From Scratched-Up Shakespeare To Sonic Youth

The Bomb-itty Of Errors on Friday was truly, dare I say, da bomb. Shakespearean rhyming couplets adapted for rap with an on-stage DJ scratching, beatboxing and grooving right along with the performers. Four guys playing a multitude of characters, including women, to hilarious effect, especially when quick scene changes were involved. Bawdiness, and some random suggestions of animal lovin’. “MC Heidelberg” complete with ringlets and prosthetic nose. A plethora of pop cultural references, almost reminiscent of the Beastie Boys in Paul’s Boutique. The only rolling Shakespeare does in his grave to this should be a headspin.

Afterwards I somewhat unnerved the waitress at Misato when I suddenly realized what they were playing on the restaurant’s piped music and shrieked “Oh my God! This is Sonic Youth!” in the middle of ordering myself the teriyaki salmon bento. With background music like that, I couldn’t help but enjoy the meal and should add, for the benefit of those that click on the review link above, that service was efficient and friendly despite my little geeky outburst.

Kanina Moment

I got called a cunt yesterday.

I was walking home with Gwen from our customary Wednesday night post-IP-law girlie dinner (which Alec calls the Short People’s Club for some offensive reason of his own). A big black man waiting at a bus stop turned as we passed and said, quietly but distinctly, “Cunts.”

I was obviously not going to make an issue of it, since I wouldn’t have stood a chance in a brawl even if I scratched eyes and pulled hair (maybe if I kicked groin though), and we ignored him and kept walking. All the same, part of me desperately wanted to turn around and shriek “SI MI LAN CHEOW? KA NI NA BU CHAO CHEE BAI!” but that would have been descending to his level. Or perhaps considerably lower. Hokkien is the best cussing language ever.

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.