Filling His Boots

I just committed the faux pas of wearing my bosses own boots into his OT. How embarrassing.

*****
I remember her telling me with a wistful look in her eyes how much she missed playing weiqi, because it was the only thing she was good at.

Which was simply untrue, because she could ski from the word go, and she could write fairly well. She was good at many things, and could easily have improved if she wanted to.

For a while she was the girl I had fallen for, again, and I thought perhaps I could learn how to play and give her a little slice of her past to be happy about, again.

*****
So it seems I'm not so much a celebrity-date as a celebrity's date for an atas function tomorrow evening. This should be amusing. laugh.

*****
I've finally caught her cold. Her last present to me.

*****
I didn't notice her at first; I was too busy sparring with the blokes of the varsity team.

After I'd beaten the last one she made her presence known by looking me in the eye and raising her blade in a very pointed challenge.

She was pretty; about my height - tall for a chinese girl -, slim, with porcelein skin, short, boyish hair and a sharp chin. Her eyes were large and dark and smoldered with something that looked like either hate or resentment. She had good posture, with a ramrod straight back, and moved with the grace of a cat. There was something very arrogant about her, and she didn't bother to utter a word to me.

It's pretty much an unspoken rule that female sabreurs are few and far between and they usually look... nothing like her.

I accepted her challenge with an equal measure of trepidation and anticipation.

Female fencers are usually slightly slower and less aggressive than their male counterparts; there's no real reason why this should be, but its a generalization that usually holds true.

There was nothing usual about this girl. She didn't waste any time from our perfunctory salute advancing on me and when she lunged it was frightening, the blind speed with which she closed and the unerring accuracy of her blade. Brute instinct took over and I barely deflected her blade as I retreated, saved not so much by skill as by reflexes that still had the edge of youth on them.

The final scoreline didn't reflect the bitterness of our contest at all; fencing is like that sometimes. Her attack far surpassed my own, but my reflexes -just barely- overcame her attack each time. Four to one in my favour.

She ripped off her mask as she spun away and hurled it to the floor, storming off in obvious disgust.

I had to ask. I turned to one of the blokes I'd fenced earlier.

"...?"

"Mate, that's the #1 female sabreur in australia..."

Yes, I could have sidled up to her to make nice, and perhaps gotten to know her a little better. But I didn't.

A time of war, and a time of peace

And then, in this bewildering wilderness She helps me put things into perspective :

Titus 3:3-8
For we ourselves were also once foolish, disobedient, deceived, serving various lusts and pleasures, living in malice and envy, hateful and hating one another. But when the kindness and the love of God our Savior toward man appeared, not by works of righteousness which we have done, but according to His mercy, He saved us, through the washing of regeneration and renewing of the Holy Spirit, whom He poured out on us abundantly through Jesus Christ our Savior, that having been justified by His grace we should become heirs according to the hope of eternal life.

Habit

Sometimes I forget, and I suddenly have an urge to message you funny things like Rosie's irritating ringtone, which is a chorus of frogs croaking, or about the supposed kidney stone in a small child which was obviously a tablet on the X ray, and how her father laughed when I lined up the tablet with the film.

And then I remember.

Finding me

I'm that guy

Fishers of men

Now after that John was put in prison, Jesus came into Galilee, preaching the gospel of the kingdom of God, And saying, The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand: repent ye, and believe the gospel.Now as he walked by the sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and Andrew his brother casting a net into the sea: for they were fishers. And Jesus said unto them, Come ye after me, and I will make you to become fishers of men. And straightway they forsook their nets, and followed him.

Mark 1:14-18

*****
I see it now.
I was not one of the precious hallmates, one of the inner circle of friends.
I was not deserving of truth, or trust.

I was just some... fish.

Empty

After reading her, I have a million thoughts running through my mind.

S asked me why I looked so upset last night - I told her the truth. It isn't worth talking about. It really isn't.

******
I found her blog by accident; it was linked from some other lab rat's blog.
The mask was stripped away.

There were shades of the woman I thought I fell in love with - but there was someone else too. Just a few days ago it felt like only yesterday that we seemed to be falling for each other. Yesterday it felt like an eternity ago - if it even happened at all.

