Lollipop lollipop, oh lolli lolli lolli....

The woman sitting across is mangling a lollipop. Her eccentric yet trendy style of that green MC Hammer-type trousers and the brown leather heeled “smurf”-like shoes tell me that the lollipop is not going to be just another lollipop.

The way she licks and sucks the lollipop is disturbing. As she nibbles around the rim of white sugary bit, she savours it like lunch at 3pm. Aside from the delectation she gets from the sweetness of the lollipop, she seems to do tricks with her tongue and lips. She gives them regular exercises with the pushing and pulling of the lollipop’s plastic tube around the orifice and like a come on, goads the lone man across her to chuckle.

I am not far from getting the vibe and the crystal clear picture she is sending with her sexual emulation of a good head. I cringe at the thought. Imagine yourself in that predicament then take a photo and tell me if you look pretty doing it.

Sex is everywhere and so is malice. She gave me a glance and surely, she must have thought that “I am a boring old sod in the bed department” because I’d rather play games on my mobile phone than pay her some attention. If only she knew.

Seacole Calling

This Saturday is turning out to be a scorcher. Lito booked tennis for today and last night I was a wee bit worried that it would carry on raining today.

The weather forecasters are redeeming themselves with a prediction of sunshine and even more sunshine over the course of bank holiday weekend. It is just a truly welcoming notion as it promises to be a hot and sizzling Nottinghill Carnival yet. I can’t wait.

Playing at 10 am today was bliss. The tall trees casting shadow over the courts made it a perfect playing condition not to mention that Lito just lost in 2 straight sets. After 2 hours of unabated tennis ball-pounding, my advancing age pervaded. My hips ached and my serving arm was causing shooting pains with every stroke. I was glad to have won the sets but not without the grating of bones and trickling down of sweat like a fountain. This recreational way of keeping fit is strenuous and torture. I don’t think I lost a smidgen of weight. I am pretty sure I’ll eat more when I get my hands to home-cooked lunch.

All's swimmingly well but that had to change in a matter of minutes. My phone rang with an unregistered call displayed. With slight hesitation, I answered to a familiar voice of work, Adora. I knew what she'd say so I allowed her to rattle on as my mind contrived a plan for my afternoon without conflicting the rest of the evening. In short I said yes to coming in to cover “Plasmapheresis” as the on- call was off sick. I showered and dragged myself to the tube.

I haven’t worked weekends for nearly 5 years now. I thought doing one won’t hurt. In fact, I need extra dough for my holiday. Few hours of plasmapheresis surely outweigh the pros of domiciliary and sedentary lifestyle this Saturday afternoon. This is better than flicking channels for exercise.

For that moment, I felt like a real nurse again.

sublime

Suddenly I had the urge to play the "youtube-I-choose-then-you-choose" game. It's already half one in the morning and weekend's already in full swing; so is my hyperactive nous.

Then I came across these lyrics. I remembered how beautiful it was (still is) and always will be.

Malilimot ka lang
Kapag ang araw at bituin ay di na matanaw
Kapag tumigil ang daigdig at di ‘na gumalaw
Subalit isang araw pa matapos ang mundo’y nagunaw na
Hanggang doon magwawakas pag-ibig kong sadyang wagas
Ngayon at kailanman

It's calm.
I feel safe.. I am languid, fallow.
I...........

Objective Structured Clinical Examination

Why is ticking the boxes of right responses to questions through enumeration more essential than understanding the rationale for these responses? Is there a better way than OSCE in assessing a petrified candidate applying his/her years of learning experiences through acting dramatisation?

Today, out of over ten candidates shortlisted for the post, only four turned up for interview. Deciding their fate through tools of measure is daunting. You end up wondering if that measure is suffice to say, adequate to gauge one's ability for the role they are applying for.

I feel for the meek and of soft gentility for they would find this life-altering exercise too much a challenge to their senses. I feel bad to say that "You lost your chance because the future of nursing is time-framed, loud and clear not the self-effacing and docile you ". However, I mustn’t discount those who with years of experience come out of their protective shell to swim against the dictate of rigours of interview.

I hope that not getting the job doesn’t dampen their spirits. I hope that this would be a valuable learning experience for them to adapt to this system and learn to act a la Garbo or Streep sans fear and feebleness. Although I see the relevance of OSCE, considerations must apply. Personally, I think OSCE is shit.

Brand

My friend Marl liked the black cotton waistcoat I was wearing at the BBQ and asked where I bought it. Her jaw dropped when I told her. For a mere fiver, I got praised for wearing an economically sound basic need. In these hard and trying times, feeling comfortable about the way you look outstrips the psychological appeasement a branded item affords one’s body.

