This blog may disintegrate into the ashes of oblivion. I understand that my paltry excuses can no longer sustain its life.

This space initially started because I had to rant about a teen’s first-love and A-Level frustrations. It then became a way to keep in touch whilst overseas, to muse about cultures and societal expectations; to bridge the gap between my past and present. More recently, it became a way for me to keep my sanity when I truly did fall for someone, swimming against the tides as my barrier exams opposed the emotional suffrage; cut into half, split into two. My heart and mind were in pieces.

But it came together. And it doesn’t mean that I now live without drama, not without fodder nor reason to commit; I just don’t feel that my life has to be written as often now.

Which is why my posts have been far too few in between, their content not quite tied down by a common theme. I don’t want this to resort to a page that pens down the inconsequentialities of routine. Nor am I ready yet to let go.

So, to the (roughly) five people who read my blog still, here are my apologies should you did come by long before, only to be graced with the same stalwart absence.

This post should count as an update; an indication that I am still living life.

I sit langurously here in the Eleanor Harrald computer room, pure butter shortbread biscuits crumbed at my fingertips. I suppose I should not smear the keyboards, but in the circumstances where I now finally have time to take a breather, I care little in what buttery vandalism I partake in.

I’m still in the hospital, a different one at the moment, far thrown out in Whoop Whoop Land. I had thoughts of working here; now I’m not quite certain still. At least I’m encasing myself in an interesting milleu of surgical manifestations; Rahul once told me that one knows it if they find themselves reading it in depth when they get home. I cannot help but agree, to some degree, with his decree.

What goes on beyond Medicine you may ask? As I am now staying with a family, I find myself quite absorbed with the domestic dynamics that has not quite fizzled me out yet. I help the kids with the homework, read to them before they go to bed and do my bit with household chores. Yanty’s helping me fiddle with my green fingers, for I’ve just potted two herbs in the garden. I still go regularly to the gym (a new one now since I stay in the ‘burbs) and I do meet up with my cherished friends.

I have started on those Japan photo entries, if your excellent memory somewhat yearns for this catching line. I have just finished a book written by the wonderful Liza Dalby - she is the only non-Japanese geisha; her book a documentation of anthropological observations she has made in her three years as one. Immersing myself in Ward Work (even before I am salaried, unfortunately) has diverted my attention away from the things I enjoy in life, but Liza’s words somewhat recreate the refreshing smells of Kyoto; of a time when little else mattered.

I will be back soon, I promise.

I’m not in the habit of doing things like this, but since this questionnaire affair has turned out to be quite the craze, I must not be left out! Honestly, it’s just the perfect excuse to be narcissistic. And I only have time for 9.

1. It seems quite absurd to me that people like generic bread. No, not that warm buttery scent of toast (for which I do love once in a while); that sodden plasticky excuse that comes packaged in the supermarkets is never ever palatable! My best friend says I’m starting to become a food snob - in which I will attempt to bring you back to my humble beginnings when we used to eat generic bread daily - for I have reverted to the belief that added chemicals are not tasty. And to complicate matters further, I still consume them (for my housemate buys it)…though it doesn’t mean I greatly enjoy them.

2. I don’t like fat patients. It doesn’t mean I crack fat jokes (although some of those ‘Yo Momma so fat..’ ones are GOLDEN) because I understand how difficult it is to lose weight. But seriously, a girl with a BMI of 60 getting impregnated by a boy 1/10th of her size? An overtly chubby woman who says she can’t mobilise because the nurses won’t give her a frame? It’s not me, it’s water weight?! Give me a break.

3. The perfect man for me would: have Italian blood, be able to prepare Japanese food and have a British accent. It is reasonable to assume that I have yet to meet him, though the closest contender so far has a seriously wicked British accent.

4. My mother once told me that if I were in Antartica, the first frozen body part to fall off would be my nose. I thought about it as I experienced my first winter in Australia; it made me laugh out loud when I was stuck in sub-zero temperatures in Tokyo Disneyland. Now at least, it’s still intact as I breathe.

5. I am really quite a clumsy person with a questionable attention span. The Singlish term that would suitably describe me is ‘blur sotong’ - loosely translated as ‘unaware squid’. People have used it to up their Cuteness Factor, but I find nothing advantageous. It has occasionally stunned me to confused silence when asked questions; often it presents as bruises when my toes accidentally hit the IVT metal pole in the wards. And sometimes, during boring meetings, it makes me imagine what I would look like if I had 8 arms.

6. I own 6 pairs of black leggings. They all look similar, they’re mostly in perfect condition and often I re-use the same one that’s just been out of the wash. Despite me using them fairly regularly, I don’t know why I have a fistful of them. This is the perfect introduction to what my wardrobe looks like.

7. I am known to have steady hands when I play Jenga; I have used that to defend my interests in Surgery. I also love to do Jelcos, intubate the crap out of my patients and play Sudoku (in pen) in my spare time; Jimi agrees I should be in Anaesthesia. I have a huge crush on an ED Reg, so I gullibly believe that doing Emerg would give me a chance to score. These are the immature things that run through my head when a Consultant asks me what I want to do in the future.

8. My Silat (an Indonesian form of Martial Arts) instructor says I have a powerful punching/kicking technique. I attribute it to a growing need to vent out some Ward Politics Frustrations. I aim for the head and neck when I attack; he says hitting the chest is better. Being Medical, I know there are so many easier (and quicker) ways to kill a human being; the problem is, you need the assailant to be drugged up and dependent, which is not the likely case.

9. I have an unhealthy obessession with smoked salmon. The reason why I think it will eventually kill me is - save for it’s high sodium content (hypertension!) - is that I have yet to find a packet that suits my tastebuds. They’re not incredibly affordable, which makes taste tests an occassional affair, but I believe that out there somewhere, a dying salmon would be perfectly prepared, waiting for me. I love it so much that I sometimes dream of being proposed with a ring stuck in the orifices of a slice.