I thought she was different because she had insight into right and wrong.
I thought that made her a good person. I assumed that with insight comes a desire to change for the better.

I can only wish that it was because she had too much free time on her hands to think idle thoughts, and to be influenced by the trite mindsets of the people around her - I can only wish that without lives to save and responsibilities to fulfil to other people it wasn't her fault; it wasn't her fault. It wasn't her fault.

I can only wish. I see myself for what I am - in denial.

*****
I want to be able to hate you.
I want to be able to write down hateful thoughts streaming through my mind, the ways I feel lied to, the people you claimed meant nothing to you whom you "ensnare in your nets" now.

Because then I'll know I had really loved you; because that's how it works, love turns to hate when things fall apart. It's a coping mechanism.
I want to feel a sense of loss.

But all I feel now is emptiness.
All I feel is nothing. I've never been here before. It does make things easier to cope with. It could be a boon to someone else. But it's so damn pathetic. I don't know if I ever fell in love with you, or if I fell in love with someone else, who looked and sounded just like you, but wasn't.

I want to know that all my love... wasn't wasted on you. And that maybe you loved me too.

I want to know it wasn't all a lie.

Shattered

I don't need to write this. And I don't even want to.
I want to just forget everything. Just pick a random direction and keep on walking, and maybe wake up someplace else tomorrow, somewhere kinder and more sane.

But I'm writing it to remind myself. What a fool I've been. What an utter, utter fool.

*****
Perhaps the worst thing about reading her blog was seeing just how she looks out upon the world.
Or perhaps it was learning just how she sees herself - User. Manipulator. Callous fisherman. Mixing up the myriad men waiting in line for the final catch.

Or perhaps, and more likely - it was the stunning realisation that everything we shared; every memory, every laugh, every tear shed, every embrace, every moment of passion, every moment of sadness, every moment of pain, every crazy thing we did, hand in hand... every I love you...

... was it all just another lie? Like all the others?

*****
I pinned her down and tried to tell her two things which might change her life; she couldn't hear. Just wouldn't hear. Just refused to - in her sad pathetic little world, I was just trying to win, to get in the last say.

What last say can there be in response to a lack of truth? I wasn't talking for me. I was talking for you, you fool.

And then she cried, in fear, in rage. In silence. Gasping for breath.

And then I left.

*****
There are two things you should know.

The first is that you will never be alone. A girl with a pretty face and good body is a piece of meat that attracts male attention like flies to carrion.

You will never be alone. You need never fear being left on the shelf; you will always have your pick amongst men.

But you will never be able to keep the ones of any consequence, or significance, if you stay the way you are. Those that remain, that you manage to keep - will seek to take and not to give, will seek to hurt instead of help.

The second is that there are two paths you can walk down, from here.
The first is to stay as you are. Continue to prostitute yourself out to the God of money. Stagnate and let your dreams die one at a time, distracting yourself with your pathetic little games. And I pray your bubble will never burst and leave you unhappy, and that God will grant you good fortune and find you a good man to be your salvation and give you comfort.

The second is to chase down your dreams. Focus. Abandon things of no consequence. Cast aside pride. Humble yourself. Work. Endure suffering. And be all that you can - the building blocks are there. You have been granted gifts by God, who knows why. And one day when you are done, repay all the kindnesses that have been shown you, in grace and gratitude, when you have achieved all your dreams and earned your happiness.

*****
But after reading her I teared, as she cried her tears of rage, her face contorted into an ugly mask, hyperventilating and gasping for breath.

I teared in sadness and regret.
Regret at the realisation that perhaps I had been wrong about her all along.
In the realisation that my faith, my belief in her may have been misplaced all along, and that she will probably never choose the second path. Not because she is not able to, but because it is not in her nature to make that choice.

I see it now. It wasn't K that I put on a pedestal - it was you.

*****
I didn't see an irresistably sexy woman when I met you. I saw a girl. Just a girl. Decent looking, but just a girl.
I got to know you, and I thought I saw something special.

I didn't look on your house, and your family and see poverty and difference. I saw a home, and people. Just people.

I didn't look upon your friends and see common people with common moralities and common dreams. I saw people. Just people.

I don't begin to dare ask what you saw in return.
I don't want to know anymore.

