Thank you God for my high metabolic rate

I am full.

More precisely, I am full of:
Peking duck
Suckling pig
Baby octopus
Jellyfish
Salmon sashimi (multiple servings)
California maki
Eel maki
“Monk jumps over the wall” soup
Scallops in spicy X.O. sauce
Coffee pork ribs
Deep fried marble goby fish
Steamed tilapia Thai style
Black pepper ostrich
Braised beancurd with mushrooms and spinach
Braised spicy eggplant with minced pork
E-fu noodles
Herbal jelly with honey
Almond jelly with longan
Ice cream puffs (multiple servings)

And all for less than £15 per person. I heart a la carte buffets.

People in Europe, eat your hearts out. Oh wait, it’s too expensive. Ha ha.

[Forgive the gloating at the end. It’s just part of my attempt to fend off a recent attack of Londonsickness (which still feels synonymous with “homesickness”) by reminding myself of the good things about being here.]

Feeling Bullish

It begins again, but surprisingly, I don’t feel the need to say “too soon”.

I still emerge from the torturous number 10 bus to/from NUS feeling like Rip Van Winkle. I still wander around campus feeling translucent and disconnected, as if hoping my real university will come one day to rescue me and take me home.

But none of it is feeling as bad as it did. My Tuesday evening class in Corporate Finance Law actually looks like it will be interesting. Admittedly, during this morning’s excruciatingly boring Evidence lecture I was attached to consciousness only by an increasingly brittle thread, and view my even earlier starts on Thursday and Friday with justifiable trepidation, but even here I am trying to Make The Best Of Things and am hoping this might force my body clock into something less like a prostitute’s.

I’ve found out I got a better grade in last semester’s moot course than about half the people who got into the teams I viewed as more prestigious. This challenges the assumptions underlying a lot of my previous angst about letting myself down through bad performance.

Ming + FS’s Hell’s Kitchen sounds awesome from my new speakers. That has absolutely nothing to do with university but let’s be holistic here.

Most importantly, I’m finally coming round to the view that it has all been, and will be, for the best.

In hindsight, there is almost nothing I would be willing to exchange for the 16 days I could devote to being with Alec when he was here – a freedom that would simply not have been possible if I’d got on the moot team I originally wanted. Distance is still a bitch, but over the next few months it will hopefully become our bitch now that Alec’s going to get broadband.

For the first time in years, I’ve bothered with New Year’s resolutions. Going lindy-hopping again, improving my bowling score, learning to drive, keeping in touch with friends, drinking equal amounts of pure water for all other drinks I have, and taking positive steps to combat my eczema seem realistic enough, and will all make me much happier in Singapore if acted upon.

In the meantime, there are Chinese karaoke songs to perfect, (apparently) a dirt cheap bar in Suntec City to enjoy with Terry and other like-minded lushes, a poetry festival in the offing, rare Múm mp3s available for download on their site, and a beloved boyfriend to call, right now, in fact. Peace out.

Hmm New Year

This is my 2003 entry for the mayfly project:

Finished Masters. Left London, sobbing. Difficult resettling in Singapore. Partial meltdown. Grateful for family’s support, Alec’s (long-distance) love. Cautiously optimistic.

* * *

What I wrote this time last year was fairly spot-on. My dread at The Return proved well-founded – returning to Singapore has been as bad as I expected, and then some. On the other hand, I think I can safely say my resolve to “carpe the fucking diem” for the remainder of my London life was amply realized.

* * *

I write this entry alone again for the first time in two and a half weeks. I said goodbye to Alec a few hours ago, and will probably not see him again until May. A few months ago, I melodramatically scribbled somewhere that the loneliest place in the world is the designs on the backs of my eyelids at 4 am. At that time, I hadn’t yet tried standing in the departure hall as Alec’s profile shrank into the distance.

* * *

On the way home from the airport on the bus, a sign on the expressway read “Welcome To Singapore!”

* * *

I wonder what I will write this time next year.

Bloody Merry

Merry Christmas, everyone. A pint of Hoegaarden is certainly not enough in itself to render me merry (especially at the sobering price of $19) but surveyed in the context of a fantastic trip to Thailand, a completely fuckup-free introduction of Alec to my various extended family units, and the divinely bonecrushing bass response of my brand new Altec Lansing speakers to Photek, it should be fairly obvious that you have before you a bloody merry Michelle.

