Something’s Going Right

There’s something wonderfully affirming about being able to spend quality time with three men you love over the weekend, only one of them being your boyfriend.

Apart from Saturday night/Sunday morning with Russ, I met Nick on Monday night (for those not in the UK, it was a public holiday here) for dinner at my beloved Sweet And Spicy before popping round the corner into Alec’s local pub for drinks (note to self: must pop down there some other time and clarify with Sue behind the bar that I wasn’t cheating on him). Again, the same feeling of happy companionable comfort, although it probably wouldn’t have been at all apparent to anyone else given that we spent a fair bit of the time disagreeing violently and interspersing this with hacking coughs.

After we parted ways, I let myself into Alec’s flat and settled down with In Cold Blood while waiting for him to return from Ireland, where he’d spent the weekend.

It’s been one of those clusters of days when I look at my life and think that despite my multiple faults and failings, I must be doing something right (for which I also credit God, who, incidentally, I really should spend more quality time with).

What Will Be Will Be Fine

This was what was supposed to happen: I’d meet Russ some time on Saturday afternoon, we’d hang out a couple of hours, he’d leave after dinner for a party he’d been invited to, and I would then pack in some hardcore study for as much of the night as I could manage.

This was what did happen: at some point during dinner I reminded him about the party; at some point after dinner he decided to skip the party. At some point we were faintly aware he’d missed his last tube home; at some point I looked out of the window and it was no longer dark. At every point we talked. And talked. And talked.

I crawled into bed at 6 am, curling myself around what felt like an intense core of happiness, gripped by the conviction that what we have will withstand the stresses and separation to come when I leave England, that our two worlds will continue to have space for this.

SARS Travel Etiquette

I feel a little guilty.

Not only did I sneeze the other morning in a fairly crowded tube carriage, I was also reading The Outsider, which wouldn’t have been reassuring for anyone with some knowledge of its particular philosophical message.

Anyway, if you were on a crowded Central Line tube train on Monday morning somewhere between Liverpool Street and Holborn, and an Oriental girl with weird short hair reading The Outsider sneezed, don’t panic. It was probably me, and the look of acute pain and discomfort on my face most of the journey would have had nothing to do with Sars, I just bloody hated the book.

Burning On Re-Entry

Back. We came in from Heathrow on a tube full of Saturday night wankers, dumped our bags at my flat and headed out starving to China House. We had hash browns the next day for breakfast, dim sum for lunch, and chicken korma and saag gosht at Sweet’N’Spicy (our favourite Brick Lane eaterie) for dinner. You can probably tell we were tired of continental European food (though not its wine prices, hic).

The problem with holidays is coming back to earth afterwards. I have managed to spend all five weeks of the Easter vacation not studying, and haemorrhaging money. I’m worried about Sars and my family in Singapore. A variety of small but significant things I need to do and make decisions about are building up under my skin and feel unpleasantly like ticks. I’d like to be writing here about everything we did, but I’m probably going to be too busy burning on re-entry.

A Mixed-Up Week

Two fantastic gigs. Friday afternoon on Portobello Road, Russ amusedly tolerant of my compulsion to scan every stall, however ramshackle, in fear of the “bargain” I might miss if I just strolled past. (I didn’t buy vintage fashion or antiques, but I got a great aubergine for 30p!) Fabulous dinner on Friday night courtesy of Tamara and her friend Mark.

Intentions of restarting work feebly displayed in a two-hour stint at the library on Wednesday, and 7 pages of a book on the US Supreme Court on Thursday. Excitement at planning an upcoming holiday, stress at the realization that due to said holiday I will have spent the entire five week Easter break doing no work. Irritation at coming home and finding unwashed dishes in the sink after spending three hours cleaning the kitchen yesterday. Hatching plans to surprise Alec with flowers, and then having them wonderfully scuppered, two days in a row, by him doing exactly the same thing.

Wondering what I ever did to deserve a life this good, and the fear of wasting all my various blessings through laziness, disorganization or complacency. Hence the nagging feeling of tedious but important practicalities I’ve been putting off resolving for ages, and crunch time looming.

British Museum (Africa Galleries)

I will slowly conquer the British Museum, bit by bit. I will. I can’t leave here saying I lived a stone’s throw from the British Museum for four years and didn’t.

The first problem was that every time I used to go in, I’d get sucked into the Egyptian or Greek sections, and get absolutely exhausted by these alone. The second problem was that they had to go and make that wondrous Great Court, and I started wandering in simply for that, cutting through the museum on my way home but not actually seeing exhibits other than by Norman Foster. The third problem, well, there is no third problem. I’ve just taken it for granted all these years. (No doubt because it’s free. When I went to the Louvre I was determined to get my money’s worth, and nearly had to be carried out.)

