One's half full, the other half empty -- and I feel half cheated

Ramadan means Hari Raya cookies. This year, I've noticed that some cookie makers are very cleverly using layers of inner clear plastic trays to pack their cookies within the jar. The tray has a convex dimple in the middle, so it effectively means that they just pack a layer of cookies round the side of the jar, and there's nothing in the middle -- like the jar of pineapple tarts on the right. As opposed to the jar on the left, which is filled with cookies through and through. Cheating, I say!

Olympian feat

I'm watching the Olympics coverage in dribs and drabs, partly because of the time difference. Last night, the opening ceremony started at 4am here. I loved how it started with a English village scene to a solo voice singing Jerusalem. That poor boy singing alone though, what a case of nerves he must have had. Loved the Bond skit with the Queen, and Mr Bean with the London Symphony Orchestra -- guess they stole Simon Rattle from Berlin for the day.

By then, it was close to 5am and I started to nod off. Last thing I remember was the rock n roll sequence where girl drops mobile, boy finds mobile, boy and girl find each other, and somehow, I don't know how it connects -- but then I was half asleep -- the scene morphs into the house lifting off to show the inventor of the Internet. And in my half-consciousness, I remember muttering, "What, it wasn't Al Gore?" before falling asleep.

Now, 24 hours later, the swimming heats are on TV, and I keep seeing the swimmers walk out with headphones clamped to their ears. What do you suppose they are listening to? Soothing Bach cantatas? Pumped up hip-hop? Their best mates cheering them on? Their coach going, pay no attention to the wuss in Lane 2, he swims like a girl?

Big brother is watching

The five-year-old across the landing has been a big brother for a little more than a year now, and takes his job very seriously.

When we opened our door and gate to go out for a walk with the dogs, he dashed up to his gate across from ours, forefinger to his lips and whispered urgently: "Ssssh! Thamby (little brother) is sleeping!"

"Okay," I whispered back, "I'll make sure the dogs don't bark."

Half an hour later, I opened the door again, this time to take the garbage out to the communal chute.

He dashed up to his gate again, this time a big smile on his face. "It's OK now," he fairly yelled. "Thamby wake up already!"

The good, the bad, the ugly

A train commute to work last week started off badly when some guy stopped at the bottom of a down-riding escalator to answer his cellphone. And continued to stupidly stand there and talk. While everyone coming down the escalator cannoned straight into him. Oh, how I ranted about the selfishness of the Singaporean commuter. And how people who can't multitask shouldn't be allowed cellphones.

Today, on the bus to work, a guy got off at his stop, then hurried round to the front of the bus and held up his palm in a "stop" sign to the driver. What he saw and we didn't until two boys came puffing up to the bus was that they were running to catch it. He was holding up the bus to help two strangers get on it.

You lose some commutes, you win some.

The uses of Coke

I had half a litre of regular Coke in the fridge. It's not something I drink, and L isn't allowed sugary sodas now, it was for guests who were here a week ago -- and now it was getting fizzless.

I desperately tried to remember all that stuff about the other uses of Coke in those oft-forwarded emails that spring up in your Inbox. I never pay attention and delete them, and damn, now that I actually have Coke in the house that I don't want to drink, I don't know what else to do with it.

Coke is said to be good for cleaning things, the acid is supposed to shine out pennies, silverware and toilet bowls. Well, I didn't think my loose change needed cleaning before I spend them all. I have no silverware. And I didn't really want to pour it down the loo.

So L braised a pork loin in it. And it was good. Very, very good.

Now the conundrum. If he can't drink sugary sodas, can he eat something that's been cooked in it?

Ah. Mine. All mine.

Supermarket queue --
Guy in front with nuts and beer --
Saturday night in.

Curled-up dog

Last night, both dogs slept under the covers. When L came back from using the bathroom, he started patting the lumps on the bed to check that all the dogs were in the room (Rupert had been inadvertently shut out of the bedroom before, when L didn't realise that he had followed him out).

Queeni was easily located, Roop not so. L started patting my side of the bed.

"That's my leg."

He patted another lump.

"That's my other leg."

Now he started smoothening down all the lumps on my side of the bed.

"He's between my legs."

And that's how I slept. Contorted. With one dog between my legs and another pressed up against the small of my back.

Dog yoga, a friend calls it.

Who says I don't exercise?

Sumer is icumen in

Nothing says summer like watermelon and stone fruit -- even in the tropics. What's not in the picture are pineapple slices caramelising in the oven.

Day off in mid-week,
Thumbing nose at the masses.
Payback on Sunday.