Years ago, I have carefully chosen designer items that would stand the test of time. I don’t know but at the back of my mind is the practical person as I buy the Prada’s and Gucci’s. They have to last for as long as I live even if I have grown so morbidly obese that I have to be surgically attached to them. Fashion changes in a blink of an eye that must-have items few years ago yet again grace the runway with minimal twists. A belt or an adornment over a rehashed material blasted from the past becomes an “it-thing” and end up as a fixture in shop windows that would eventually set the trend.

Two big cargo boxes house my old self. They represent a lesson about subsistence that reminds me of life’s choices gone wild. I have followed few episodes of Gok Wan's fashion exploits on telly and the imbibed message from him was simple: do not be afraid to mix and match. Those who laugh at your sense of style are those who live bitterly and die bitter. Take this woman in chic ensemble. All preened and dolled up, looking like she's cracked 1001 piggy banks to appear fully aesthetic. I know she's naturally sensible about fashion as the Primark tag at the bottom of her killer heels are visible from where I am sitting.

This weekend, it is time to open the box of vanity. Let's see if Uniqlo and Ungaro blend well; the Westwood against the textile of Primark tee. I know the mirror won't lie but my brain would. I take it from experience.

conversation over english breakfast tea

R: What do you like about having gay friends?

C: They are fun and easier to communicate with in terms of sexual matters.

R: And why is that?

C: Being a woman, I don’t feel judged or criticised for my opinion and understanding of certain topics that most women or men find taboo.

R: I get you. What else is fun about gay friends?

C: I can choose and use colour without having to justify my choices.

C: But really, they are just the same as other friends that I have as to conversations..... Except that they are far more open.

R: And the thing that you don’t like about your gay friends?

C: Hmmmm, nothing.

C: Oh, that promiscuity and lack of sense of permanence for some of them.

C: Not that I abhor it... I just probably switch off at times and just don’t get it.

C: I hate to think at times that they have more fun about their own lives. They project happiness more than any other man on the planet.

R: Believe me, we are just as miserable at times.

R: What do you wanna do now?

C: I was given a list by this "intellectual" guy. I want to start reading pocketbooks again.....


Borders half an hour later....


C: I don’t know what to read.....


(The only copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird" left on the shelf)


R: try this.... (Getting impatient, as he hands the lone copy of the book)

C: What's this about?

R: My high school book report.

C: Good. It's seems like it's not a long read.

R: Yeah.

au naturale

I just couldn’t help but be won over by this charming lady. Allyson Felix just won her third... yes third 200 metre gold medal at the 2009 IAAF World Athletic Championships in Berlin. With a considerable lead over VCB (Veronica Campbell-Brown) in the last 50 metres, Allyson clenched her fist after crossing the line as a mark of vengeance to her agonising defeat to VCB at the 2008 Olympiad.

In the past week, I was glued to telly viewing as Usain Bolt smashed records to smithereens and overshadowed the athletics other heroes and heroines of the meet. When a BBC pundit interviewed Allyson Felix after her semi-finals, she struck me to my deepest sports fanatic core. She exemplified such utter grace despite the nature of the sport. In slow motion repeats, she was a thing of beauty. She glided effortlessly against the muscle-clad warriors who displayed grit as they fought it off to finish.

Before tennis occupied my primetime interest, my childhood romance with track and field was just as intense. I ran 200 metres as a junior in Regional Meets. To date, this sport still gives me the momentary elation. Allyson Felix winning that final in a manner that you would believe in something only a pure talent could pull off was compelling. She garnered adulations from critics who raved on and on about the performance on telly. In her slight frame, she outgunned the truly muscular competition.

In this rough sport, she is elegance-personified. That is discernibly rare.

2222

My pinkish colour is duller
than yesterday like that of violet's
It is fading swiftly
with the heat, said the rose.

The stem is growing weaker
each day like your thorns
losing my stature
replied the carnation.

The daisy wondered pensively
staring at the occupied bed
with a mumble, are we dying first?
before forever, his endless repose.

Abracadabra

I see auras. Whether you believe it or not, it doesn’t matter. I just see them. End of.

My new colleague at work said I looked tired and scraggy last week. She said I needed to relax (like yeah?!!!) and take one of the coloured gums from the glass that she takes with her everyday. Apparently, it would reveal my true emotional and physical state and of course, knowing is already half the battle won. So I did and got the purple gum. She grinned and said, "Sit down. This is classic stress. Close your eyes blah blah blah". The next thing I knew, she was in her mumbo jumbo state applying alternate tight and feather-light pressure on both sides of my temple. For a mere minute, I felt relieved of everything. All I ever wanted was sleep right there and then and forget about work. But knowing myself, it was short lived. I was back fretting about. From her desk, I could see her unabashed grin.