So on Friday I headed to the Africa galleries with Russ (just one part of another happy leisurely indulgent-yet-frugal afternoon. We had lunch, went to one of the greatest museums in the world, and spent hours reading in the Borders cafe. I think we spent about £5). Apart from the incredibly beautiful artefacts on display or the fact that I learnt a lot, what really struck me was how appealingly everything was laid out and presented. Throwing-knives encased in a wall of glass. Shark masks used in traditional masquerade ceremonies suspended in the air, as if in water. Brassworked panels dominating one side of a room, the stark, simple blocks of shadows they cast on the walls only emphasizing their intricacy. Everything meticulously labelled and explained.

Duly wowed. Next stop: the Orient.

Hat People

So Ireland may have lost the Six Nations rugby final and given England its first Grand Slam for years in the bargain as well, but to comfort the team and country in their defeat, let it be known that there was a (very, very, very) small corner of central London this afternoon that was forever Ireland. Namely Alec and me (me being proudly Singaporean of course, well, most of the time anyway, but honorarily Irish for an afternoon), sitting at a table in ULU wearing silly (green) hats.

Alec’s hat was especially fun. It’s so big that when I wear it, it drops to rest on my shoulders, thereby hiding my whole head, which is useful if you’re supporting Ireland in a room full of English people.

Sweet Dreams Indeed

And then there was Friday, where the comparative refinement of a Malaysian lunch and leisurely wander through the Citibank Photography Prize 2003 exhibition with Benny gave way to a debauched night with Mark at the annual UCL Debating Society Foundation Dinner, where we skipped the dinner and most of the debating bits, and concentrated our efforts on getting, as Mark often so colourfully observes, “off our nipples”. I hazily remember spilling Guinness on Alec and getting all teary on the way home remembering how fond I still am of many old UCL debating hacks.

Because of Friday, I was fairly useless on Saturday, although the effects of the hangover thankfully confined themselves to my mental faculties rather than my stomach lining. This wasn’t a problem during the day when I lounged around, finished English Passengers and wasted time on the Internet, but rendered me extremely boring at Nick’s birthday do at Cargo that night. So I clutched my cider (yes, I like cider, you wannamakesomethinuvit?) and stood around desperately trying to think of something to say other than observations on how boring I was being. Not much came, until the music changed from dub-electronica-Arabian-folk to Work It (Missy’s), and I sought relief in silent gesticulating on the dancefloor.

On Sunday I was lured to Spitalfields Market, where I talked myself out of buying a £20 orange bag, explained to a girl from China selling bracelets (I bought one, orange) that yes I could speak Mandarin but no I couldn’t speak it very well and no not everyone in Singapore was quite as lousy, and marvelled at how flatteringly the dress on the cross-dresser manning the organic veggie stall hugged his very considerable curves. On Brick Lane, a car slouched by blasting Still Dre. On Commercial Street a car slouched by blasting Mundian To Bach Ke. On Bishopsgate a car slouched by blasting Sweet Dreams Are Made Of These.

Gym/Tate Britain/Timoleon Vieta Book Launch

[We are at war. Two of my friends in Singapore have SARS. A dear friend here has suddenly lost his mother. It would be flippant if not downright disrespectful if I started writing about my week without clarifying that behind the breeziness I am actually trying to take all this in my stride.]

Here’s what went into Thursday:

Continuing gym membership saga

My relationship with my gym membership got even more complicated on Thursday morning. I arrived at the gym too late to go into the Pilates class I’d been aiming for. This was far from devastating, and I was all ready to go cheerily and sweatlessly back to my comfy flat and sprawl on the couch with English Passengers (so good) and tea, but then the girl at reception suggested I use the gym instead. I laughed this off, explaining I’d never used one before. “Oh, but we can book you in for a free induction!” she trilled brightly, and unable to think up another excuse fast enough, I had to reluctantly agree. Friends, I feel myself slowly losing the battle against fitness. What is to be done?

Conversation, culture and closeness

The afternoon was a lesson in how to have a wonderful time in London with very little money. All you need is a beautiful day, a Marks & Spencer’s pasta lunch, a bench outside the Tate Britain, and a best friend you haven’t seen in a long time. At about 3 we decided we should probably fulfil the original purpose of the outing and actually enter the museum, which was a good call given that without some discipline we would have been entirely capable of obliviously talking the afternoon away till the museum closed at 6.

The quantity and range of art you can see for free in London museums never fails to overwhelm me, and this museum is no exception. We’d had a vague plan of seeing some Turner, Days Like These (a triennial exhibition of contemporary British art), and Constable to Delacroix: British Art And The French Romantics, but could only manage the first two in the end. I thoroughly enjoyed Days Like These – I found almost every exhibit visually and conceptually interesting (which doesn’t always happen for me and modern art) and came out with an impressively low number of I-don’t-get-its. The latter comment would perhaps attract sneers from some arty types, but getting it, or at least having some vague sort of clue, is what makes modern art worthwhile for me.