BabeL

Somedays I can't help but recall fondly my days as an emergency doctor in the NHS, when communication was effortless 99% of the time, when the 0.5% of the time a Chinese speaking patient walked into the department I was special, and when the 0.5% of the time a patient came in with thirty relatives presenting with many many paining communication was a lost cause, but it was such a laugh.

It's been three years, and the visceral desperation everytime a non-speaking patient walks in the room and babbles at me has never left me.

Visceral desperation is an understatement. I don't think I possess the vocabulary to do justice to this burning, choking, tachycardia-inducing flood of undirected resentment, anger, and even fear that rises within my gut and threatens to explode out my eyeballs everytime some linguistically challenged poor old biddie comes in and babbles insistently at me in hokkien. It isn't even about swallowing bile. This is just raw, stark emotion threatening to overwhelm me and result in the world's first clinic Columbine.

This morning

Me : Hello
Old woman : bu ke yi, jiang hua yu (cannot, speak chinese.)

Me : Ke yi jiang Ying yu mah. Wo de hua yi hen cha. (my mandarin sucks, could you please speak English)
Old woman : Bu Ke Yi. (No. Period.)

Great. Just great. My FIRST PATIENT of the day. Okay, keep your hands under the desk nice and far away from her throat...

Halfway through the consult, when I am clearly labouring to translate my anglicised brain into stilted pidgin mandarin the old bird switches to Singlish.

Keep it together. Keep it togetherrrrrrr

*****
I was somewhat disappointed to discover (through Google translator) that the mandarin for the adrenal is sheng shang xian.

Or, translated literally : that thing above the kidney.

Funny

Laugh

Lazy Sunday on call

My ex houseman left me atas chocolates in the ward fridge!

How sweet =)

*****
The episode was very strange.

(setting : a year ago, shortly after post G holocaust, just before post C disaster, when Re-minisce was very, very, very, very, very, very, VERY sad)

My super down-to-earth mother, whose idea of a pretty girl is someone with the figure of a tangerine, whose whole life centers about playing the piano and going to The Club, and who brushes shoulders with celebrities perhaps once every thirty years, creeps up from behind me while I'm messing about listlessly on the Brother's computer and asks, with unconcealed concern, "Would you like to see a vet?"

I reply with all the enthusiasm of a lemur on tranquilizers : "Nooo, thank you, I'm feeling quite all... what?"

Bravely, she soldiers on : "She's not too bad looking... Her mother wants her to meet you!"

My mother's been hacking on persistently with this whole arranged marriage (It's a control issue. I know it is. Choose the Wife. Control the Son.) thingie for ages now.

Years of conditioning have turned my reactions pretty Pavlovian.

"No."

"Her practice is at.... you can drive past a few times and look at her..."

"What?? That's just crazy. That's like stalking."

"It's not. And actually she has a boyfriend."

"WHAT? Then why would I want to meet her!"

"Because her mother doesn't like the boyfriend. He's Ang Moh."

Roll eyes.

"NO. PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE NOW."

*****
A few days back it was an SMS :

"Surgeon or Opthalmologist?"

It took me a while to figure out what she was going on about.

In a strange way... I almost feel... proud of my mother.

Perhaps I can capitalize on all this. hmm...

Farewells

Perhaps we're just shaped by our experiences and the choices we make in life down to the way we choose our words, perhaps everything is influenced by the paths we walk; or perhaps He guides our hands.

As we said goodbye, I began to write - Take Care, you.

And then mid sentence, I don't know why, I hit the backspace key, and wrote : Be well.

The stranger's words appeared on screen :
Take Care, you.

Exactly as I had written, capitals at all. An echo.

Significant. Other.

S and I were joint trainers to a group of junior fencers. She was one of the college babes (ah but the fencing team had almost all the babes. laugh) :
petite, tanned, vivacious, with a brilliant smile, gentle eyes and an irresistable Canadian drawl. When she fleched she would set loose a blood-curdling banshee-wail that would freeze the boys dead in their tracks, like bunnies caught in the headlights of a charging ferrarri; coupled with her left-handedness she left most of the blokes trailing in her dirt. Whenever I challenged her to bouts it was always with some trepidation that I might just wind up like J, the poor sod who went 10-0 down to her.