This morning's tube ride is smooth. People's faces seem content but I don’t need any coloured gumballs to know that the man opposite me is anxious. He must be dying for a loo. As for the man next to me, the waft of dense air sends an alcohol breath from last night's binge. He definitely looks the part too.

When I was young, I used to read palms, cards and read/interpret people's auras. It was a compulsion. But growing up had other and better plans for me. It made me a “doubting Thomas” and a “John Dewey”.

Today, I am going to see her again, the white witch (as she proclaimed). She must be the sign; the sign of either the beatnik-rising or that trip to innocence and unadulterated naivety. I am just saying this because we all have our pasts and desires and more so, an on-switch button to our old familiar self.

pac(k)(t)

I swear I saw the sun suddenly disappearing from Ralen's porch. It was too quick that it's already half ten at night. The sky was dark but adorned by constellations. The setting of this backdrop was only interrupted by the flashing of lights down here on earth. It was the flickering of camera bulbs as people who love being captured on still photos were showing benevolence; for a memento of good old fun.

This Saturday night is drifting along in the rapids; that moment you blink and you miss it. So many explanations have been afforded to this scenario but neither am I nonplussed nor undaunted as to how those moments of true dissolution of self awareness vanquish moments of time.

It was only when I stood in front of the tube’s electronic gate that I realised how late it was. I watched "Celebrity Come Dine With Me" the other day and one of the hosts mentioned that "a party is not all about food. Food is only the third essential ingredient to a successful dinner party". It was only when I was alone (as I ward off drunken revellers) that I thought of how friends take that vital chunk of your vainglorious, individualistic persona and make it a different mould from the person that you think you are; like that Big Dipper constellation as stars congregate up in the heavens.

I am becoming social yet again. The way that I am re-training myself in this tricky world of networking is in the right path. You start it with the right people.

to buy or not to bye

Is yellow nicer than the white? At the bottom of my mental vanity vault, the tug of war between G-shock colours is bugging me. Kanye West looked good in yellow and I saw one sporting the white. They both looked amazing. I heard blahs and more blahs about how it should compliment skin tone and colour and........ season, but I don’t buy that idea. My will is highly spirited enough to choose what's good for me but yes, which one is it going to be: yellow or white.

Earlier today, I was embroiled in a stirring conversation with a dear friend about her “lovelife”. I am known for selective listening but surprisingly, I have given her enough of an attention that I’d usually use for the whole month. It must be the matters of lust, sex and love that prompt my “attention gear” to overdrive. Who doesn’t like hearing the humane volatility of us beings?

So, she was in a relationship with this guy for several years. He's of Asian descent but he's been practicing medicine in the land of free choice aeons ago. The only thing that's missing from their relationship was that hypocritical need for "in the eyes of god and laws of the land" tie of marriage. She was happy; he was happy but confused. Few months after years of sweet interlude, he married. Not with her but with another Asian woman. Weak and unyielding to the lure of real love, he opted for the culturally accepted norm; arranged marriage in his native land India. The next thing that followed was typical: she cried and cried and cried and hated men and swathed with insecurities.

I am not going to even try to unravel the complex intricacies of love and its accessories. I don’t even think I have a say about it when I myself was caught in a maelstrom caused by it. Or all of us for that matter. What we can only say is that we try to cope and accept it (learning from it is even damn hypocrisy) as they come and go.

It must be difficult being the recipient of expectations. You go to bed at night trying to weigh things that affect you and you progress with what matters to you the most. However, that doesn’t really help as one decision as imperative as it may be, you end up choosing something where you weep in your aloneness and ridden with great ambivalence. We always face tough decisions. Would you choose your family over your beloved (or vice versa) when it comes to a life altering moment? If only, it's about that black Hussein Chalayan jacket or the mulberry manbag then it'll be easier to decide. Yeah, buy them both and starve yourself all week; or walk to work for a month. Yeah, if only.

As for my friend and her ex-partner, decisions will find them and they just have to live with its consequences. I think I’d settle with the orange G-shock that I have. It doesn’t tell me what to do but I know when it's time.

A Bum Note

Although she's being glance worthy, she remains at peace with herself. She hazily appears as if listening to an imaginary iPod as she taps her left foot gently and nods to the beat.