At some point I had lofty plans for year-end music/movie lists, but much like the Christmas cards I haven’t written or sent yet, those might make their appearances some time well into 2004.

Don’t Think Of A Blue Elephant (Tangents Inspired By Love Actually)

A conversation yesterday:
Ken: So, Michelle, how’ve you been doing?
Me: Well, I’ve been having problems resettling into Singapore, and I’ve been missing London a lot.
Ken: Then whatever you do, don’t watch Love Actually.
Me: I’m watching it tomorrow.
Ken: Then watch it with someone you fancy. It’s a great date movie.
Me: I’m watching it with my mum.

Not the most promising prelude to Love Actually then.

Every time I go to the movies with my mum, I always manage to forget that apart from being witty and quirky, British romantic comedies are also fairly crude, or at least more so than their sanitized American counterparts. So there I am in the first two minutes of Love Actually, sitting in a cinema next to my mum as aging rock star Billy Mack gets the words to a song wrong for the umpteenth time and bursts out in a stream of “Oh fuck wank shit arse…” And while she isn’t quite so Puritan as to stand up and walk out or anything like that, she’d probably find it rather strange if I gave into my sudden impulse to sigh in happiness at the sound of those English terms I miss so much. “Wank”. “Arse”. And later in the film, “bollocks”.

Ken was right. The sight of London on the big screen almost physically knocked me back into my seat. The ice skating rink at Somerset House. Panoramas of the Thames. The Millennium Bridge. The Erotic Gherkin. Charing Cross Road. I could smell the winter air, feel the tug of my coat on my shoulders as I stuffed my gloved hands into its pockets, and hear the silence of London on Christmas Day.

The opening and closing scenes of the film make a big deal about how the arrival halls of Heathrow abound with love as people reunite. My first thought: my moments of highest emotion in Heathrow were always spent alone. Forget the arrival halls, every time my plane touched down on the Heathrow runway, I was already bursting with love. In the arrival halls, Russ would usually be there with a big hug and a strong arm for my bags, but the few times he wasn’t, I still walked through the airport, totally alone, giddy with happiness, straight onto the first bus for central London. When I left, forget what I went through in the departure hall saying goodbye to Russ and Alec – at least then I could cry freely. Sitting at the window of the plane as it accelerated and slanted skyward, surrounded by strangers, my face pressed against that tiny oval, and my body turned wholly away from everyone else so they didn’t see it shuddering as I tried to hold back sobs…well, let’s say that’s part of the London experience that wasn’t documented in this film. Unfortunately, it, too, came back to me vividly.

So I sat through this film, filled with scenes of the place I love, sounds of the accents I love, jokes in the humour I love. I didn’t even feel the slightest desire to rearrange Andrew Lincoln’s annoying fishlipped face the way I normally do. Conversely, my usual lust for Colin Firth was wholly overwhelmed by longing just to be walking the same London streets. (Don’t think I don’t realize how crazy this sounds, how mawkishly sentimental, how downright “unpatriotic”. I know.)

And all the time I sensed a creeping dread that at some point, this film had to end. When it did, with those scenes of the Heathrow arrival hall again, and the opening notes of God Only Knows, something triggered a perspective switch, and then only the most rigid control was keeping me from bursting into tears. Because in one week’s time, in the Changi Airport arrival hall, that will be me. That will be Alec. God only knows what I’d do without you. God only knows what I did to deserve you. I have lost London, but I still have so much.

In Which I Explain It All

Some explaining is in order. I have made vague occasional references to feeling down over the past few months, but never really went into anything in detail apart from whining about missing London. This entry is mostly for people who know me and want a little more information, but those of you who rubberneck at road accidents are welcome to read it too.
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Not A Failure! Not A Failure!

I have been awarded the LLM (Masters in Law) with merit.

THANK YOU GOD!!!

And as if this good news isn’t enough, I have finally found the rare collaboration EP by Low & Spring Heel Jack on Soulseek and am downloading it this minute! Joy! Joy! Joy!

Two Years

When Alec was in South Africa recently, he sent me a postcard.

I quote:

“I’m afraid that, in characteristic fashion, I’ve managed to make an ass of things. When I first saw this stamp I thought it was a particularly ugly bird.”

