face with the startling reality that I HAVE NOT READ YOUR BLOGS FOR AN ABSOLUTE ETERNITY. And, yes, you have not read mine, for I have written nothing. (Shall I speak again?)

Bringing myself up to speed on your blogs was akin to sitting in a locomotive gathering speed. As I allowed your alphabet-constructed contraptions to grab hold of me an overriding theme engulfed me in a way reminiscent of the green blur of the country passing the train by (refer to War by JMG Le Clezio, it's full of such reversals). The overriding theme was loud and unmistakable in its unequivocal message (I am sorry my eschewal of regular prose has seen my opulent vocabulary ebb away by the cycles of the moon, hence the simple bisyllabic word 'message'), yet mellow and ambivalent in its sentimental undertones. Yes, you miss school. And your best friends, your 'lifelong' acquaintances come from ACS(I)'s class of 2008. Heard you. Love you. By the way, you notice my allusions to a certain element of the IB experience known as King Lear for IOC? Yeah, I can't leave the past behind either. (And by the way, if anyone wants to have a lively exchange of ideas on what the past means, this soon-to-be Oxford historian is always available to accompany you as you traverse the hallowed turf he has fallen, spellbound, so in love with.)

Have I lost you? If so, then I AM BACK! If not, excuse me in view of my prolonged absence. Okay, here's what this blog is going to do from hereon in, so put me back on your radars, people! As this Anglophile revels in his three-year pilgrimage to the cradle of civilisation, he will update you on what he does in England (probably on a weekly basis, my 25-book-long weekly reading list is going to eat up more of my time than Loh Yu Sheng can manage on the food of people around him :P). If I get lazy and reductionist, don't be surprised to see a standard blog entry formatted along the lines of:

- My best meal this week:
- I played this song the highest number of times on my iPod:
- I remember this quote the best:
- A really funny encounter:
- ............................

Grrr. Before I leave for the UK, though, I shall do some purposeful and pleasurable writing since presently time so generously apportions itself to me. In the works is an article on the relationship between fathers and sons, motivated in part by an article I read in an Indonesian lifestyle magazine, in part by my own relationship with my dad (one in constant flux, mind you), in part by the father-and-son songs I have in my iPod which came up in close proximity to one another on my shuffle last week. Disclaimer: it was an order completely arbitrary but upon whose pertinent items I imposed the categorisation 'father-&-son'. Expect lots of other literary allusions. Please don't bug me now about whether literature is really mimetic, okay? Save that for another day. Also to be published soon is my review of a fantastic restaurant for contemporary Chinese dining - Cassia, located within the premises of Capella Singapore on Sentosa Island. Celebrated my mother's birthday there. Did I mention it was the most fabulous meal I'd had all year? So much for my decided aversion to Chinese food huh.

Sorry, I'm tired. Excuse the large number of grammatical errors I've made on this page, which a rough count would probably put at somewhere in the region of 1000000. Tired people can't really count anyway.

Benjamin Button Makes A Curious Case Indeed

2009-02-23T19:52:00.009+08:00

Sugar, spice, and everything nice. These are the ingredients chosen to create the perfect little girls. An easy translation into filmmaking language could be offered here. Sugar = fantasy, sweet but artificial. Spice = romance, no further explanation required. Everything nice = the feel-good factor; something equally vague, and broad enough to encompass all that is pleasing and delightful. And just what girls mean to the real world, is what 'flicks' are to the film industry. (I promise this is my only chauvinist joke for the day!) Unfortunately, the makers of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button accidentally added a special ingredient: Chemical X. Okay, so it wasn't a mysterious substance released from a carton labelled 'X', but the X-factor for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, as it would be for any film, is its packaging. This was its one chance to tell the world what exactly it was, precisely what it tried to do, and therefore how one can go about judging it.

In an advertising sense, there was nothing fundamentally wrong with the marketing of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Acclaimed as a film that was 'philosophical', 'intriguing', et cetera, because it explored the abstract concept of 'living life backwards', it appealed to people like myself who like to think they are highly intellectual. Crowds and Oscar nominations came, but it is this point beyond which we cannot hail this film as a roaring success. With its self-professed philosophical inclinations as expedient yardsticks against which to measure its achievement, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is found to be still, still, far wide.

The course of philosophy has embossed the word 'life' with a meaning deeper than the mere trajectory of human progression from birth through to death. If I may borrow an allegory from John Lewis Gaddis' The Landscape of History, then I will elucidate. We are all like wanderers, moving in an arbitrarily-defined forward direction. Problem is, we walk backwards (ie we face the landscape from which we have come and have our backs turned towards the expanses into which we go). We are clueless as to what kind of land our next step will take us onto and are similarly unable to see the scenery that surrounds us until the moment we are passing it by. We live a life of memories (anybody wants to join me and my WSC buddies at the National Museum this Sunday for the screening of The Persistence of Memory?) because everything we know about that constitutes our being and existence resides in the realm of the past. It would perhaps be apt to pause here and think about what it means to do all this backwards.

Admittedly there is a range of possibilities. For starters we could have the scenario of the wanderer operate in exact reverse. One faces the direction in which he walks, hence seeing all that he approaches and possessing the power to change his course such that he eventuates wherever he desires to. At the same time, he forgets all that he has done and all that he has been, and lives a life of dementia paralysed by the loss of memory. Alternatively, we could invert the journey (ie have our man start where he should have ended) and have the wanderer walk a pre-programmed route back towards where he should have started, gaining as he moves the understanding of how he came to arrive at the former (ie journeying towards an epiphany).

And yet all this is besides the point, for The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is neither. He does not have the psychic ability to foretell his future (and as such remains distinctly human in the movie), nor does he forget about the girl of his childhood years (until the painfully lame bout of dementia he experiences in his 'old age/adolescent' phase; more on this later). Neither does he begin the movie with a consciousness or identity that he spends the plot figuring out how he constructed. There is none of the predestination, implicit in either of these scenarios, in the life of Benjamin Button. His actions all carry unknown consequences, some of which he lived to regret, and others to cherish. Neither would be possible had the outcome been a given (assuming people, given the choice, don't act in a manner that brings an unfavourable end).

Since Benjamin knew nothing of the future he walked into, he must have had his back facing the direction in which he walked. Since he had full responsibility and autonomy over where his path ended (in that this destination would result from the actions he took), he could not have begun walking at the 'end point' towards a known 'start point'. The one thing that differentiated him from a conventional human being was that he was born old and haggard, and died, as a baby, knowing and caring about nothing; but this distinction is a merely physical one that fails to prevent Gaddis' model from being applicable. It alters the condition of the wanderer at each of the two points but fundamentally leaves untouched the nature of the journey itself. This dearth of abstraction makes the character aphilosophical in nature.

A closer evaluation of the film yields the realisation that The Curious Case of Benjamin Button does not merely fail to break new philosophical ground, but also comes up short in disguising its true identity as a conventional flick. At its heart is a romance that is deeply touching, saddening, but vaguely magical. It is the implausible story of two individuals whose paths come together like a dream fulfilled after the nightmares of clandestine candlelight meetings and Parisian mishaps. That the affection begins in spite of an ostensible age gap, blossoms in spite of the numerous tribulations and setbacks, and survives in spite of the ironic (though highly expected) reversal of roles at the film's end, makes it seem immense and moving. And yet its basis is fantasy. We are left under no illusions that Benjamin's peculiar condition underpins the romantic element of the love affair, and yet we realise that this condition is an unrealistic and implausible one. What transpires is an understanding that any statement emanating from Benjamin Button is most applicable only within its own fantastical confines. The odd splash of humour and the inventive juxtaposition of a wizened head and a toddler's torso (which is purely aesthetic in value) are, amongst others, elements which maintain a spirited audience and a nice tally from the box office.

What ultimately damns The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is not that it roughly fits the criteria defining a flick, for this is forgiveable if it proves itself to possess a timeless and universal quality that we can appreciate beyond the immediacy of sensual or emotional enjoyment. Its more critical failing is its interpretation of living life in reverse being unimpressive to anyone well-versed in the parlance of philosophy. Perhaps it is a tad harsh to expect a philosophical dissertation from a work designed simply to rake in the dough, but one would hope that the publicity people cut out the misleading intellectual pretensions, call a spade a spade, and market The Curious Case of Benjamin Button as nothing more than a feel-good flick.

All's Well That Ends Well

2009-01-08T16:27:00.002+08:00

Hear, nature, hear. Dear goddess, hear!...