This old woman next to me stinks like a poor man's garbage. She seems unaware of her surroundings as she mumbles incomprehensively and waddles her feet like a loon. This is London rush hour and seating next to her is a realisation of one, two or more issues why I am deeply affected by her predicament. My blood steams. My heart is jarring. I want to kick that man's shin and then lyse that woman's bingo wings for their derisive look and utter disdain.

Annoyed, the fat woman sat next to her stood up and hissed. The onlookers opposite us validated it with a grin.

This country has taught me old and new things. A really great nation that it was (and debatably, still is), I have nurtured my young adult and middle-aged life in this place I now call home and learned a rather gilt-edge deal about the pros and cons of societal norms. However, I wouldn't have the heart to let my mother and grandmother roam around aimlessly in their worn-out shoes; their pitiful, hungry and downtrodden self.

I miss my old home. We may be poor but we still respect elders and value our family more than life itself. That is something this fat woman and the stubbly ogre do not know. They are too busy and preoccupied sugar-coating their own insecurities.

Evil

Waking up is one of the most difficult transition to go through on a constant basis. Coffee seems to do the trick.

Today seemed more of a tussle between a basic need versus the element called work that sustains the basic needs. Such alterity was caused by long distance calls from friends at the most unholy of hours. With interrupted sleeping pattern, the alarm clock ringing on and on and on was a punishment.

Fast forward 45 minutes and like magic, the bus and the tube conspired to ease it up on me for having slow morning trajectory. Thus, being late as projected was crossed off as a liable deterrent to my social ego and superego. I'd be on time despite the minute details like ironing shirt and finding that matching pair of socks. The tube ride seemed at peace with itself and its inhabitants, less of a grumbling ingrate.

Today, people were in constant communication of trying not to communicate. Non-verbally, they implied their need of being incommunicado by reading newspapers, playing games, sleeping and just playing statue. Looks like a good ol' boring day ahead but I learned from this a million times. Don’t be fooled easily for what's skulked in the shadows might render you begging for mercy or your life.

In fact, I spoke too soon. Recession has finally spoken. Meeting one’s needs is not just about picking ripe fruits in the backyard. It's how hard you work for it. Now, how do you tell people that their services are no longer required?
I don’t need coffee to keep me awake for that.

Anyone down there?

It must be this man's longest tube ride.

He got off at Belsize Park laden with anxiety. His face was red; now profusely sweating. He was mumbling incomprehensively and repeatedly checked his text message re-reading the seemingly mile long message albeit from a loved one. He appeared fidgety and growing restless by the minute.

It takes nine stops to reach his main destination. Reaching Belsize Park, he willed himself like a rocket as he strode out of the carriage banging his laptop carrier against the door. In seconds and he's gone. That must be some text message that couldn’t wait to get some resolve. The underground wasn’t a great help at all in that respect. It prolonged his need for clarification and heightened stress levels.

Theory 1: He got dumped by his girlfriend by phone
Theory 2: His boss found out about his facebook and chatroom accounts
Theory 3: His bestfriend saw his GF with another man
Theory 4: A bout of diarrhoea coming up
Theory 4: Something bad.... Really bad... Totally bad happened.

The recent poll on having mobile signal underground yielded polarised results. I personally love the idea. Internet connection is a better option when gawking at others seems a tedious chore and when talking to oneself is an insipid notion. In fact, I am bored listening to iPod.

But, the chatterbox magpie gets free rein. They'll pollute the already inhospitable milieu.

Ditto

A couple of coughing bouts made her lean away from me followed by a shot of that glaring look. Monday being a sensitive day for me, I thought I'd play this further and so I coughed a few times more. She looked at me yet again and stood up not without a murmur and that hypocritical-sizing-me-up-with-that-look-of-disdain.

Now the seat vacated, it didn't take seconds to get it occupied. This woman seemed nicer and uttered "excuse me" after slightly tugging my manbag with hers. Few minutes later, whilst reading the newspaper, she threw few polite coughs as if trying to clear her throat of some mass of phlegm. It didn’t take long until she started fits of cough that crackled like a rattlesnake. Covering her face with the Metro newspaper as she coughed, the other passengers intermittently glanced towards our direction hoping that their inquisitorial and impertinent looks would suppress the explosive crackling. But she didn’t.

London Bridge is three more stops away. Too late to duck and cover. With the right temperature and viable hosts around, the H1N1 virus surely will thrive around that woman who looks frail, that little boy speaking in tongues, errrr French and others .... and of course, me.

There is a paranoid in all of us. I need autoclaving.