She probably doesn't know this, but a few of the juniors not-so-subtly asked me if we were together; it used to leave me completely bemused since in truth my mind was always so troubled and so very far away; I probably wouldn't have taken much notice of Claudia Schiffer had she fallen out of the sky right into my lap. (well, ok perhaps just Claudia.)

Interestingly, one of the other fencing babes did notice, and if I'm not wrong, she actually figured it all out; I'll never be able to understand how.

*****
London, on a cold winter's night, and he found himself holding her hands; his mind was a mess, filled with sympathy and anger at a story she'd just told him, filled with affection for a silly creature who almost knocked herself out on a blow-dryer in the 'loo (and raised quite a welt on her head in the process) and perhaps a little lonely, cast adrift in london amidst predatory and hormonal immature little girls. And so he found himself stammering to her that he might like her; perhaps that was all it took to fracture their friendship... or perhaps it was the apology somewhat later which must have seemed like a lame attempt at a retraction, that did it in.

In truth this is what happened : as the boy spoke, he heard his own words : "I think... I like you"

And in his head everything clicked into place. I... like you?

These are the strongest words I can say.
But somewhere out there is a girl that I (still) love, and I have been running, and running for the longest time... because... of so many, many reasons. And if I do not stop running, I will be here, tonight - a dozen different nights, a dozen different turns of spring, summer; autumn and winter... holding a myriad girls' hands in mine and mouthing words that aren't significant enough. I will turn liar, and user. I will lose my own truths.

And so that was what he tried and failed to explain to her on the phone the next evening, and that is why he was trying to apologise to her : he had meant the words as they were spoken, but they didn't quite mean what either of them had been expecting.

And that is why he flew headlong across the world, to tell someone that he loved Her, and could never see Her again, because she was seeing someone else.

Disillusionment

Just noticed a touching little piece that Brainjuice wrote here. The take home message :

Based on John 2:24-25 ("Jesus did not commit Himself to them . . . , for He knew what was in man"), the passage notes that "Disillusionment means having no more misconceptions, false impressions, and false judgments in life; it means being free from these deceptions."

I disagree with her; I don't think that disillusionment was her salvation. It was Grace that allowed her to turn around after her bout of self-pity, and be the wonderful mother I always knew she would be.

Brainjuice and I go back a ways; we were in halls together back in uni. She was a student of Literature, I, of the human condition.

I don't really remember how we became friends; back then I had a very large and diverse group of friends. I think I was a very much more approachable person then, until Armageddon struck and I gradually became a more withdrawn, bitter individual, allowing my innate cynicism to creep back into my heart and perhaps stepping a little further and further away from God.

I remember a particularly short friend of mine, G (he was cute, like a button. Short with big eyes. Looked a bit like stitch, from Lilo and Stitch. He was part of the contingent of Malaysians I preferred hanging out with to the "fake" Singaporeans; who used to cheerily greet me Doctor in Cantonese when I would slouch in wearily from another exhausting day of all day lectures and practical demonstrations, and who were always good for a cheap watered hall-drink after dinner) warning me once in cantonese - that one is taken. Be careful.

I remember thinking -- taken?

I knew she was considered "hot" - it was an unspoken thing amongst the blokes; tallish, large eyes, fair, outgoing, sang like an angel, gentle but with a roguish bent (laugh I remember some of the things you used to tell me you saw, looking out your wnidow, Brainjuice.) I wasn't blind. And yes, we were friends close enough for us to visit each other once in a while.

Yes, she was marked, by one of the other Malaysians who wanted her so badly his eyes were red all the time (for some reason).

Taken? Yes, Somewhat later she was in a steady but slightly... non ideal relationship with another Malaysian born BBC guy.

But... taken?
I was bemused. If only they knew the things that were really going on in my head.
I never moved in on her, never tried to... take.

I was good for friendship; for sharing laughter and tears with. I was good as a confidant; there were many people who came confiding to me in those days, not just brainjuice. And in return I had special little gifts - when she sang with me, as I played my heart out to a past irretrievably lost, a year later. As I babbled excitedly to her about a present unfolding which was unthinkable.