And so all of you are gone. And not reading this. I never thought it would come to this, but pangs of loneliness have crept up upon me as I shared parting words and a mutual reluctance with a number of friends as, one by one, they were grabbed by the long arms of BMTC Tekong. First went the one person who never failed to make me laugh (Dec 3), and next the person who was the first I went to when I needed someone sensible/sensitive to help me deal with the emotional aspects of life I am less proficient in (Dec 11), and then went one of the few I regarded as an equal in an intellectual sense, one the hours with whom I spent discussing, debating, arguing, reasoning, rank among the most enjoyable of all (Jan 8, with just about everybody else). I understand now why school is a gift. Just meeting people, to exchange greetings, to bitch with one another, made for an enjoyable experience. Living in the buzz that was the year 6 level stands as the polar opposite to the chaste serenity of spending the majority of my time in my bedroom. While still I am glad to leave some aspects of life in school behind me, the 9 quiet months that lie ahead seem like three endless winters. Then, of course, comes the light and the first of my 3 Christmas presents (figure out what those are if I haven't yet told you).

I guess it's goodbye if I haven't said mine to you, if you haven't entered army, and if you bother to hear me. And so ends this phase in the life cycle of my blog. There's none of you left to read about the disgusting innards of my conceited existence, and so it's time to return this space to what it was meant for. Posts from henceforth shall be of an academic or inquisitive nature, till such time as the collaborative blog under Kenneth Lim's administration be ready for me to, with my dung, embellish. So long.

SIGH

2008-12-31T18:32:00.004+08:00

Those of you who watched Wall.E in VivoCity with me at the end of August will remember me shelling out on a new set of earphones for my iPod. Well, they lasted some four months. Even Apple's fared better. Granted, they were of an obscure and unreputed (please distinguish from disreputable!) brand, but one is entitled to expect slightly better? For what length of time they lasted, though, these in-ears provided a level of comfort and sound quality that left me more than pleased.

Compelled by necessity, I purchased a replacement set from Harvey Norman yesterday. Ostensibly more durable, they looked a good buy. Looked. In truth, they are awful. Though they are in-ears, they are completely incompetent at blocking out external noise and require the volume on the iPod to be adjusted to three-quarters of a bar for decent listening pleasure. That's triple what my brandless ones used to demand of my iPod. The sound quality itself leaves much to be desired.

It was then that I realised what enjoyment and satisfaction are like. These two idols in our lives which we worship and pursue with pious devotion are plausibly of a temporal and ephemeral nature. What is the use of having an obdurate and hardy item at your disposal if all it does is annoy you with subpar levels of performance and satisfaction? Its lengthier lifespan is just a longer stay of time for it to irritate. And often objects rendering a good level of enjoyment either wear themselves down (because we use them so heavily) and become useless, like a pair of spoilt earphones); or lull us into a state of expectation (as opposed to appreciation) that we take such enjoyment for granted and start finding fault with its less blatant shortcomings. In short, our infinite wants will never allow our possessions to be both good and lasting. You either have something nasty that persists as a nuisance, or drain enjoyment from one particular source and move on to the next when your marginal utility decreases below your threshold of acceptance. The better choice is obvious here.

不追求天长地久, 只在乎曾经拥有. Such sentiments may border on the Nihilistic, but they do not deserve short shrift. Perhaps if you joined me and watched the drama series that runs at 2.30pm each weekday on Channel 8, you would be more inclined to agree. It explores Nihilism in a humorous and highly forgiving manner, which is rather interesting. Hang on, this here might just be something good and lasting. It's called Channel 8. :p

Peekaboo!

2008-12-28T21:13:00.002+08:00

I'm not dead yeah. Just playing too much FM to blog. I have no idea what is to become of this space when you guys enter army and there's no one left to read my pathetic utterances. Maybe God will keep me in some dilapidated part of Malaysia, where there's no Internet connection and where people dream of an upgrade to a latrine. Then I'll have an excuse to leave this place be. Next up though, commentary on The Green Mile. Should start soon. (No Cheuk Ho that is NOT alliteration!! The first word is out, at the very least.)

Incongruent Expressions

2008-11-29T10:22:00.002+08:00

How often is it that we manage to cherish what we have before it is no longer ours? This week has for me (as for many others) been a week of lasts. Tuesday was the last time I could use the "Welcome Home" channel at the immigration counters in Changi Airport. Yesterday was my last day as a Permanent Resident of Singapore. That also means that soon it will be time for me to return home. Prom on Thursday could well have been the last time I got to see most of my acquaintances from ACS(I). I know as I draw the curtains behind me and walk into a new chapter that the past decade or so here has been fruitful and memorable. Now that it is over I can only look back wistfully. Back at my happy childhood and adolescence. I have much to be grateful to Singapore, to ACS(I) and to my friends for. But this chapter must end here though, and a new one must begin. I cannot explain why I feel this way, but my gut tells me this is the right way forward. I may have had my grievances about living here and Singaporeans in general, but as I look back the collective memory of my last 12 years is nonetheless sweet and pleasing.

Dollars And Sense

2008-11-26T21:55:00.002+08:00

Here's how you put a prom outfit together with a tight budget in mind. I'd bet what I wear tomorrow costs less than what some guys spent on their suits/blazers alone. Or shoes, for the extreme cases.

Suit and Bottoms : 1100 HKD = 220 SGD
Shirt: 25 SGD
Slim Tie: 35 SGD
Shoes: 150 HKD = 30 SGD
Socks: 10 HKD = 2 SGD

Total Cost: 312 SGD

And yes, everything save my belt that is on me tomorrow would be brand new. The only misgiving I have is that I did not buy that Zara suit in Times Square that time. It was a lovely shade of grey. Now I am stuck with black. Nevertheless I went and bought the shirt and tie today as though my suit was indeed grey. How awful a fit a black suit is, you will see tomorrow.

I picked up where my 5-day shopping trip to Hong Kong left off by shopping for a good 4 hours today. My kneecaps are feeling the pain now. My heels had started to do so roughly 3 days ago. If you are wondering why nothing about Hong Kong is going up here, well I guess there are tonnes of other people who will say pretty much the same thing. Watch some other space.

Make Some Sense Please

2008-11-21T11:22:00.003+08:00

"In order allow everybody convenient, please use Standard English when between each other writing email or talking. Especially when times of communicating to alien people from outside the country. In order the meaning not get lost in translation, you all times must carry Chinese-English dictionary for help to refer. If unsure how the order of the sentence, just follow normal Chinese language structure. If in Chinese it make sense, then in English it is also understand by all peoples. Thank you for understanding. Inconvenient cause regreted."

Speak well. Be understood.

This is IB's fault

2008-11-16T19:20:00.002+08:00

Seatlessness is the condition of being willing and able to find a seat on the bus, actively searching for a seat, and being ready to occupy a vacant seat within the next 2 minutes. The rate of seatlessness is the percentage of the passenger force that is seatless. Seatlessness is an undesirable economic scenario because it means the bus is not operating at a capacity where it maximises the comfort of each passenger. Furthermore, the welfare of seatless individuals is compromised as they are both physically discomfited and mentally disturbed by the propensity of falling over if the bus suddenly applies its brakes. It is a contributor to happiness inequality.

There are two main types of seatlessness. One; involuntary seatlessness occurs when an individual is able and willing to occupy a seat but there are no available seats at the prevailing rate of comfort. Two; voluntary seatlessness occurs when an individual is contented to be a member of the passenger force at the prevailing level of comfort, but unwilling to occupy a seat. Just as workers are paid wages as returns for filling a particular vocation, so passengers receive "comfort" in exchange for occupying a seat. The first form of seatlessness, when there is a surfeit of passengers relative to the number of available seats, occurs when the level of comfort is artificially set above the clearing level of comfort.

It is recommended that bus operators attempt demand-side policies to cope with involuntary seatlessness - since there is no lack of supply of passengers. One such policy would be to increase the number of seats available per unit time, either through increasing the frequency of the service such that fewer passengers board each individual bus or by enlarging the capacity of each bus by investing in Bendy-Buses or doubledeckers. With more seats demanding to be filled, seatlessness will be reduced. However, the downside of this policy is that, considering governmental legislation that public articles be left in use for minimally 7 years, it would take a long time before the bus fleet is overhauled. This time lag perpetuates the seatlessness problem to an extent that by the time it completes its extension in 7 years' time, it could be high time for another. Evidently another policy is required.

Involuntary seatlessness encompasses real-comfort seatlessness. This means that comfort levels are simply too high and bus companies are hard-pressed to incorporate enough of them on buses. For example, large legrooms and wider seats compromise on the number of seats that can be accommodated within the confines of the bus. Removing these luxuries might involve opposing or even banning those associations like GEMS attempting to maintain high service standards in the country, but ultimately there will be more room for seats that demand occupancy by passengers.

