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Six persons. Four guys, two girls. Three couples. One straight, one bi, one gay. We ordered practically everything on the menu and went for seconds. I think the waiters were a little astounded. The banter was light and uncontrived though we were often assailed by Grace's perculiarly annoying habit of whipping out her camera and snapping mugshots of the food and people in various stages of repasting. Though her annecdote about how her boyfriend, Richmond, 'merlioned' the hor fun they were having for lunch all over her face and blouse while she was going on about some office event was highly amusing, in a gross kind of way.

I understand how it could have happened though. I spewed water all over aileen's windscreen when she was recounting how her classmates brought Yaoi to school to share with friends at the tender age of 13-14. Then it was off to Mox where Grace displayed more of her photography skills and trundled the unfortunate few all over the place just to get a perfect shot. We probably terrorised the patient staff there quite a bit with our requests for more chips.

Off to work again tomorrow. It's a mixed feeling but it'll be nice to get paid for a change and know that one can get off work relatively care-free without the need to worry about tiresome tutorials or having to prepare for some other senseless crap.

Ho Hum

I'm suffering from LPS which stands for Last Paper Syndrome, not Lowly Piece of Shit though there are days when one feels like the latter. In a little over 13 hours, the last exam of my life will be over. No euphoric highs, no jubilant shouts of glee, certainly no nostalgic reminiscing. It seems strange how humans always want to celebrate the passing milestones in their life, to go out with the euphemistic bang.

With great fanfare it started, this prodigious embarkation on a 20 year long journey of formal education and with a whimper it dies. Like a pauper in an unmarked grave uncared and forgotten, this signpost in the journey of life will be passed by with nary a nod of recognition. It seems ironic yet it remains a fitting end. One day I'll look back with some nostalgia as we are wont to do, but not now.

As far as preparations for the papers are concerned or rather the lack thereof, LPS didn't change things much, if only serving to reinforce the pervasive miasma of slackness that was never really dispelled for this exam. Went out with Annie for coffee and a little impromptu shopping, something we haven't done for ages, walking the entire length of Orchard Road from Plaza Sing to Forum, buying CDs from HMV and dinner at the same old Turkish place, Anatolya, where we laughed and gossiped so many years ago. All in all, a day of doing things we'd done so often, so long ago and it was pleasant.

I've become a lot more impatient lately, having stumbled on the online manga site, One Manga, with its free voluminous scans of scanlators' works of the different popular manga series, I gave in to curiosity and embarked on a marathon session of Naruto. Which just keeps getting better and better. Then having finished the series to its current chapter, boredom rapidly set in because we all know studying/reading notes is like wading through pee after having tasted the ambrosia; so I devoured more series, Bleach, Claymore, Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles, D Gray Man and the highly amusing Full Metal Alchemist.

666 Satan (which no, isn't an occult offering but the name of a cute manga by Kishimoto Seishi, the younger twin brother of Kishimoto Masashi, author of the immensely popular Naruto.) is currently the latest target. It's quite amusing really, how their drawing styles are really similar and there are common elements in the plot. Still it remains an entertaining read, though of course nothing seems able to beat Naruto in terms of sheer suspense.

Jio in 666 Satan. Looks familiar? :)

So as you can see, studying for this exam has been rather non-existent, even if one does attach very generous definitions to the term 'studying'. 'Relaxed, intermittent reading' would be a more apt description to sum up the state of preparations and amount of effort input into this last enterprise. Listening to that glorious piece by Clarke, The Prince of Denmark's March from the newly bought Unforgettable Wedding Classics cd, it just makes one feel like marching down the aisle I swear.

Ah well, at least I do get to meet Sean at long last on Sat. Oh and does anyone want to buy a (normal) wii, I found a shop selling modded ones that play english as well as Jap (Read Naruto Shippuden games on Wii) games for a cool $560. Crap. Now excuse me while I attempt to speed read the remaining 6 chapters of this dreary subject.

Trees

The difference was striking. One was tall and vibrant,its dome shaped crown blessed with lush green leaves in abundance. The other standing in stark contrast beside it was its exact twin in height and shape but where the other was covered in rich greenery and foliage, this one was threadbare; the few remaining leaves on its branches brown and crisp, a cruel parody of nature.

Where the first was obviously in its prime, the thick emerald foliage and numerous pearly white flowers releasing their thick cloying perfume testament to its vibrancy; the other was bare, its diaphanous web of branches reaching out to the heavens as if in desperate supplication for mercy, the muddy dried leaves pointing earthwards, drooping but not dropping.

Life standing beside death, the manifestation so obvious, it nearly seems surreal. But death and life is a never ending cycle. Unbroken for all time regardless what religions might have one believe. A fact as ancient as the universe.

The wind blows strongly now, the swaying rustling leaves, the waving branches, a hypnotic mesmerising dance and the chorus, a strange yet soothing melody. The dead tree remains as impassive as ever, its immobile silhouette strangely disconcerting against the backdrop of sashaying trees. The leaves barely move, so still they are, it is as if they had been glued there. A statue amongst birds.

To that question, so long ago. You broke your Promise, I broke my Resolve. The branches are akin to our resolve, the leaves our inherent weaknesses but what makes us human, alive. Winds of opportunity and change come, rustle the leaves and our branches of resolve bend and wave to the temptation.

What should I be to you? Human, vibrant and alive, the flawed yet pleasingly natural individual or the dead dry thing, impassive, immobile and indifferent? I stare out.

Oblivious to its surroundings, the skeletal tree stands out still as it always will, bare, dry, dead.