Book launch, dah-ling

It was for a new book by Dan Rhodes, writer of Anthropology (one of my favourite books), and pleasant email surprise every now and then ever since he found this site one day.

Dinner beforehand was the terrible mistake of Ken Hom’s Yellow River Cafe, where I had some of the worst Oriental food I’ve had in this country since I once tried a Budgens chicken in black bean sauce ready meal, but execrable food was soon forgotten when we got to the venue for the book launch and found there was a free bar. I was, however, hoping not to meet Dan in person for the first time by telling him how fanchashtic it wash to vinally meech him, and so I was only delicately sipping at my Smirnoff Ice when Roxette’s Fading Like A Flower filled the room. (At this point I should probably explain that apart from the fact that he wrote a book I like very much, the other connection revealed by our email exchanges was a common love for Roxette and other very uncool pop music.) So I was hopping around telling Alec how much I loved the song, and Alec was trying to look as if he wasn’t with me, and then Dan came over and said hello, he’d seen my face light up at the Roxette, and was I Michelle?

I managed to avoid any embarrassing conversational gaffes, the reading was hilarious and ended with Dan sucking on some helium and leading us all in a rousing nasal sing-a-long to I Want To Know What Love Is, so an evening well spent, I think. Of course, I left with a signed copy of his new book, Timeleon Vieta Come Home, which you must all go and buy too.

23 And Less Angsty

I’m sorry it’s been a while. I was busy turning 23.

It didn’t involve anything spectacular, but it all added up to a rather happy me this week nonetheless. Some friends reading this will be aware of my birthday neurosis, but that was luckily kept under control this year, thanks to a very understanding Alec who decided to start calling my friends himself rather than wait for me to chicken out of organizing anything and then get depressed like last year.

On Saturday afternoon, after lunch with Alec, Brian and Esther at good ol’ Mr Jerk, I hit Berwick Street:

  • The Notwist: Neon Golden (£7.99)
  • Múm: Finally We Are No One (£7.99)
  • Lambchop: What Another Man Spills (£7.99)
  • Tori Amos: Scarlett’s Walk (£4.99)
  • (On Sunday, I also found Common’s Electric Circus in Music Zone for £6, yay.)
  • [Something else I’m also enjoying is the self-titled album by Mark Hollis (formerly of Talk Talk), my present from Benny, who is one of the few people around who would have the balls and self-confidence (deservedly so, I might add!) to give me any music I hadn’t already said I wanted, snob that I am. Thanks Benny!]

Then to Shoreditch for dinner at Song Que, which struggled a little with our party of 14, but did their best to remain smiley. I, on the other hand, wildly tried to move around the table, talk to people, and apologize for the various things my various offensive friends managed to say to each other, all at the same time. The life of a socialite is clearly not for me. After dinner we headed to Bar Kick, where I failed to acquit myself particularly well in our table football challenges, but I blame the cocktails. I think it all went okay. I haven’t really tried mixing different friends together since I was 8 and mixed 10 girls from school with my poor neighbour Roy, but I hope they sort of enjoyed themselves this time, and am ultimately very thankful they even bothered to come.

On Monday (my real birthday), Alec brought me lilies and the paper in bed, which made for many happy hours curled up reading all about how we were, er, headed for war. Oh well. So much for being able to celebrate my birth in a spirit of optimism. In the evening I got 5 seconds of fame at a law faculty prizegiving ceremony, but the other 89 minutes 55 seconds were extremely dull. Then dinner at Hunan, where being expected to trust the maitre d’s choice rather than order from a menu was a little difficult for control freak me, but it worked out lovely. When he found out it was my birthday, he asked if I had any favourite dishes they could make me. Given that Hunan is one of the very few Chinese restaurants in London that isn’t Cantonese, it is probably a good thing I stifled my response of “mat chap chi pa” (I can’t translate it exactly, but it’s something like “honey-cooked pork” I think – it’s yummy, anyway. Order it the next time you go to very Cantonese Chinatown). We managed to stagger out forgetting Alec’s scarf and my prize certificate (such is life with Alec and Michelle), but remembered before we’d gotten too far away, so all was well.

So I celebrated some of my birthday in Shoreditch and some of it in Sloane Square. I would pride myself on having social range, but must unfortunately admit I fit in much better in Shoreditch. (Quick note for non-Londoners: Sloane Square is where very rich people hang out. Shoreditch is near where Jack The Ripper used to kill prostitutes.)