Pocketful of time

Preamble
My capacity for shameful acts is very high. Except when it comes to what I perceive as moral matters (speaking of which, my previous post got rather high-horsey, bleargh).

You see, I’ve trained myself to be oblivious or at least insensitive towards socially embarrassing situations, until someone (usually MY) bleats at me about whatever I’m doing / not noticing. This is of course because I’ve been the cause of so much awkwardness that, at my age, I’d rather head straight to the stage where all is (mostly) forgiven and forgotten.

And this leads to what today’s post is about: an uncomfortably frank account of a day of myself (once SV was subjected to an unpleasantly detailed account of a day I had — that taught her a lesson!).

Sucks!
So! I had a sorta-kinda full-body medical check-up on Monday, having been freaked into it in familial fashion; better the damage you know, is what I’m thinking. Saw fit to take time off work to make the day special, which it turned out to be, sorta-kinda. Could have done without the plunging needle, pulling blood, but c’est la vie.

Encountered an Italian guy at the clinic who didn’t understand that “stool” was required of him (not of me, phew!); the nurses tried “faecal” instead (sounded “foetal” to me), but to no avail. I valiantly stepped in and did proclaim “faeces”. He still didn’t get it. So I used a whooshing kind of sign language, and he went “Ahh”. Yeah, you had to be there.

The needle plunging wasn’t too bad; I averted my eyes, but eventually caught sight of my thick, velvety blood — nearly keeled over at that point, bleargh.

Official results will be in next week, but here’s the initial rub: weight-height ratio is in a bad way. For own safety, have been told to ditch excess baggage to the tune of 5 to 10 pounds! But at least I’m definitely 158 cm. And tell you what — I’m too jaded to get anxious about looking like other people (“I pity the foo’!”), so I’m simply feeling quite focused on becoming a healthier frothing type. Actually went swimming for the first time in a decade (have lost track) today. OK, more like splashing/paddling/wheeling about in the pool, but my insides are all chlorinated now, so there.

Hunger strikes
Knowing I needed to lose some didn’t stop me from feeling I needed to get some … thing to eat. Thought I could dive into a bowl of seared tuna at Doraya (fish is healthy, right?), but it only opened at noon. Bah. So I ended up at Curry Bee II (delicious Japanese curry), and gave my compliments to the chef. Shiok ah.

“Sing your time”
The impressive local arthouse cinema/bookshop/videostore, Broadway Cinematheque, gives a complimentary ticket to its members every year; determined to use mine this year, I trundled down to flavorful Yau Ma Tei right after lunch.

Discovered I’m Not There was on, wahey! Time to spare before the next screening, so I put in a leisure hour in the bookshop, browsing aimlessly, then nursing a glass of iced mochacinno (oops, better stick to just water and tea henceforth).

Usually, I get kinda antsy even in a nirvanic book/music/video store, once I know where I’m heading to next. But am currently reading a book that’s been forcing me into reflections of many ways, so decided to succumb to a life less hurried. Had an awesome rhythm to it, I thought.

So! I’m Not There, a layered/lacquered composite of Bob Dylan’s lives and loves. It made me see that my life’s been parched of poetry and passion and pizazz of late. I’ve lost a bit of blurness round the edges, thanks to requiring myself to be more easily understood in the present milieu. But maybe I’m just knocking another piece of the puzzle into shape; who knows what dreams have yet to be formed.

Charlotte Gainsbourg is très cool. Now I know. Cate Blanchett as a Bob Dylan — I was surprised that she let the woman gleam through, here and there. On purpose? Perhaps! Shall rationalise it so: multi-facetness would implicate some of the yin in the yang. As for the other BDs — celebrity can be a clap-trap, but all managed commendably, whatever their rung on the ladder. Heath Ledger is at least alive and swell on film.

“This machine kills fascists.”

W.A. Downer
Then I went for a haircut in Mong Kok, meandering through a few dodgy sidestreets before I got there. Much too exciting for someone who (ha!) braved the drugbeats of Vancouver.

The salon had a raw, any-haircut-could-happen kinda feel to it. I ended up with some kind of shag, and had the steely-jane hairdresser encourage me to hide my face with my natural-born curls. Yay.

Proceeded to have as relaxing a dinner as could be had at California Pizza Kitchen. JTMJ, the Thai chicken salad is so-so only, la. Made a pit-stop at the shoppe of many knickke-knackkes in Gala Place. Then a whirlwind tour of Langham Place.

The crazy swarms, the crass commercialism … if you want solitude and peace of mind, I’m not going to recommend Mong Kok.

Sleeping time
So my day didn’t end as mellifluously as I’d half-hoped it would (though it did end up in a bout of Taebo). But hey, it was just packed! And with the sort of laissez-faire aura you can only reminisce about once you’re out of the expansive confines of university. So I now pronounce it a good day, and I’m glad to have shared it with you.

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