Our pack guardians

Last week's Economist had a lovely article on how research backs what any dog owner will tell you -- that man's best friend is capable of empathy.

All they had had to do was to ask someone who lives with dogs. If only the researchers had come to my house first. I know when I cry, one dog presses up against me while the other looks anxiously at me and then starts bringing me toys. When there's an empty spot in bed because one human pack member isn't home, they take up sleeping positions on either side of me, body contact all the time, guarding, comforting, protecting.

Well, I've since realised that their empathy also extends to people not inside our little family pack. L had over some friends from his physio/rehab group -- two fellow patients and a physiotherapist. The little gathering took place partly because the mother of one of the patients asked L if he could hang out with her son, to draw him out a bit, get him out and about. The young man had been disabled after a stroke a year ago, lost his job, lost his fiancee, and didn't do anything other than stay in bed all day if he wasn't at the physio group. Nobody said it but I suspect he was also severely depressed. Well, who wouldn't be?

When he came to our house, he was polite but detached, almost sullen. I tried to get a conversation going but it really was just him answering me. But pretty soon, both dogs had taken up position next to him, one on each side. They were getting into that bookend mode of guarding and comforting. In a minute, the younger one was belly up, getting a chest rub. The older one was pressed up against him, her head in his lap. Well, Rupert is always everybody's friend, and a bit of a slut at that, anything for a chest rub. But Queeni was a surprise. She's normally the stand-offish one, and there she was, snuggling to a stranger, chin pressed into his lap. She clearly knew that was someone who needed to be taken care of. And then he asked to take a photo with the dogs. For a brief moment, the dullness in his eyes was lighted up by a flicker of a smile.

Everybody should have a dog.

Invisible ape's

Paws still heavy on my back.

Get off me, monkey.

A little old lady tugged at my elbow at the train interchange and asked me the way to Tan Tock Seng Hospital. I pointed out to her the platform, where to get off after she had gotten on that train, and which line to change to after that.

I knew the way full well. Not so long ago, I was making the trudge there daily, a knot in the pit of my stomach.

And as soon as I mentally mapped the way when I gave directions, that knotty feeling twisted in my stomach again.

I thought the haikus were doing well in keeping my brain occupied and working my way through things. I suppose they are. But today's pitted stomach has only told me that the monkey is still on my back. Now there's a mixed of bodily metaphors for you. Goes to show, I need more haiku writing.

Training day today,
Joining commuting masses.
Morning start. Ugh. Bleah.

Schoolboys at food court
Counting a shared pile of coins --
Enough for dessert.

UEFA Euro 2012 finals

Italian captain
Pinning back his floppy fringe.
How football has changed.

Get food. Vet's. Groomer's.
Long weekend's filling up fast.
There goes the long naps.

My train reflection
Looks just like my mother's face.
When did I get old?

Old man with noodles
Has prepared for the future --
His dinner looks good.

Working on Sunday.
Just rewards will come later --
Three-day weekend next :)

(a smiley is silent, right? using it as punctuation :) )

Wet nose in my face,
Perfect start to Saturday --
Dog days of summer.

Husband with backpack;
Wife slides paper into it.
Perfect partnership.

Countdown to weekend.
Frivolous use of haiku.
Brain slowly dying.

He cannot hear much
But surely he can feel love.
Happy Father's Day.

Thank god it's Friday.
I can switch the brain off soon.
There, haiku done. Bye.

Don't like six-day weeks.
Next weekend's too far away.
Grit teeth and hang on.

Just half the equation

Aunty S left behind a whole lot of pineapple, so I caramelised them under the grill, and now I'm missing just the tipsy cake to go with it. Dining at Heston Blumenthal's Dinner has spoilt me somewhat -- can't eat pineapple now without syrup-drenched cake.

Rupert is missing something too. He's missing Aunty S. He ran round the house looking for her yesterday. Later, he also stuck his head through the neighbour's gate to check if she was still there chatting to them.

Houseguest, suitcase gone.
Futon moved out from spare room.
Complete erasure.

A sunny Sunday.
Should be heading for the beach,
Not going to work.

Finally, Friday.
Just one day's rest before I
Work on Sunday. Bleah.

House guest with suitcase
Dispenses treats and skritches.
The dogs are in love.

The Queen means nothing.
Watching Jubilee broadcast
Cos I miss London.

Had a long weekend.
Lazy. Read. Facebooked. Houseworked.
Didn't write no haiku.

Long to reign over us all

OK, so some queen is celebrating her silver jubilee this weekend. But this Queen has ruled 70 years in human years already. QE II has some catching up to do.

Riding the bus

Another bus route.