I was good for friends.
You don't need to be untaken to give, and receive friendship.

*****
I remember a particularly unpleasant Singaporean law student -- always sneering subtly at me, for reasons I couldn't fathom. So Christian on the surface. So slimy.

I remember him sneering at me when we had barely met - after I had batted off the attentions of some of the girls (the first weeks of life abroad are turbulent times when girls, bereft of their normal, familiar male attentions from home seek out partners to give them solace and companionship... and perhaps more) by telling them I had a complicated history with a girl from australia.

I remember him curling his lip and saying How Very Convenient.

And perhaps for the first time in my life, I remember feeling pure hatred.

If you only knew.

I could have unleashed the tides of sadness that I had endured upon him and ranted about the girl with that... indefinable something... in her eyes. He would have seen the truth in mine as I raved. I could have smashed his unpleasantness into the ground.

Instead I remained silent, and turned away.

*****
Brainjuice wasn't the only "hot" friend I hung out with. I didn't just hang out with hot girls, mind you. I hung out with lots of different people in those days, mostly to let them talk, and hear out their sadnesses and frustrations.

But there were a couple of girls I liked talking to; one was a law student from Hong Kong. I don't remember what we used to speak about in her room; I'll unashamedly say I liked hanging out with her simply because she was very, very pretty. Laugh.

The other was R, a girl from Malaysia, who was pretty in that Hong Kong Actress kind of way - tall, extremely slim figure, large eyes, lanky. We used to hang out in our rooms, or head out to Pret for a coffee... and talk about everything. Philosophy. Science. Art. The Universe. There was something between us that let conversation flow, when it needed to, and be comfortably silent when there was nothing to say.

I lost touch with her after halls. I wonder what happened to her?

*****
I got to know N online, she hung out with the crowd from an exclusive mIRC channel. In later years she visited occasionally on her jaunts down to London from Southampton.
She was tallish, long-limbed, endowed, tanned, toned - from the sailing she used to do - and slept over in a very, very short kimono.
I remember an odd Sunday evening at the fountain at Whiteleys... looking in as if from a window at myself, running my fingers over her face as she cried, hushing her, and telling her she was still beautiful, it was okay... I think we hugged after that; I'm not sure. Wait, yes we did.
It sounds like the kind of story guys love to tell; fucked her senseless and left her crying in the dirt.
But no; it wasn't like that at all. That was the first and last time I ever touched her, and it was in compassion and... a different kind of love, to give comfort to a poor, poor girl who had smashed through a car windshield with her face, and miraculously only suffered minor, tiny, pinpoint lacerations from microscopic shards of shattered glass - in retrospect, she must had her own Guardian Angel standing over her.
She was a pretty girl who knew the value of her looks, in her career in life, and thought she had lost it all...
She healed without a scar.

Several hours later, I made that memorable headlong flight across the length of the world.

*****
Then there were my buddies Anna, a girl of french / English descent who was very disturbed once when I, lying on the floor of her room played with her nail polish buffer and exclaimed how remarkable it was that a strip of plastic could get my nails so shiny, and Dimitra, the cool, sex-exuding chain-smoking pool expert.

And of course there was Areya, who was my most constant source of comfort, as we walked in silence throughout the darkest parts of London, and looked out onto the world.

*****

Yes, most of my friends then were women. As they still are.

I'm not naive : neither too self-effacing nor too brash; I know who I am, my limits and my capabilities, and I know full well I could have led a very different life had I chosen to. I knew the moments of insecurity and loneliness which I could have taken advantage of. I knew the moments when they came - a hand on her face, a hand on her shoulder, her hand on yours, a glance too prolonged, a yearning to take that someone crying brokenly on your couch up in your arms, wipe away her tears and tell her everything will be okay... I let them go.

They were my friends.

Most of my friends were, and are women - not because I want to "take".

It's because women need to unleash their troubles on you, yes - but they also listen.

Men sneer.

*****

I don't know why I've proved so good at losing touch with old friends.

Right now I'm a little lost; perhaps a tad disillusioned.