The rare South African soreconihr bird

Today marks two years with Mr Ass. I still don’t understand how he continues to make me laugh, or endear me so much, or love me warts and all. I still don’t understand how I ever got so lucky.

Thanks For The Memories

I guess there’s just no pleasing some people.

For weeks I griped and complained about the fact that my boxes hadn’t arrived from England yet. And now they’re here, I wish they weren’t.

I never thought I would be quoting lyrics from The Tennessee Waltz in this blog, but while I was unpacking, one particular line kept playing in my head, louder and more insistently than the Fugazi on the speakers. Going flagrantly against the optimistic conclusion I forced myself to draw here in a previous entry, that line was: “Now I know just how much I have lost.”

I always intended, apart from living a proper goodbye to London (which I think I did), to sit down and write something about it, but in the pressures surrounding my departure I never got time to. Call it solipsism or exhibitionism if you will, but somehow it feels inadequate just sitting here alone with my memories, I want to tell everybody about what this city, these people, this time, meant to me.

Typical Michellian Disclaimer: What follows may not mean a great deal to people who either don’t know me or don’t know London, but if you’ve ever been madly in love with any other city, that’s all you’ll need to understand. And of course I don’t think London or England are perfect, and of course there are serious problems with them which I was just lucky enough to never really encounter personally, and of course there are things I like and respect about Singapore. It’s just that on balance I swing West rather than East. My attempts at translating jumbled ecstatic memories into dry electronic scribblings may therefore give but a rippled reflection of reality, either through my inadequacies with prose or my tendency towards sentimentality, but here is my goodbye. I pray it wasn’t a farewell.
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Kara Okay

Where to begin.

There’s the bit about this weekend being pretty much one of the lowest points in my life, but I’m still thinking about whether a blog entry would necessarily be the best way of moving on and avoiding wallowing in self-pity.

There’s the bit about being #2 on the Internet for “nature bamboo gal”, which is, like, so not me.

There’s the bit about Chinky karaoke with Terry, where for the first time in my life I managed to sing more than 5% of the lyrics of a Chinese song! I think I’ll go with this. It’s happy and triumphal, unlike, er, the rest of my weekend.

I’ve documented my previous attempt at Chinese karaoke here. A few months later, I padded downstairs for the mail on an early spring morning in London and found two CDs Terry had sent all the way from Singapore. One was a Faye Wong compilation, the other was a compilation of his favourite mushy ballads, both came with tracklistings and commentary including his views on the stupidity of the singers’ names, and I listened to them lots. So the premise of Sunday’s outing was for me to flex my tiny little Chinky song muscles and enter the wonderful world of Chinese karaoke, under the encouragement and tutelage of my Chinky song benefactor.

I didn’t do great, but I did okay! I mumbled my way through Liang Ge Ren Bu Deng Yu Wo Men (I think this means Two People Don’t Amount To Us, but I’m not actually sure), and pretty much the only words I could manage in King Of Karaoke (stop laughing, it’s really rather nice) were its kickass “AI AI AI AI DAO YAO TU!” climax (translation: LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE UNTIL I WANT TO VOMIT!), but I managed to sing almost 70% of my old favourite Nan Ren Bu Gai Rang Nu Ren Liu Lei (Men Shouldn’t Make Women Cry) and Faye Wong’s Qi Zi (I have no idea what this means, but I can read the words and that’s enough), and I’m real proud!

Chinese karaoke certainly has its advantages over English karaoke. The biggest reason for this is the accompanying videos. For Chinese songs you get the actual music video, featuring the actual artist looking pouty/teary/suicidal (but still dee-lish, natch). For English songs you get some really dodgy shots of an “exotic” woman walking in slo-mo along the beach/by a fountain/in a flower garden that look like your granny put them together using all the cheesy fade-outs and romantic lighting filters she could find in DummyEdit Pro. Admittedly, given that all my attention was riveted on deciphering all those bloody fan ti zi (old, massively complicated Chinese characters which mostly resemble the blueprints to the Pyramids; we learned the dumbed-down version of these in school, but actual Chinese nations still use them), I was mostly too busy going “fuck me, that immense scribbly thing is rang?” to really appreciate the subtler points of Chinese music video artistry.