A different city outside.

Miss the Number 6.

I took the bus to work the other day. So far (since returning to work after my vacation), I had been taking the train. It's faster. But I do like to take the bus now and then, especially if I have the time to spare. You look out the windows, enjoy the scenery going past, and don't feel that you're commuting to work. The journey and not the destination, that sort of thing.

While on vacation, I took the No 6 bus almost everyday, partly because the bus stop was just 2 minutes down the street while the Tube station was a good 10-15 minute walk. Coming back home on the No 6 bus was a no-brainer, simply because it was a 24-hour service. And above all, the No 6 went past Oxford Street, Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square -- essential London, and you could walk from the Oxford Circus stop to the other essential bits like Leicester Square and Covent Garden.

On the second last day, my travelling companion mused that the bus ride into town everyday would be one of the things we don't think we'll miss, but will miss once we get home. And she's right. After a few days, you develop a routine of looking out for a greengrocer's display; a window that doesn't have curtains so you could see what the homeowner was doing in his spacious kitchen; a man reading by a book light while TV light flickers from the next room.

And now, I'm back on the 163 to work, sorely missing the little details of the No 6. But slowly, the joys of the 163 are filtering back. There's a house that always has a dog napping in the driveway. There's a lovely road with old mossy trees on the divider. A mini-getaway. Too bad I get off the bus and into the office.

Lots of room on bed

But the dogs squeeze against me.

I think they love me.

Eight hours at my desk.
There should be sixteen more left.
Where did Monday go?

A haiku a day.
Wonder if I can do this?
There! Already have.

Someone whose blog I follow recently mentioned a friend who was writing a haiku a day to get over a difficult period in her life. I just wondered if I could.

I've had a great holiday. The type where I didn't do much, yet chalked off all the items on my to-do list (the trick is just to have one a day). Ate some great meals. Enjoyed the healing company of caring friends. And came home totally relaxed and recharged.

And now I'm back at work. L is back on his feet. Last night, he was even walking the dogs, one at a time. I'm grateful. And yet, I'm fearful. Scar tissue hangs heavy.

So I'm wondering how much healing I can achieve by writing a haiku a day. I have a horrible feeling that it will grind to a halt in just a day or two. And it's just the plainest five-seven-five syllable style. No clever joining of two ideas. Clearly, no Basho. Just me.

Quality ingredients

It's a KitKat chocolate wafer, with a personalised wrapper -- a party favour from the neighbour's party for the younger boy who's just turned one. Aint life sweet.

Watching paint dry again

It seems like only yesterday that I had a new puppy on my lap, watching the block across being repainted. Now the block is getting another lick of paint. And the puppy is a irascible teenager.

The stash

Thanks to a generous 30kg luggage allowance, there's a pile of books on the bedside table and slabs of chocolate in the fridge.

The touristy pictures

Synchronised sleeping

Spot the dog

Hmmm

London peeps, what do you say? I don't hear anyone clamouring for bottles of Axe oil...

The best laid schemes of mice and men

Think it was from working on New Year's Day or something, that I had a day off in lieu, and cobbled some other off days together to get a three-day long break this weekend.

Did not think I'd spend my birthday with L in hospital. What a Dragon Year birthday.

Strange eats

Singapore foodies, weigh in on this one: pandan cheesecake.

It's not like New York cheesecake, nor even like baked Japanese cheesecake. It's a brick of pandan cake (and a darker than usual bilious shade of green at that) covered on top with shredded cheese. You know how some pandan cakes come covered with dessicated coconut? Well, this one had shredded cheese instead.

It's from Indonesia, and was given to us by our downstairs neighbour. I don't particularly like pandan cake, and L knew that he would never be able to eat this on his own, so he promptly cut it into two and shared half with the neighbour across the landing. (She was watching in amusement and lending encouragement to the two young girls that were sent up to deliver the cake, as they were summoning up their courage to ring our doorbell because they knew that would set off the dogs.)

Much later, neighbour across the landing asked L how he liked the cake. He conceded that it was strange, and so did she. She thought maybe we should gently heat the cake a bit, and melt the cheese, like what you do with a pizza. L didn't think so.

Must be our palates that are weirded out, because this concoction has apparently been around a while. There's a seal of approval thing on the side of the box that says: Fifth anniversary!

I could be The Stig

I studiously avoided the motoring programme Top Gear on BBC when we first got cable TV. I'm not a car enthusiast -- I don't even know how to drive -- and I was sure that reviews of things that zoom past very fast was plain boring. But Top Gear has a huge following. Last December, they were selling tickets here in Singapore for a Top Gear live special in Perth, Australia. I didn't know that the fuss was about. Until I caught an episode a few weeks ago. Now, I'm hooked.