The variations within the category "voluntary seatlessness" demand that we adopt a myriad of different supply-side policies. Frictional seatlessness refers to the time spent in the midst of changing seats, or that spent actively looking for another seat. This 'time lag' is often a result of information imperfections and perhaps the solution is to install screens all over the bus with an electronic display informing all passengers where the vacant seats are. When people know what is on offer, they are less likely to have to walk around looking for the "best deal". Also, since passengers spend too much time walking between seats, chaperones should be hired to guide passengers from one seat to another. Again, this policy has its drawbacks. Hiring extra staff and installing those 99-gigapixel screens are expensive moves. This takes its toll on the finances of the bus operator, who then will pass these costs on to their passengers. When the inevitable fallout over the price hike hits, then operators might end up looking to cut back on other public or merit provisions (such as the use and maintenance of safety headlights, or ensuring the cleanliness of exhaust systems). This will negatively impact the welfare of passengers aboard.

Structural seatlessness is caused in part by passengers being geographically and occupationally immobile. For example, some passengers are so accustomed to occupying seats that face the direction of the bus' motion. They evidently need to acquire the new skill of travelling forwards while facing backwards (and not going dizzy) in order for full occupancy to result. Other passengers have occupied seats in one part of the bus for too long a time; they begin to develop social ties to features common to that portion of the bus (they must occupy a seat in the last row which is on "high ground", or must sit right behind the driver to peep at him) also mean passengers are happy to go seatless than accept a seat in an unfamiliar location or of an unfamiliar nature. While the policy of retraining them to adjust their mindsets is time-consuming and highly difficult to implement, perhaps the crux of the matter lies in their willingness to be unseated. This means we should look to remove any benefits they get for not actually occupying a seat. While the handrails they hold may not be as comfortable as a seat, they do provide a degree of satisfaction that sometimes prevents full seat occupancy. As such, bus operators should look to remove them. When faced with the risk of falling down when the bus jerks, people will naturally be able and willing to occupy a seat at the prevailing comfort rate.

Whether to apply demand-side or supply-side policies hence is heavily dependent on the time of seatlessness we are dealing with. However, it is often the case that in our complex lives we face a combination of both these problems that necessitates familiarity with both these sets of solutions.

"Please be reminded not to discuss the contents of the question paper within the next 24 hours"

2008-11-12T19:57:00.001+08:00

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Figure

2008-11-11T16:40:00.006+08:00

My favourite cartoon character was (still is) Winnie the Pooh. Thanks to paraphernalia nestling about my house, this I am reminded of everyday. Not that I need reminding. Pooh is genuinely unforgettable, with an irresistibility about as unequivocal as my inability to locate apt superlatives here appears. Blessed with a ludicrous-sounding (and connoting) name, Pooh is loveable because he is adorably funny. I recall with fondness the quizzical expressions of bewilderment or uncertainty that lent themselves easily to his unassuming countenance. Pooh seemed perplexed by issues often mundane and ordinary, but amid the confusion it was always heartwarming and touching to learn that these apparently-straightforward problems belied their weighty origins in Pooh's noble attempts at reconciling the divergent interests of his friends. The fantastical world of different animals (and Christopher Robin) relating to one another in their tranquil existence within the trenchant wholeness of the cookie-cutter perfect stories provided the fitting backdrop validating the escapist assumption that all problems would work their ways to a natural and pleasant conclusion. The inevitable eventual resolution of Pooh's problems hence tinted my appreciation with an optimistic certainty, freeing me to savour the humour and adorability of Pooh's character. At an untender 18 I am hard-pressed to remember the specifics of Pooh's troubles and adventures as worldlier currents sweep me along. Nevertheless Pooh's liking for a modest pot of honey never fails to remind me of the simplicity with which enjoyment and satisfaction should come. That said though, one can only hope that, as in our fictional and fantastical worlds, such pure and untainted fulfilment, immense in its simplicity, would visit us more than just once in that blue moon.

If You Take A Little Trip Around Singapore Town

2008-10-29T22:52:00.003+08:00

...then you would be doing better than me! I was in town today for I believe the first time since that night's dinner at Chijmes with Elden and Wesley. Or, at any rate, in town with (a) friend(s), not with my parents, not alone en route to the NLB, not stuck with uninteresting people like myself. My disorientation with town, stemming from the nerdiness of my regular schedule and my penchant for staying at home and rotting, became all too apparent in one awkward impulse today. I asked, "Uhh is Library@Orchard still around?" Beat me for no-lifery! It's not bad enough not knowing the absence of something torn down 2 years ago. This something had to be the closest you could get to a nerdy venue in town. Utter uselessness.

Sometimes I wonder what I shall do after the IB exams and the HATs and the UCAS applications are through. Having lived with so much academic work for the past 2 years I am not sure if i can adapt to having days of just not studying. They would feel odd, feel as though something was distinctly lacking. The frustration of being put through so much work might find its recourse in the fact that for once I am doing work I am not being forced to do. Oh dear. I would really have no life then. Perhaps I should keep wondering.

What To Say

2008-10-23T19:34:00.002+08:00

My Oxford interview is off limits. If you want to know about it ask me directly; it's not going up here. The cause for this post's brevity is precisely that. I do not know what I should say about it. It was 20 surreal minutes and it was over.

Now to the cut and thrust of studying for IB. Where do I begin? I have barely 2 weeks to cover (everything again if I want to) what took me 3 weeks to do prior to Prelims. Hmmm......

One Way Ticket (Because I Can)

2008-10-16T22:14:00.002+08:00

If I were Paddy Clarke writing this in my stream of consciousness this post would be four lines long. Really short. Symbolic of how I have too much else to do. Of how I'm mildly confused and overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what's to come my way soon. Soon.

Oh well here it goes. The next five weeks will make or break me. It is in some sense a fight to the finish. Fight. I have grappled with IB for 21 months and have spent countless hours reading up beyond my syllabus in anticipation of an Oxford application. Yes, these things take commitment. They take commitment (someone who'll go the distance). Not that I don't regularly give that. I do. In everything I do. IB exams will be done some 5 Thursdays from today. In that time, this is my to-do list. 23rd October: Oxford interviews, in preparation of which I will be meeting some close acquaintances tomorrow for an intellectual discussion (over some alcohol possibly) on things in general, things we could discuss at our interviews. That would be nice. Good friends and a glass of wine. 5th November: History Aptitude Test for Oxford. That is in the middle of 4th to 20th November: IBDP Exams. It is daunting. The tremour is palpable. Something I can feel. At the very least there is my class (clique really) trip to Hong Kong for 5 days (21st to 25th November) to look forward to. Fun and excitement. Pretty things. It's always nice to have the sweet parts at the end, like your desserts. But for now, though, it needs to be serious business. Fun has to be the last thing on my mind.

It's good, after all, to be focused. I mean there's no point panicking, or going around being defeatist and crying out "How do I live with all this stress". Everybody has to go through trying times in their lives and it is our imperative duty to give it our best shot. It does not matter if we do not succeed. What does not kill us makes us stronger. I believe these tribulations are placed in our lives for this very purpose. Call it fate, if you will. Say it's written in the stars. But it is true! These things come as part of life's natural trajectory. Like Sun gives way to moon each day. And you know, deep down, that you can't fight the moonlight. Okay I'm digressing. Yes okay. I will give my utmost because I am only ever going to get to do this once, as with all things. There is no turning back time and no amount of regret makes up for a past underperformance. It helps to work hard, it helps to be on the side of angels and it helps to have faith in myself. It is now time to look straight ahead and stride confidently into the most challenging (academically anyway) 5 weeks of my life. Because I Can.

(If you haven't realised I don't fully mean all that I said. The nice narrative is just a nice foil for something else I am doing here. I am paying a tribute, well sort of. If you don't get it, well, go figure. You evidently don't know what good music is!)

Phonebook

2008-10-12T18:50:00.003+08:00

This post would have been made two nights ago (when I'd really have meant it) if I hadn't got all dizzy and tired from drinking at Shaoyi's. It could have been made last night if I hadn't spent all evening out at a Turkish restaurant having my birthday dinner. But it will only be made now, late though it is. Sometimes that is the story of life; that things are done, things are realised too little too late. But perhaps the beauty of it lies therein, because the mixture of regret and wistfulness gives the emotion a profoundness that makes it lasting and residual. It is something you cannot so easily let go of, and hence you will hold the subject of your wistfulness dearer to your heart.