Obi Wan wields a blue lightsaber

I took time off from the soul-destroying audit tonight; when J called I seized the chance to flee this lab which is fast turning into my prison to grab a quick drink. The bar owner is her friend and I had a chance to test the Clayderman grand piano which played surprisingly well; we then wandered over to his house to playtest his kid's new lightsabers (the expensive type) and watch a few batman anime clips.

Now I'm back here doing my hated audits again.
On the bright side I brought my sabre and bible back with me.

Nobody mess with me. I'm packing some serious heat.

*****
Legend tells of a legendary warrior whose kung fu skills were the stuff of legend...

hahahaha. I wish I had watched Kung Fu Panda in the cinema. Two thumbs up

Be still.

If I let myself go, but I won't -

Gut wrenching sadness. Grief. Loss. Missing.
Resignation.
Acceptance.

If I don't -

ok most moments.
sudden moments of recollection at odd times, in full clarity like I'm right there. happy moments, that bring sudden tears to my eyes if I'm not careful. Worst in the presence of others. Must be careful.

*****
So are you happy now?

*****
J's been bringing me out a lot these last few days to distract me from... things.

Meeting lots of famous people, my hair a mess because I've been running my hands through it, don't have a clue who they are. It helps a little.

Sometimes I think what a nice place, I've got to bring... then I just stop.

Frustration

So I'm standing here in the middle of the lab, hurling an eraser around the room off the ceiling and the walls because I don't have my sabre with me and I don't know what else to do.

I don't know what to do.

I don't know how to undo the damage that I have done.
I don't know whether I should; I don't know if I'm doing the right thing. I don't know if I manage to start where I'll wind up, or whether I'll just go crackers again.

I don't know whether I'm hurting alone.

I don't know why I'm bouncing this stupid eraser off the walls, it isn't really making me feel any better.

And now I don't know where the eraser's gone.

Serendipity

The thing about serendipity is that it happens.

It really does. Just not very often.

And if you're lucky enough to be right there in the thick of it, you feel... depersonalised because you never believed in stuff like this.

It looks the way it does in the movies to the people around you, but to you, while its happening to you, while fate has you bound and gagged as her helpless victim... it isn't all that wonderful, isn't simply that swell of excitement and joy everyone else perceives, from the outside in.

It's bittersweet.
Something rare.
Something painful.
Something good.
Something won.
Something lost.
Something filled with hope for tomorrow.
Something mourning hope lost yesterday.
Something that can bring life, to life.
Something that can die in an instant.

Something to dream about
or something to escape from dreaming about.

*****
I remember as I leafed through the magazines at the QVB, watching for You out of the corner of my eye, killing time.

And then You were there, walking towards me; our eyes met; there was that look in your eye, that I knew by heart.

You came to a stop before me, and we smiled at each other in silence for a while.

*****
She hadn't closed the room door as she changed; she probably thought he was dozing on the couch.

It happened quite by accident; he caught a glimpse of her naked back.

And then he turned away, and sat down at the piano. And played a dirge with a heavy heart.

Bu She De

There were so many things I was looking forwards to doing, or doing again with her.

These were just some of the things :

Dinner at Iggys again, for our anniversary
Dinner at Le Saint Julien, Fullerton waterhouse, for her birthday
The bird park
asti at a park
running every tuesday
singing along in the car
Duck tours
Hotel stay - pseudo tourist
Dinner at michaelangelos
Dinner and drinks at Oosh
Drink at cafe del mar
Let her criticize my servers
Wall-E
Sydney
sleep, just sleep

*****
In the aftermath, I can see that I was just being selfish.

The plan was to stay friends, the way she wanted me to.
It was a confusing friendship where we could tell each other we missed each other, or kissed or hugged at certain times, but not others. She held the reigns of the when and wheres.

The plan was for me to watch her moving on; because I knew that she would go first; my life is filled with the burdens of audits and studying, hers is a (comparatively) carefree, hedonistic life.

I thought I would be able to be strong and bear the pain and shrug it off, be selfless. For her, as always.

But this morning I was weak, and I faltered.

Again.

Unwelcome

I know I said too much for you, and I know there were many times I spoke off the top of my head and hurt you.

There were some things I couldn't tell you, face to face.