It's not the cars. I couldn't give two hoots about the car reviews. It was solely the madcap antics of the three larrikin co-presenters. Each episode, they would have an absurd challenge -- oh, converting a three-wheeled Reliant Robin into a space shuttle; racing about an airfield in airport vehicles (a fire engine, fuel truck, a catering truck, a bendy bus, that thing that's stairs on wheels, to see which is the slowest vehicle that's causing flight delays); being roadies for The Who.

A fourth character, the show's test driver, shares the credit lines with the three co-presenters -- an anonymous faceless voiceless test driver called The Stig. They would have you believe that The Stig is not entirely human. His Facebook page (of course he has one) says: Some say that he's Mac compatible, and that he once punched a horse to the floor. All we know is, he's called The Stig.

It's a running gag who The Stig really is. I'm told T-shirts proclaiming "I am The Stig" go fast on the Top Gear e-store. Various names have been thrown up. All male. In the light of International Women's Day, has anyone considered that The Stig could be female? :)

Travel travails

By the third quarter of last year, I knew that I would be making a trip to the UK this spring. My travelling companion happens to be one of those Net savvy people, and after Christmas, had already found a good online deal on the tickets. Before the year was out, we had already booked our tickets.

This was a whole six months before the trip. I had never been so organised so far in advance before. I mean, the year of the trip wasn't even the year of the booking of the trip!

Now, with the trip two months away, we're down to the nitty gritty of making reservations. For overnight accommodation for the short trips away from where we're staying, for restaurant reservations, for theatre tickets.

And ran straight into a brick wall. The nights that we aimed to stay over were full, we could not get dinner seatings at a time that we wanted. This is two months away. On week nights. How could everything be fully booked already? I don't even know what I'm going to have for dinner tonight, how do so many people know exactly when they want to sit down to dinner two months from now, and where they want to spend the night?

There must be very many highly organised tourists out there. I'm in trouble.

And how did we book trips before the Internet?

Spot the dog

As long as you can breathe ...

Happy Valentine's Day

What L calls the Valentine's Party Pack. Not quite champagne in a flute and chocolate truffles, but a doggy coffee mug, breezer cocktail and well, chocolate. That'll do, a party pack for old marrieds. :)

An update 10 hours later ...


How to romanticise a pizza delivery dinner: stick candles on it.

There can be only one Queen

The pillow is wrong. Mummy is not the Queen. I am the Queen.

Saturday afternoon at home

Eat strawberries from a ziplock bag, and you're a frump. Eat them from a cute glass bowl that looks like a ziplock bag, and you're suddenly very stylish.

Friday afternoon

L left the front door open because he ordered a McDonald's delivery, so Rupert stood by the door and waited -- not for hamburgers but for me to come home from work. That's my boyo!

Day off

Tea time with the new cute little milk jug.

Gongxi facai

There's the traditional way to see in the Year of the Dragon ...



And there's this dragon's way of doing it ...



A prosperous year to everyone!

Sharing

The Queen gets the head of the bed (along with the pillows), and the minion gets the foot, and we all get along -- the humans will have to fit somewhere in the middle.

The other item at the foot of bed is Cat, the stuffed toy. One human (who wasn't wearing his glasses at the time) has been known to address Cat, thinking that it was Queeni (being the same colour and size as her) and wondering why he wasn't getting a response.

Blue is the colour

No real reason for this post, just that it's the first blue sky since, oh, Australia, I think. And that was in October. It was so bluuuue, I couldn't resist taking a photo of it. I hope this means that the monsoon is over.

And what do I do on a Sunday when it's the first sunny day with blue skies in months? I go to work. But instead of taking the train (underground), I took the bus, didn't take a seat but stood at the wheelchair bay and stared out the window.

Marking territory

Somebody dragged the life-sized stuffed dog into the crate. Now Nobody can get in.

The suspected culprit looks pleased with himself, and has a glint in his eyes.

It was a dark and stormy night

Beef stew made it better.

Not Interiors Digest

Why is it when you see pictures of reed diffusers, they look so elegant and when you actually have one in your house, it just gathers dust? And how do you clean dust off essence-soaked stickyish reeds? Bet Martha Stewart never had that problem.

Once in a blue moon

... they actually share something ... that is to say, the Queen deigns to let the Other One on the bed.

L thinks that it would be nice if that dog shaped thing you see in the rear -- a life-sized cuddly dog toy -- were a third living, breathing dog.

Q thinks that it would make the bed very, very cramped indeed.