Crying in the cinema while watching a romance movie is one thing. For starters, that is vicarious. Crying because of something you are yourself involved in is quite another. Before Friday, I hadn't done that for so long I'd lost count of how many years it had been since the last time. Certainly, I had not counted on spoiling my clean sheet on my 18th birthday. Think about it: effeminate behaviour on the day of your attainment of manhood. Maybe it was ordained to be that way to make it all the more special. What happened was undeniably Romantic in that it defied any form of rational or causal understanding I retrospectively applied to it. My mind oscillated between joyous gratitude and regretful sadness (purportedly at two extremes), without stopping anywhere in between them on the emotional scale. In a way the teardrops were a magic carpet allowing me to bypass everything in the middle as I oscillated back and forth (you only cry at emotion's extremes, yes?), although the thought of doing that must defy any sense of progressive or positivist logic.

It had seemed normal enough. I opened my fridge when I got home to see a Hilton cheesecake. I found a new Samsung phone on my bed. I wasn't surprised, nor do I particularly enjoy being surprised. My parents cannot keep secrets properly. I was even looking forward to the class party (don't quite know why, never was I that enthusiastic about 6.14). I managed to disintegrate a mere hour later, remain that way for a further hour, and then compose myself again to trip to Shaoyi's house. I am still trying to figure out how everything happened. I am not the type to cry. Certainly not for sentimental reasons. How did I do it that evening? And, following which, how did all that emotion that coursed through me dissipate in 48 hours?

My old phone was really falling to bits and so it made sense to switch immediately to the new one. This is where it began I guess. The data (contacts etc.) I had were stored in my old phone and not in my SIM card, which meant I had to transfer everything across. I had had the old phone for some 4 years and going through the contact list I spent 4 years adding to but not subtracting from was bound to be a nostalgic process. Indeed it was. I saw, one by one, excruciatingly, the names of all the old friends and classmates I had lost touch with. People who had once been part of my thoughts, my feelings, my actions, my life, who now were reduced to one-dimensional memories. I didn't waste my time transferring their details of course, but something then hit me. What if of those people whose details I was transferring, more than half would be consigned to the dustbin of memory when I next switched phones? All the images of fun, of meaning, of friendship reducing themselves to the impersonal expression of a name. I recalled all the "keep in touch"s and "friends forever"s I'd written during the day, and stared at the names of all my P6 friends I'd said the same things to 6 years ago. I barely knew them anymore, these people who once told me "Don't forget me when you become rich and famous". I promised, but apparently I didn't even need that long to renege on it. The collective sum of those old friendships lost overwhelmed me. The fear that it would all happen again with my current crop of friends weighed upon me. Then the tears did flow.

It took me a while to get round to the fact that these are friendships I will be in a position to sustain. We will all leave school together but there's nothing stopping us from talking to one another. What gave me this realisation, though, was the dawning upon me of relationships for which the opposite is true. Man learns in binaries, you see. I scrolled down my contact list and stopped at the name of my History teacher. Seeing next to hers the name of my Primary 6 form teacher, I then realised. It is my relationships with my teachers, the teacher-student relationships, that imminently cease to be. These are the things that really were broken when school closed. I had left, but they remained as part of, as fixtures in, the school. I pondered on the nobility of their role. Every year graduating students invariably experience this nostalgia and sadness because they are really leaving for good. Yet the teachers have to bear witness, a part and not really a part of the experience, with their own emotional bonds and their professional capacities at odds with each other. They are left out of the moment by the sad fact that next year it will happen all over again. This day of special significance is one whose feeling they are almost unable to partake in. Each year they send their students, the finished articles of their labour of love, off to better and brighter futures. Each year ends with them knowing they return to the head of the circle to start all over again, any progress the previous year chalked off like the wrenching off of an old calendar. They witness their students moving on to better futures that eluded them in their own lives. And yet they witness it with joy, with satisfaction, with not a hint of jealousy or sadness. How awesome that is! I mentioned earlier about romantic love in films and how its nobility makes you feel touched and want to cry. But that sort of love is incomparable to the one teachers have for their students. With romance you love only one person because of certain features the person has or because of certain things the person has done in the past for you. Teachers love their students. Period. Unconditionally, for the simple fact that we are their students, for that we only share one bond with them - a common humanity. The simplicity of it all is profoundly touching.

And yet on the last day of school we went canvassing for one another's "autographs" or signatures in our yearbooks. We went around as though we'd never be the same with our friends again. We got it wrong. It's the "Teachers" chapter whose final fullstop had been penned, it is them who deserve the spots of remembrance in our yearbooks. Pity I realised too little too late.

This Is The End (Of The Innocence?)

2008-10-09T21:39:00.002+08:00

The ultimate extent of school's symbolic significance will not dawn upon the majority of us until we are well and truly past it and into the next stage of life's undulating trajectory. The school has been a playground in which to run, to climb, to fall, and to get back up again. It has allowed us to make mistakes and learn from them. But the time has now come for us to reluctantly leave this playground, to walk away from the slides and see-saws our enlarged frames can no longer fit comfortably into. It is time now to walk undaunted into the brave new world, anticipant but fully aware that any slip will carry with it greater ramifications, any fall larger and more painful scars. And yet there is this tremendous sense of hope and of promise that our six years in this hallowed institution have ensured we have acquired all the necessary skills to stand us in good stead to face the blizzard of real challenges. After all, one unforgettable lesson cliched ad infinitum has been that The Best Is Yet To Be. And hence I stare at the obstacles before me with defiance. To the degree of half a right angle, and beyond.

I watch with chagrin as my peers around me start turning sentimental, each one a domino precipitating another emotional "collapse". Look up, my friends. The future is bright. Not exactly orange, but gold. And rosy. Once we get past the 'blue' of our moody departure from our beloved school we will realise the other colour in that marriage is gold. In a way it certainly symbolises how we will always be fondly swept over by lapping waves of nostalgia and yet still stand fast in our quest for golden glory in whatever fields we choose, knowing full well we are the best advertisements (and pride) of our school. Life can take us out of the 121 Dover Road compound, but it can't take this special space out of us.

Perhaps this ability to remain upbeat and optimistic (and not really sad about leaving) stems from the fact that I have never felt attached enough to my class (6.14, in case my detachment from that class has manifested in my general behaviour to an extent you don't know my class) to wince and cringe at the excruciating cracks of bonds of friendship seemingly being broken. In any case, and honestly, they don't. It's just the artificial and metaphorical construct of a class that is destroyed. We are still friends with those we choose to be friends with. In fact such an event as parting should be almost cathartic in its relief. Finally your choice of friends is entirely discretionate; no more having to pretend to befriend a particular person just because he is in your class and you need to maintain workable relations. Sounds good to me.

Sometimes I wonder if I would actually be saying all this if I had had to leave the school as a member of 4.15 back in 2006, or if 614 comprised all 27 members of 3/4.15. I still look back at our brilliant experiences in fond remembrance. It was fun, hilarious and happy being together but those words are erroneous understatements. Defining the essence of that class became so difficult that in end I guess we settled for the nebulous "good times" vague enough to mean really nothing and indistinct enough to be readily applied to all situations; hence its seemingly all-encompassing totality. You know we ought to have had a real farewell that year, out of character though it would have been for our non-committal class. We took solace in the fact that nothing was really "over" since we'd all see one another again along the corridors the following year. And yet that same feeling, that essence which evades verbal definition, just slowly ebbed away from neglect and want of attention, like a dying and withering plant. The paradox is (and would have been) this: If we had held a formal farewell to acknowledge things coming finally to an end, then perhaps they wouldn't since everyone would have a summary piece of what the two years meant etched into their memories. Without one, however, even this fundamental memory is denied and when realities tear us apart nothing is left and the centre cannot hold. It is a pitiful bluff to suggest that in not acknowledging that "it is over" then it simply is not over.

I realised all this at my class's pseudo-party this afternoon. I realised I was a bit reluctant and sad about leaving the scene of my memories behind, but that the memories I treasured were not shared with those classmates at the party with me, but with the great friends from 4.15. None of them were like "best friends", but they were good. Really good. All of them. I don't know if I would feel the same way about 6.14 if I gave it two years, but I seriously am sceptical. SL2/HL3 is another matter altogether. It may stand as only a small portion of 6.14, but that little class feels like everything to me. Everything that these two years have meant, now mean and will be meaning in the years to come. Don't get me wrong, there are wonderful classmates in 6.14, but it's just a pity, I think, that my paradigm of what a class should ideally be was so permanently shaped by the experiences of 4.15 that nothing any of you mustered could live up to it. If it's any consolation then if in the last four years my best class has been 3/4.15 then 5/6.14 must come second. (Like no s**t, really).