I didn't tell you that J, whom both E and you wanted to hate so much as the cause of your problems - stayed a true friend to me, yes. But she also told me she admired you, that you had managed to find a way to remain friends despite what happened between us, and not to let you out of my life - that one is so clever! -; perhaps in the future she could seek you out for advice.

You were so wrong about her.

I didn't tell you that when my mother found out we had split up - my mother, who despite my reassurances you were convinced didn't like you - was so distressed, and asked me why. And said you were such a nice girl, what had I done to you, and to go and patch it up, it's just a silly quarrel. And that she had been waiting for good tidings from us.

This, the same mother who said in the aftermath of G that that one could never be trusted, she had eyes that were not trustworthy, and who called K a whore and a god knows what else, for my committing the cardinal sin of calling her up long distance on the family line.

I kept telling her I didn't want to talk.

You were so wrong about her too.

I didn't tell you that I had come to the realisation some time back of the kind of person I need to fall for - a good Christian / Catholic girl, with morals more like my own who truly believes in truth, love, courage and faith; someone who I could bring to church on sundays and bow our heads together with before God, and repent for our unworthiness, someone who I could laugh with until I die. Someone, as S, Js flatmate said, like K.

I didn't tell you that I passed up that realisation for you, because I already loved you, cheap china cracks and all - and that was all that was important to me.

*****
She said she had a dream which she couldn't remember, and woke up with tears on her face, the other day.

I tried sleeping; I had a dream, so rare for me, but I don't remember much of it. I don't seem to recall any tears, but now I just can't sleep. I just can't. I can't.

Played the piano for a bit, and rediscovered my forgotten ability to play grand sounding random gibberish on the piano - it only seems to come out when disaster strikes, sadly. Or with enough whisky, which is probably much the same thing.

Amd now I have to go back to my audit.

*****
I saw a patient today bearing the name Mohinder Singh. I smiled a little at the thought that it would have made you laugh.

No such thing as an amicable breakup

The only way two people can part amicably and still stay friends is if both people have stopped feeling for each other.

I was looking forwards so very much to a nap, and watching Wall-E with her today. So, so, so very much. I'm so very tired. Just so very tired.

*****
Just in case you read my blog, and just in case you threw away my letter without reading it; just in case, if you did, you feel one day like knowing what was in it.

It was this :

Dearest T,

I'm sorry that I have to do this, I just don't know what else to do.

Whichever one of us moves on first will hurt the other, if we really still love each other. That's just the way it goes. I don't want to be hurt by you, and I don't want to hurt you.

I'm going to miss you, and your family so very, very much.

With all my love,
' Boy.

PS : I'm going to miss telling you all about the interesting and funny things that happen in my day; i miss it already.

*****
My last memory of us wasn't of us leaning against each other watching a movie that made us both laugh; it wasn't of us being warm and comfortable and happy one last time before I caught her by the shoulder with my hand, smiled, and shook it hard in that friendly way we use to kid with each other about, once, as we said to each other "see ya, thanks for all the memories". I wanted so very desperately for... something truly amicable, but I guess she was right : that would have been selfish of me, to dictate the terms of our passing.

So instead my last memory of us was of her sitting by my side in the car, looking beautiful and immaculate as always to my biased eye, glancing away and never meeting my eye, her face an impassive mask, her mind intentionally closed to mine while I struggled to say that I had nothing left to say; each last second passing inexorably by, counting down to our closure.

I, tired, fatigued, dishevelled after 48 hours on shift asked her what she wanted.

She : "I don't want to be friends anymore".

I said "Wait", and handed her the letter, my shortest ever to her, to date.

And then she stepped out of our... no, my car, bumped into a client and went to work, and I drove away.

So thank you, T, for setting us free.

*****
Thank you for being my friend, my lover and my confidant during the time we were together. I'm sorry I hurt you with too much truth, and I'm sorry you hurt me with too little.

Thank you for the times you made me laugh, and for the times I made you laugh. I still can't help but smile when I remember you singing uninhibitedly and slightly tonelessly in the car, waving your hands around like a lunatic.

I'll never forget us, and all the wonderful memories that we made together.

Thank you.

Goodbye, Bonviva girl. I really, really hope you find your way, and I wish you only bluebirds.

This won't mean much to you, I know, but God bless you, and your family. You will be in my prayers.