A Day in the Diary of Juliet Ang.

Juliet Ang. 35. Modern, Single, Forever-Young.

Dear Diary,

I should stop starting with ‘dear diary’ if only because it makes me sound like a flighty 14 year old schoolgirl confiding in her secret best friend all the dark, deep secrets and private thoughts that she can’t bear to reveal, not even to her best friend in life. Things that carry little import but have the potential to greatly mortify, like how you think your best friend’s boyfriend is so hot and how Tracia thinks she’s God’s gift to men but has a face like an over-ripe squash. But old habits die hard and at 35, remaining 14 in some aspects isn’t too bad after all. I feel the wrinkles coming. Shudder.

After the weekly Yoga session at X gym (which was incredibly invigorating as usual), I met Megan and Catherine for lunch at Y. The set lunches as usual were simply divine. It’s been almost 2 months since we last met up (jetting about for work has been exhausting) but I daresay they’ve changed slightly. Meg freshly botoxed, the crow feet conspicuously absent and her glacial face looking more plastic than ever. SKII she declared authoritatively when Cat and I complimented her on her youthful complexion. To which we exchanged a knowing glance, silly woman went overboard as usual, as Meg smiled, a faint upturn of the lips on an otherwise expressionless face. She’d make a fantastic mannequin.

Cat, dear old Cat, still jolly and a little boisterous but certainly looking a little more rotund. A little binge eating after the end of that disastrous relationship with Robert no doubt. She doesn’t like to talk about it but the occasional tremor in her voice when she involuntarily recalls some memory with him, her sentence dying off in mid air are signs enough. Not that it can be helped, I probably gained 3 kg after Jack left. Meeting the girls is always fun though it can take on a competitive air, each proffering some accomplishment as testament to the successful modern woman image.

Three single successful women, not always successful with men, who’ve been friends since 14, often feel the need for a yardstick to measure up with. If only to ascertain that we’ve not fallen behind. We’re friends and yet we compete, fall behind and we’ll console the poor woman, extend genuine offers of help yet be secretly smug that we, for now, are ahead in this never-ending race. So it was with great aplomb that Meg told us she had acquired, not one, not two but THREE Manolo Blahnik shoes which cost no less than $1200 apiece. His shoes are gorgeous, sleek works of art with killer heels that defy gravity, for which the wearer pays a painful price.

And while we congratulated her on her pricey acquisitions, we did warn her about the price she’d need to pay, after all at 35, we’re hardly the stiletto heeled Xenas of the boardroom anymore. Shoes with heels shorter than my paring knife are now the preferred battle gear for office, though as Meg noted, a night out with Manolo Blahnik just feels empowering and ritzy. “You become a different woman in those heels.” Something Cat and I can attest to.

Cat revealed that she had been promoted again, seems like her ability to deliver prompt results and whip recalcitrant subordinates into shape paid off again. “It just means I’ve sold more of my life to the job.” She moaned. But we could tell that she was secretly pleased. Plus it would help her in getting over that useless two-timing sod. Not to be outdone, I let on that I’d been seeing someone for almost 6 weeks now and had just gotten together.

Upon which they flooded me with questions. Who was he? How old was he? How did we meet? What’s he working as? How far have we gone? Prudish as it may sound, I was a little pleased with the attention. Alright, more than a little. After all, when you’re a successful, single woman at 35 and money is no longer an issue, companionship and the thought of having another person waiting for you at the end of the day suddenly seem a lot more important than they did 10 years back, when Power to Me and career progression were the driving forces.

So I answered, enough to titillate but not too much to be shamelessly flaunting, the kind that leaves others resentful and bitter. I’d met Keith at a housewarming party. He’s 32, impishly cute yet mature. Working as an assistant Financial controller in Z. Dated for a month and just got together recently. He’s incredibly romantic. How far, how far? They prodded.

The usual. We’ve already slept together once. Squeals. How was he? Oh not incredibly skilled but a warm and sensitive lover. And attentive, yes, incredibly attentive. Then at this point I had to demur and politely evade further probing from a very enthusiastic Meg as I noticed Cat was starting to look a little morose, eyes hazing over, the first telltale warning signs of doom and gloom.

We finished our tiramisu mostly in thoughtful silence. The rest of the afternoon was spent indulging in our favourite activity, shopping, though I had to plead fatigue after a light dinner of salad and soup at Q. Keith wants to bring me out for drinks at City Space tonight and I need to change out and dump the bags even if he is picking me up. Though I didn’t tell them that obviously, no point making Cat more miserable.

Alright, time for a quick nap before I freshen up and decide what to wear. That Givenchy gown or the JPG LBD. Decisions decisions. Oh and I’m supposed to arrange tea with Aaron, haven’t seen that man for almost a year. Probably been getting a lot of bum fun in his own words. But he’s such a dear and so hilariously risqué. Better catch that nap now.

Juliet.

Whispers

The soft patter of scurrying rodents busy at their tasks echo throughout the hallway, the persistent sound of water dripping from some unseen crevice, the only disturbances in this great darkened hallway. The soaring archs so far up, they are consumed by the inky darkness which seems an inherent part of the ceiling. Dark and forbidding, the heavens themselves devoid of even the frail light issuing forth like tentative snakes from the flickering torches below.

And yet I hear them now, whispers in the wind. The sighs, songs and cries of the long departed, the cobbled stones on which I stand, surrendering these ancient memories, even as they disperse and disappear into the gloom. Glad to be free from their prison of stone, to have found one to share a brief moment of companionship with as they travel onwards, forlorn and forgotten.