The Grass Is Always Greener On The Other Side

2008-10-06T20:13:00.003+08:00

I like complaining. I like comparing. I like compounding my misery by believing in my own exaggerated concoctions. I attended the English Paper 2 review this morning and my goodness the stuff I heard was out of this world. I felt enlightened, felt empowered, felt exactly how I'd envision every literature student would want to be made to feel by his inspiring teacher. (I have thus far been using a literary device!) Except, I had a grievance. Those two inspiring teachers weren't mine. They were someone else's, some people else's, some class else's. And why! Why am I stuck with a teacher who doesn't seem to possess their faculty for penetrating analysis, for stimulating discussion, for troubleshooting students' essay-writing problems? Life doesn't seem fair.

Then again, I like reflecting, I like rethinking and reexamining the emotions I feel in the "heat of the moment". Then it hit me. If everybody looked at what they do not have and complain the way I do, the world shall be such a nasty place to inhabit. In compensation for this run-of-the-mill teacher I have had the moderating endowments of a competent and knowledgeable teacher for the other part of the subject and (like an advance gift of a tributary mission sent ahead of the "real deal") one of those two aforementioned gentlemen for this part in question last year.

In addition, why did I not realise the absolute brilliance of my History teacher last year, the man who encouraged his students to think for themselves, who instructed them to challenge their "known"s and sacred cows, who supported them with a near-omniscient listening ear? Brilliance further emphasised by the contrasting alternative. If you know what I mean. The songs I have in my iPod become fairly ordinary after awhile (unless Bon Jovi and LeAnn Rimes combined to sing them), but songs whose intrinsic value (I am so sorry to impose such a Romantic or Modernist conception of intrinsic worth and objective being on a poor song - and again I am sorry to Romanticise the concept of a song as in "poor song" - not Daniel) are at best equal to those in my iPod but which I do not have in MP3 version always seem the most enticing and valued. And why? If I were to be Reductionist (and use the scientific method which is too simple for us Humanities scholars - note the choice of word) I'd simply say it's because I do not have these songs and demonstrate the natural human tendency to cherish dearer what I cannot have. But somehow, that's true. I am hunting for a Dan Hill CD since I am starting to like his songs. What are you gaping at? 70s/80s songs are the best. Unless they're in Mandarin. Again I am perilously close to a subscription to the belief that what is in and of the past should be valuable and treasured. The Romantic view of the past is innately Victorian. Go figure.

This, And Not My English Paper 1, Is Rambling

2008-10-04T23:26:00.003+08:00

If all your blogs were lined up along two panels facing each other and creating in between a corridor or walkway, a casual stroll through it and past them would show me a million complaints about poor Prelim results. Hey, who are all of you to complain? You all improved, by whatever margins. I didn't. Benchmarked against 40, it seemed impossible to improve. Being me, I refused to believe that. Meaning devastation when revelation came, crushing in its light impersonality. My first non-7 for English. Being kept off my pedestal for History. Having to share it with a member of the weaker sex for Physics. Oh God Physics why Physics? That is a guy's domain for crying out loud. See the time has come when mere 7s do not satiate me. Let me now move into Relativism.

The reason why some other people can be happy with scraping a 6 is that (some of you tend to put the word "because" here in place of "that", which is no good), very simply, their scores have up till now been well shy of that. Not so with me. 7s do not suffice, I want annihilation. So, how do we define "good"? The apparent emotional entity at work here dictates that we each impose our own standards on the objective scale (grades) to determine goodness and progress. In this case, the scale isn't quite objective for it glosses over the fact that the same part of its range can mean different things to different people. That's not to say that it is inaccurate or that it is a-sequential or anything like that. It's just that it would be too reductionist to say that one interpretation of a fact or standard should fit all. Even in this individualist and postmodernist context in which truth is determined by the individual, we see an active pursuit of a, though individually-defined, goal or objective, and not the renunciation of all semblance of objective or progress that modernists disdainfully accuse postmodernists of. It is centrism (the unyielding validity of a central direction) and not progress that is jettisoned by relativism.

I think it is ridiculous team planning to have 3 Premiership quality rightbacks (I say this without fully believing it; I still think Belletti is crap) and 2 Premiership quality forwards. Scolari will now learn. But what a bummer of a season to have with injuries. It's barely October and we've lost 3 for the long-term. In any case isn't it queer that it's always the players you value as really crucial that get injured? Why can't Florent Malouda get injured? Why can't Belletti be the one out for 6 months?

Oh Dear

2008-09-28T17:39:00.003+08:00

I was supposed to be pretty happy. Chelsea on Saturday did twice what those clowns from Merseyside failed to do a week ago on their own patch - score against Stoke. Watching Massa mess his race up was even better. Lewis is now 7 points clear, and we have taken the lead in the Constructors Championship. Come on please. Ferrari is the team anyone with a decent sense of justice and of common sense has to loathe. A McLaren triumph at the end of the year is a victory for justice and equality. They were booted out last year and were extorted an unprecedented $100 million, their crime being that they were leading and well clear of Ferrari. Plus all the silly penalties McLaren have been dealt throughout this year. It was justice that Massa got one last night. I couldn't have been happier. On a different note though it was sad to see Kimi go out right at the end. Sorry spate of bad luck for him. He's the better driver in the team and he will show it. Yes I know it's weird that I love the guy but well, anyone with a memory will remember the five great years he gave us.

This is why I am not happy: Prelims. No 7 for Chinese, no 7 for Econs, unlikely to be a 7 for Math and I think no 7 for English. The last one, especially, will hurt. A new experience that is, getting 6 for English. I wave goodbye to my 40. I look sheepishly at my beautiful predicted grades. I shall quote my English teacher. I have been "such a letdown". To myself, to my teachers. I have nothing to say really. I await Friday. Day of revelation.

History Lives

2008-09-27T20:33:00.007+08:00

The last few weeks have, slowly but surely, forced upon me the realisation that, much as I'd like to think myself an exception, it is impossible for any one person to stand completely aloof, completely unaffected by the events around him and within his social circle. Sure, I am immune to volatile and knee-jerk mood swings and it still takes an occasion of massive significance or effect to so much as get a squeal of delight from me or a tear in my eye. However, it is folly to claim to be able to have full autonomy over one's predominant long-term mood or general outlook. Let us draw a simple analogy. I do not display any visible response, let alone scream and shout myself hoarse like "REAL" football fans do, to Chelsea scoring a goal. However I cannot deny that looking back on a victorious EPL 2008/09 campaign will bring a certain degree of satisfaction. Similarly I may not break down or get unduly despondent about events akin to what was mentioned in the post below, but I cannot deny that a troubling confusion sits like a cloud across my mind as I struggle to reconcile myself with the realities of the difficult situation. Not being "emotional" or angsty or OCD-problematic does not equate to not having an emotional basis underpinning the general mood and vein in which life is carried on. That realisation in itself shattered my long-held belief in my ability to live unaffected and oblivious to the discursive realities around me and my seeming invincibility to emotional threats. That this realisation added to my frustration and confusion is another indicator of just how reflexive the nature of existence really is!

I somehow brought myself to this precipice in the most unwitting of fashions. Reluctant to perpetuate my wallowing in confusion and frustration, I turned to a favourite form of escapism. I read about History! In fact, I wish all this had befallen me maybe 9 months ago. Reading Chapter 3 of E.H. Carr's "What Is History" (titled "History, Science and Morality") is excellent fodder for anyone wishing to ace TOK. I will tell all Year 5s that. Anyhow Carr raised the point about how all History is really about Man studying himself, not something inanimate or essentially separate, and hence differs, through its changeability of approach, from the natural sciences. Lest I misrepresent the man let me say he merely raised the point for discussion, stopping short of outrightly advocating it. The inseparability of Man from himself, and the inability of even the historian whose self-imposed duty it is to adopt the most distant and objective position to make himself an abstraction from social norms, conventions, attitudes and emotions, really made me wonder if I could live as an island that breaks the oncoming waves and remains unaffected. By and by each coast is eroded and shaped by the gradual but continuous assignment of repelling the unrelenting waves. That is what happens, really. I might try to live in the centre of my island in ignorance of this, but the banks are still being moulded by powers beyond my control. Plus, it is just my fortune that I haven't met the tsunamis.

Another cringing effect of reading Carr is the fact that it made me explore the implications of my self-professed inclination towards postmodernist or Revisionist approaches to History. Carr over Acton, Fitzpatrick over all the other jokers who've written about Soviet Russia, and it goes on. The end of modernism, or particularly Victorianism, was in the admission that contrary to the optimistic and self-empowering construction of the individual those times encouraged, each man is really controlled by a wider network of social forces. I need not expound further. One thing that still intrigues me about Carr's third chapter is the whole relationship between History and morality. I cannot but find his argument an exercise in late-Modernist didacticism. I wonder if History really can be a single entity of intellectual movement with prescribed "duties" or even directions. His argument that a distinction should be made between the individual, and the society or collective within which he was entrenched, when we pass moral or value judgement (namely we should spare the individual this exercise lest we misconstrue things by virtue of anachronism) is even less convincing. Excellent then. I have more food for thought. I suspect, though, that the fundamental issue with this irreconciliability lies in Carr's insistence on a flawed modernist view of History. But you're bored right? I will stop here.

Adrenaline

2008-09-26T20:46:00.005+08:00

The excitement of playing in a football match, at any level, is one defined by the immense will to win, the frayed nerves (and tempers) and the exhilaration of competition. Accompanying this excitement is the blood rush, or 'high', or whatever you call it, that the scientists call adrenaline. Yesterday I realised how powerful this adrenaline can really be. Or perhaps, I should say, this morning. Waking up I felt the stiffness of my entire body that had resulted from the 4 hours of ceaseless football and had augmented over the night's sleep. More important, however, was that the painful extent of pulling my calf muscles and spraining my ankle (in the same incident) was made evident to me. I recalled how I managed to play on for another good 2 hours after that incident with minimal discomfort. Indeed I think my best spell in the games came during the last 15 minutes of play. The point is this: I was indebted to the adrenaline to carry me through. It was energiser and painkiller in one.

As I would tell anyone, however, all good things come to an end. Or, if I may, let me quote from I Know Him So Well, the theme song of the movie Chess: "Nothing is so good it lasts eternally". Adrenaline is but a temporary relief. Realities ultimately prevail. Pain eventually returns. Obviously, too, I have not brought you through all this for no reason. Sometimes on impulse, or what some may call the spirit of the moment, we do or say things, whose effects we fail to fully consider or realise, that really hurt or anger others. Let me not use the inclusive 'we', for this is really my problem. I am possibly the biggest culprit of all when it comes to this. It is often only when the emotions die down and the spirit of the moment wears of that I realise the severity of what happened. The air of energetic invincibility both adrenaline and the spirit of the moment bring will inevitably subside. In a similar fashion it is when I wake up the next morning that painfully I realise and regret the consequences of the previous day's misdemeanours.

Apologies do not always suffice. I am not writing this to give one to anybody. I have been giving this issue a lot of thought and I've realised that there are deeper underlying reasons for why I tend to incessantly insult and hurt certain people. By this I mean making fun of and demeaning ad infinitum particular flaws or characteristics of the persons concerned. The reason is this, and it is simple. I do not respect you enough. Winning my respect is difficult. You need to impress me with sheer competence in an area I deem to be of importance. This is not necessarily academic as some people tend to think. It suffices to be a good listener, et cetera, and I think you guys know who you are. Without this respect or admiration it is difficult for me to even regard you as someone equal to myself. I will tend to see you as what you lack, and treat you the way imperial China treated the West before she was humiliated in the 19th Century. Anything I do for you would be a favour, and I do not expect anything of worth in reciprocity. Pardon me for such arrogance but surely it is only fair that someone who sets so high expectations for himself should be allowed to demand equally high standards from his peers.

Apologies do not always suffice and my purpose here is not to give one to anybody. More importantly I need to clarify something. People only see my callous side when I insult or hurt them, but the mentality and mindset that often underlies such attacks from me is still and always present even if I am not saying anything. This attitude of mine makes a travesty of the word "friendship". If all I cause you is grief, hurt and suffering I will say I am sorry, but more importantly I think we need to call it quits. If I cannot bring myself to respect you for who you are then these acts which hurt you will still be perpetuated. Each of you has someone you cannot respect or like enough to get along with. I am the same, just that I have more such people. Because my standards are high, for you and for myself. This process will be painful for me as it is for you. Terminating a relationship is never a happy exercise. I also realise that by my new definitions I am slicing my friends list in half. More stark will be the fact that the class I have spent my last 2 years with will have for me but 3 or 4 "friends". If I turn cold towards you or speak of no more than matters of a business or professional nature please understand that I am doing this because I do not want to be close enough to you that I end up hurting you. That is no good for me and no good for you. Why be an awful friend and cause naught but grief? Seems pointless. Let's give us leave to ponder on things that'd hurt us less (sorry I cannot resist playing with a Lear quote). I hope that in severing ties with people who mean nothing more to me than outlets to criticise and let rip I will somehow curb this excess. This way there is no chance of me going on to hurt the people I truly appreciate and dearly value. All this, I hope, is for the better.

Wonderwall

2008-09-23T12:34:00.003+08:00

Unless your name is Arjun Naidu (or you pathetically want to be like him), never does a day go by without an infusion of a particular musical element. We listen to music, make music, talk about music et cetera. Peter Cetera. More on that later. Most recently I've begun to wonder why with 800 or so different songs in my iPod it is invariably the same 200 or so that I choose to listen to. All the time. With this more considered approach to what I listen to it soon became the case that I felt I wasn't supposed to listen to these all the time. I needed to do justice to the other 600 songs I painstakingly downloaded; equality is a good thing. I needed to fully actualise the benefit of the 2-or-so GB they occupied in my iPod (damn this is all Naresh's fault). Whatever it meant I felt improper listening to the songs I like. Imagine that.

I am therefore thinking of burning a CD consisting of just those few songs I like listening to. Then I can just pop it into some player and spare myself the effort of having to select, one by one, some twelve or fourteen songs, each time worrying about the other stuff I end up not listening to. Someone alerted me over the weekend to a trend in my listening tastes of the utmost peculiarity (wouldn't seem so to you unless you know me pretty well). It seems my favourites largely comprise songs about intercourse or encounters of some sort. To be completely honest to have somebody else draw the link for me was a surprise, but the underlying reason is somewhat simpler. If you enjoy listening to duets as much as I do (duets always have a sense of completeness and perfection, and I am quite a perfectionist), then your favourites list will be full of them duets. And duets, due to their nature, have the potential to be suggestive of other activities conducted by two individuals from the two (one-size-fits-all assumed) gender groups. Like intercourse, et cetera. That's where Peter Cetera and his Forever Tonight comes in. Anyhow if I were to burn a CD I would probably create one for the most stunning duets around. I have a provisional list of 10 songs, all of which I hope you like too. Here is my selection, arranged in order of preference:

10. A Whole New World - Peabo Bryson & Regina Belle
9. Destiny - Jim Brickman & Jordan Hill
8. Can't We Try - Dan Hill & Vonda Shephard
7. Last Thing On My Mind - Ronan Keating & LeAnn Rimes
6. You Are The Love Of My Life - Lionel Richie & Diana Ross
5. Written In The Stars - Elton John & LeAnn Rimes
4. (I Wanna Take) Forever Tonight - Peter Cetera & Crystal Bernard
3. The Gift - Collin Raye & Susan Ashton
2. Way Back Into Love - Hugh Grant & Haley Bennett
1. Till We Ain't Strangers Anymore - Bon Jovi & LeAnn Rimes

I must make mention, though, of one that would probably fit in somewhere between 4 and 5, but which I left out because it would be really out of place. Yusuf's and Ronan Keating's Father & Son is amazing too, but it would be like a sore thumb amidst the other more romantic renditions. Also, from that list, it shouldn't be too hard to work out who my favourite singer must be. Fancy appearing three times in my top 10! Bear in mind I am someone whose tastes are varied enough (though short of eclectic) to never concentrate on one or two small regions of choice. The next list for me to set to work on could be a bit more interesting. I'm looking for the 10 songs that make you most want to cry. 10 touching, cry-able songs. Hmmm.

Simple = Special

2008-09-20T23:53:00.002+08:00

Street circuits are like the crown jewels in Formula One. Monte Carlo twists its way through buildings of architectural or historical significance and Valencia runs along its stunning harbour. Marina Bay combines both these elements with the daunting skyscrapers that sit like potent reminders of the modernity and grandeur that bring Singapore and F1 together. Juxtaposing the nouveau and the riche with the glitz and glamour of Formula One makes for a blend more compelling than perhaps the sleepy and dour Magny Cours or the middle-of-absolutely-nowhere Hungaroring. This evening I walked along the tarmac that in a quarter of a moonshine's time will have fresh hot rubber from Formula One tyres laid relentlessly upon it. Under the bright and dizzying lights Singapore looks set to serve up a spectacle worthy of its billing.

I wonder though if it was the sights and lights that made my evening special. Some people really delight in the grandeur and lavishness of things, the once-in-a-blue-moon specials, the sensation of novelty. Not so with me. I think what I really enjoyed most about this evening was the company of two really great individuals, from dinner and drinks at Hog's Breath to the walkabout around the city. The ease with which conversation drifted from informal to highly intellectual, and effortlessly back to the realities of next week's Formula One race, made the evening calm and cheerful. Simple too. But special, really special. To speak your mind, to engage in banter, to talk History, with people similarly eager and receptive, is a happy thing. The knowledge that we could have been anywhere on the island and we would still have felt the same warmth, experienced the same cheeriness, lived the same friendship is a knowledge that is at once stark and empowering. The knowledge that human emotion transcends immediate and literal realities empowers our spirit with the confidence in the permeability of our physical world. Scientists and modernity-chasers will seek to devise ways to capture the intangibility of emotion, and attempt to invent devices to transport and unleash these things. But there is only so much your modern machines will do. The human mind is the sole arbiter of the infinitum of emotion. Tonight was a lesson in friendship. Choose your friends wisely and the rewards are vast. By the way, the reason I was out today was that the Scholars Cup Team ACS 7 needed to belatedly celebrate its special triumph this June. Somehow I get this feeling my enduring memory, perhaps in say 10 years' time, of my IB years would be the trip to Seoul in June for the aforesaid competition. As usual it is the people with me there, the people who triumphed with me there, the people who triumphed for each other there, who made it so very memorable. Long live ACS 7 (Regionals ACS 12).

What's So New?

2008-09-18T16:47:00.002+08:00

I think I finished my Prelims today. There is really nothing very special about it. I had intended to rub it into just about everybody else that I was done, but somehow after the paper I didn't. I din't feel particularly free or relaxed or jubilant that the ordeal was over. And it wasn't because History Paper 3 was bad. On the contrary it was good. Very good. The euphoria and catharsis that normally greets the end of the examinations turned its back on me today. I instead delved into my study plans for the next few weeks. Days. Oh right, it is only the Prelims. Miles to go before I sleep (x2).

I am now ending my blogposting embargo designed to allow me maximum concentration for the Prelims. If I were to take you through which papers and subjects went well for me and which ones didn't I'd write something longer than my essay on plot and theme in Paddy Clarke and The Color Purple. I guess the point is this. I should come back down to Earth. Now that people begin to put in effort and actually study my level of achievement is no longer untouchable. I am no longer the one who answers the difficult essay questions, sees the more obscure or abstract solutions to Physics problems, and comes out feeling really good about it. It is time to finally face up to the fact that I have achieved in the past 18 months through endeavour, and not through brilliance. It hurts me to see people getting to where I have taken 18 months to get to in some 18 days. I guess the ranks of superhumanity are for those in the level who now are clicking into gear and ready to run away with the top scores. I am only human, though, and Thomas Edison was wrong. 99% perspiration only works for the first 99% of the journey. The all-important last 1%, the final and ultimate challenge, has to go to the inspiration I now see is beyond me. This realisation is at once sobering and depressing, but well, so is this world. And I will be surprised if people in 614 don't beat me for Physics. Jiahe doing that is a foregone conclusion, but I can also see Cheuk Ho and Fish and Debbie and possibly others profiting from my inability to handle the explanation questions found in the Options paper. Screwing up Math 2 was distasteful, too.

And now I await the revelation of the results. Not with bated breath, for there is nothing nice to anticipate. I shall spend the next week or so rereading Paddy Clarke and writing a full and satisfying commentary on it, and perhaps I should also foray into the realms of historiography and read the Elton and Hobsbawn and Carr notes I have lying around. And I will watch Chelsea stuff United this weekend. That I will do.

Go Study For Prelims

2008-09-13T20:21:00.001+08:00

I will be doing that right now. I need to perform a recovery operation after one or two rather abject performances last week.

It's Been A Week

2008-09-01T07:23:00.002+08:00

It seems this blog experiment is going awry. It has been a whole week since I last said something. In my defence I did not stay away of my own volition. Somehow my notebook couldn't find the server every time I tried to sign in. The early days of dismissing it as a nebulous temporary bug soon elapsed despite my keenness to believe in that untruth. Better that, after all, than a setting or issue on my computer that I have to concede I am unable to fix. And no I have not dealt with that problem - I have merely relocated to another computer. How typical of me.

Friday was a good day - Thank God It was. Messing around, embarrassingly, in Toys R'Us apart, I managed to catch what I believe will become an influential movie in the years to come. Wall.E was not an ordinary "good movie" - excuse the oxymoron - with animated characters, for it demonstrated a technical finesse that beats a new path for moviemaking. In addition, its message seemed to challenge contemporary treatments and attitudes towards the future and easily differentiates itself from those of other pieces of dystopian fiction. It was sufficiently enthralling and captivating to prompt me to write a critique on it. (If you want to read it, ask me. I shall not post it here. i) I'd be a spoiler. ii) I'd be a nerd) And yes I have to apologise that I find meaning in doing such things. Call me what you will, but this is what my life is about. It cannot suffice for one to watch, enjoy and love a movie without trying to comprehend how one arrives at that conclusive sentiment. Similarly, it is also never enough to dismissively claim that one "enjoys" and "appreciates" a movie for each sentiment is a spectrum of numerous variants. No two enjoyments can be caused by, and hence entail, exactly the same things.

Friday was also good because I spent perhaps one of the best sixteen dollars ever. Catching the advertisement on Channel 8 told me "A Soft Touch of Asia" would be something really special. Needless to say it was one commercial within an entire sequence that I actually bothered remembering. In any case I really like the CD because it combines two aspects of music that I really enjoy. I hold that contemporary Chinese/Asian have amazing voices that are so sweet. I also hold that the best music must be Pop and Light & Easy from the 70s and 80s.Having them combined into a single collection featuring really nice songs and really good singers is worth all of the 1600 cents. I am also not going to deny that hearing Asians sing so competently and adeptly in English carries its own satisfaction and pride. It is some postcolonial syndrome. Don't make me go into the workings of that!

I am not alone in wondering why we IB students made the choice to get to university the hard way - filled with trials, IAs, tribulations, EEs, hurdles and IOCs. Why didn't we select the easier 'A' level route which only demands our focus in the last three or four months before the final examinations? I think I found my answer last night. As is typical with me I found it not by contemplation but by abstraction - it was a symbolic realisation. I was eating chilli crab when it hit me. There were also chicken wings, fish fillets and other things on the table, but why was the crab the highlight I saved till the end? Furthermore, those other things were more rewarding to eat - much easier and much higher what-you-eat : how-much-you-put-in-to-eat-it ratio. Perhaps you're thinking, well, you eat crab at the end because it's practical keeping your fingers and your eating space clean for as long as possible. But I am not a practical person. Ask anyone. Then it hit me. Easy meat is ordinary, mundane and unrewarding. The meat you work hard to get is always flavourful, succulent and gratifying, for it does not merely fulfil its function of subsistence but symbolises the endeavour and will that defines all humanity. Perhaps we made our choices knowing it would bring a great sense of fulfilment and accomplishment at the sweet end. Maybe I just love chilli crab, period.

My capacity to make symbolic sense of the world is quite remarkable. I just realised something, without really attemtping to, in the proecss of writing the last three paragraphs. Each of them reflect one of the three ways to my heart - intellect, music and food. People find it easiest to give me the third one. Oh well.

Whatever Works

2008-08-25T19:55:00.003+08:00

I am still coming to terms with the KBox mishap yesterday. What I managed to do defies belief. I managed to repeatedly insult Cheuk Ho on his birthday. I managed to ruin the mood at the place with an ill-timed and ill-judged glass smashing act. The most shocking bit, however, is the way I managed to do these without realising anything amiss or pondering any consequences. It scares me how indiscretionate and callous I seem to have become. Just about everybody in attendance has branded me a person without EQ or SQ, and not without cause. I do not wish to delve into how misjudging the trajectory of a loaded bag of stuff has at best a tenuous link to EQ or SQ because then I'll be accused of refuting these people's claims which just have to be absolutely and wholly true. Fair enough. I cannot be right, it's not allowed.

Don't get me wrong, I am not angry. I never am. I am too aloof as to be bothered with the opinions of people around me. And perhaps therein lies the whole EQ/SQ problem. My emotions are sealed from almost everyone else. Just try making me angry or happy. It is difficult preempting people's responses and ensuring you don't anger or upset them when you never actually experience such feelings yourself as a result of their actions (because you are too self-contained and arrogant, but still). I have no idea where to go to be really honest. To solve this problem (which is so not in my nature; my first inclination is always to run from difficulty rather than face it) I have to be able to emotionally immerse myself within normal and daily situations, which would erode the unflappability and pseudo-invincibility I have prided myself in. See, hubris is in the way again. But the occasions when I say something really daft (or insulting) that irks people around (without even realising that it does so) have developed a disconcerting frequency. And yet I don't see why I should conform to socially-defined ideals of good EQ/SQ at the expense of the personality I have assumed and grown into. Aren't we past the modernist paradigm of societies determining their collective rightness and wrongness, and into the individualist era?

I don't know but I am confused. Why am I even concerned that I don't really matter or mean anything to anyone when I know they don't matter or mean enough to me to influence my predominant emotions? To those this is related to thanks a lot for confusing me. At least that's one thing you've succeeded in doing. I should just shut up from now on and keep to myself. Nobody will feel the absence anyway. To those unconcerned who are asking "what is going on here" sorry that I'm shoving my troubles across without any cogency or purpose. But isn't that what our online identities are like? We remove our person from our words and just let them sting whosoever appears. Life sucks.

Paradoxical Truths

2008-08-21T23:17:00.003+08:00

School life is funny, and not just because that particular phrasing is oxymoronic. As the prelims creep closer by the day, I find myself immeasurably bored at having to mug and revise content which two years of relentless study have given me a strong grasp and a waning interest in. The desire to just toss my work aside and do interesting things (the monotony of IB has expanded that list to include even shopping) steadily grows. And yet, having spent this afternoon roaming Marina Square and Raffles City with a bunch of long-time acquaintances shopping for random things, there is this tremendous sense of guilt that my time was not spent working for a good prelims grade. What the hell. There seems no way to placate me!

At the very least there is this Sunday's KBox-cum-Cheuk Ho's birthday outing to look forward to. It's always good to look forward. Looking back always depresses me because I am obsessed with perfection. I mourn how I could have done better, chosen better, judged better, known better. No achievement seems to fully satisfy my infinite wants. Being an Economics student I always weigh what I did against the opportunity cost, and it can be depressing. So I look forward. There was this passage I did for Chinese that characterises people into those who always choose the best available option and those who leave the best for last. The former group appear optimistic because they always delight themselves with the best of what they have. The latter group seem to be pessimists. Yet the irony is that the former group will always taste a lesser cherry than the one they last had and always look back wistfully in reflection on the has-beens, while the latter group always enjoys cherries of a higher standard than that to which they are accustomed, and can anticipate and embrace the future. The former group is satisfied with what they have, while the latter group always possess a hunger and a drive for their future betterment. Reading the article gave me a tremendous sense of satisfaction and vindication. I don't have to say which group I belong to and when I eat the best cherries. My study schedule for prelims will place English A1 last of all!

It hit me that we have about four weeks of classes left in our time in ACS(Independent). Four weeks to treasure our lessons, our friends, our teachers. The vast majority of the aforesaid three has been supremely rewarding and the end of the year will bring with it a great unwillingness to accept that the fruitful journey has ended. Following on from the earlier analogy surely it must be that the last few weeks are the sweetest. Perhaps so, because I will appreciate them and treasure them in the knowledge of how blessed I am to be having them. The beauty of bliss is in seeing it and recognising that it is actually upon you. The last are the best because you cumulatively appreciate all the joys of the ones gone by. I may not have consciously left the best for last, but I will consciously make the last the best. Then, in Cheuk Ho's words, we can go "dreaming of a more better future".

Till We Ain't Strangers Anymore....

2008-08-19T20:41:00.003+08:00

If you have never heard of that song (the Bon Jovi-LeAnn Rimes duet) then shame on you. Get on youtube or baidu or anywhere to right your wrong.Now. Even Yeo Yinghao likes it okay! I have been feeling this irrepressible urge to listen to this song for the last 3 weeks. I indulge without fail. This means it must be some song, because nothing holds the affection of fickle-minded me for anywhere near that long. Save for Literature and History, that is.

The deadline for applications to Oxford University slowly creeps closer, little by little. It takes slight and innocuous steps, one day at a time, each day too much alike to mark or name a place by so as to say for certain it is near. I need to write a convincing personal statement and complete a seeming tonne of paperwork. I need to decide whether to do History, English Literature, or a joint honours course involving them both. I have been saying this for perhaps the best part of 2 years, and I like having thought of it so well I say again, "I need to decide whether to do History, English Literature, or a joint honours course involving them both". It looks like I'm still not over my IOC-mania. And by the way, I absolutely LOVE Robert Frost.

I am getting re-addicted to Channel 8 dramas. I thought when I weaned myself off it early last year that I was through forevermore. I thought wrong, as always. Seriously though, there is a thrill and enchantment about these dramas that transcends the apparent uniformity and singularity that defines their subject-matter and their means of making themselves interesting. It is something I cannot define and I cannot explain. I just keep watching. As an aside it is quite humorous watching Pierre Png trying to elocute and enunciate in Mandarin. The character he plays is also tremendously endearing. And I guess if I continue this into why he is comparably more favoured than some of the other virtuous characters I will be doing English A1 right here and right now. I'd rather work on my latest Paper 2 essay.

24 Hours Are An Eternity

2008-08-18T20:29:00.002+08:00

"Nine envelopes beckoned on the brown wood (of the oak desk in the Boardroom)
And sorry I could not peruse them all
And be one IOC candidate"

I shall be telling of my IOC experience with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence. Murphy's Law is real. Damn you Soyinka, damn your Background & Friezes! Despite not having studied this over the weekend I somehow managed to produce a commentary my teacher found to be "excellent". Just imagine what would have been had I pulled out something I was actually prepared for! This is such an apt microcosm of life, somehow. The 9 envelopes grope towards being reflective of the infinity of life's choices. You only ever know the consequences of the one choice you made, and will be left in the perpetual suspense of "what it could have been". Looking back I'm thankful for the IOC experience, in spite of how all my preparations appear to have come to naught. I met literature in a different way. That, now, is priceless.

The inconsiderate antics of Singaporeans never cease to irk me. The "me first" attitude is prevalent everywhere you choose to look. "I look around me and I know there's a place that will stay within me wherever I may choose to go". I really detest those inconsiderate idiots who never ever decide whether they are taking the lift in the upward or downward direction. Pushing both buttons while waiting does little to hasten the arrival of the lift. You just possibly have two of them arriving at the same time, each dialled in to travel in a different direction. "This is home, surely, as my senses tell me". The infuriating bit is when you are travelling upwards and the lift stops in mid-trajectory and picks up somebody who wants to go down. What is he doing in my lift?! "This is where I won't be alone". When this happens all you hope for is that once you alight and he doubles up on himself, returning, to pick up the half of him that wanted to go "DOWN", to the floor at which he boarded. Never seems to teach them a lesson, though. These same people whose faces I am accustomed to seeing in the lifts of my apartment block will always catch my attention for this. "Where the lifts wait for me and the traffic doesn't flow".

Sorry I am such a bitch. One positive from the last 24 hours would be Chelsea! This could be our season, you know! There's only one Joe Cole!

Here We Go

2008-08-17T16:35:00.002+08:00

This is now to be a REAL blog. Not some place to spout intellectual gibberish - pretend to - but somewhere for me to do my bitching.

Let's start with Ng Cheuk Ho. With a blog address reading acsianblood and with a caption along the lines of "ACS Forever" I cannot help but cringe at the crippling irony. Since when was being an ACSian about making more grammatical errors than sense? Not a good place for me to have visited on the eve of my IOC, no doubt.

Speaking of IOC I cannot believe the amount of effort I have put into preparing for that. Sometimes I wonder why I spent all that time writing page after page of my own notes when photocopied versions of last year's students' notes were readily available. Especially since I will nevertheless be caught out and stumped if a Soyinka poem were to appear from those magical brown envelopes.

I see the weeks ahead being devoured by activities I have been numbed into disliking through one monotonous year and more-than-a-half. I need to get my UCAS application done, including the 4000-character challenge of a personal statement I have been mulling over for a good long time. I need to get that darned GDC repaired. But most of all, MOST OF ALL, did someone say prelims?

I'm thinking of meeting up to study with people, which is surprising since I've always championed studying alone as the most effective and efficient method to aceing any examinations. It is even more surprising because I hate having people leech off me!

I'm interested to see how long I can keep this habit up of actually having a conventional blog. I never thought I'd have time for it! IOC now.