Making cake

I have only made cake a grand total of 3 times in my entire life.

First was in high school when two of us tried to bake a cake for a friend’s birthday. We took it out of the oven brown and hard and decided it was inedible. So we brought it out to the birthday girl, everyone sang her the obligatory song and then we just pressed it flat into her face. Cake fight ensued.

The second time was about a year or two ago, when I decided to make blueberry cheesecake as a birthday present to my mom. It didn’t involve any baking, but a whole darn lot of mixing, melting, and frothing. I created such a racket in the kitchen and I was so exasperated that mom came in to help me make her own present. We stuck it in the fridge and when it came out after the designated amount of time, instead of staying cake-shaped, it fell apart into some form of mushy goo. My dad and brother took a few bites each and offered wry smiles and polite remarks while mom, bless her, had a few scoops and declared it was “just like blueberry cheese ice-cream“!

The third time, on Wednesday night, I decided to bake a chocolate cake for Nasty’s birthday. I spent a whole evening egg-cracking and putting in double the necessary amount of sugar because the kitchen scales went bonkers and I ended up frantically scooping sugar out of the mixture and into the sink before it’s all melted together. I beat and mixed everything with one measly little fork and painfully thought about how I should do more push-ups.

I plopped the whole thing into the oven and proceeded to watch Friends until the whole house smelled like cake when I suddenly remembered it’s been there a bit too long. It was chucked into the fridge until midnight nears when I carefully balanced it on one side of my bike handlebars and prayed for its safety (instead of mine) as I navigated late night traffic to Nasty’s apartment.

While cutting the cake, Nasty casually commented that it was, “um, very firm“, and upon eating it, declared that it’s “more brownie than cake“. After it’s set in his fridge overnight, and he’s had more of it, the verdict is that I’ve really made “one giant brownie“. The fact that it’s actually edible, stayed cake-shaped, and he’s still eating it (or so he says) – I’ll take that as a sign of success!

One year on

Today is exactly one year since I came to London.




Maybe I should go “celebrate”. Maybe go out and eat a plate of char siu fan.

Although I don’t know what I’m “celebrating” about.

And I don’t know what eating a classic Hong Kong dish of roast pork and rice for dinner has anything to do with coming to London.

I feel the need to mark the occasion somehow.

But I don’t know why I should.

Hmmm.




Exactly one year ago today, I stepped off my plane from Hong Kong and found myself sitting on a bench in Heathrow, excited of a new start.

In some of my lowest days, my friends provide me with support and encouragement, saying that, from experience, it takes at least one year for people to settle down and find their place in a new location.




Today, it is one year.




In one year, I have learnt to cook. (No mean feat!)

In one year, I have started recycling. (In HK, it’s an activity I view with cynical hippy undertones.)

In one year, I have discovered, and learnt to face, some truly horrible things about myself. (Like the tagline to the movie Moon: “250,000 miles from home, the hardest thing to face…is yourself”)

In one year, I have discovered theatre and it’s consistently put a big grin on my face.

In one year, I have discovered cycling and have become geeky enough to buy waterproof trousers for the rain.

In one year, I have discovered the great outdoors and bought my first hiking boots.

In one year, I have cried more than I’ve ever cried in my entire life.

In one year, I have been utterly down and beaten and managed to survive the recession.

In one year, I experienced real Christmas for the first time and found it utterly magical.

In one year, I have discovered that being by myself and exploring can actually be a lot of fun.

In one year, I made a snowman for the first time since 1989.




When I started writing this, I didn’t know what there is to celebrate.

But looking back, I think perhaps there is something to celebrate after all. Whatever it is. Even if it’s just an excuse to treat myself to a meal out.




And so char siu fan it is.

Bath

Been away.

Not anywhere.

Just in the office, working 10-12 hour days for the past 2 weeks to make a end-of-the-month deadline.

Before it all happened, I had already booked a long weekend to Bath, which fell right in the middle of all the madness. And so I went, reluctantly dragging my exhausted body and tired mind. I was so utterly physically broken down I thought I was gonna heave and topple over in front of a train. Not because I wanted to die, but because I just plain ran out of energy to hold myself up.

Due to the first of the extremely long and stressful weeks at work, I was rip-roaring sick by the Saturday morning I was to set off, but unwilling to lose the money I’ve invested in my bus ticket and hostel reservation, I somehow made it across town to the bus station, passed out on the bus for 3 hours – then spent what was left of my first day curled up in bed in my 8-person mixed dorm.

As I struggled to stay warm and wore my street jacket even in bed, people came in and out getting ready for night outs. I was alone, ill, and away from anyone I know. As I drifted in and out of sleep, I thought if all my holidays are going to be like that, I’m never going on holiday again.

I felt better the next day, and although my nose still sputtered and my throat clenched itself dry, I HAD to get outside and wander about because otherwise it would all have been for nothing.

A depressing thought suddenly came to me as I wandered the streets of Roman and Georgian architecture the next two days: I’d come to Bath to recover from work, and in anticipation of an equally hectic week ahead, I’ve come on holiday to recharge for the next week of work.

I’ve always gone on trips because it’s what I like doing. I like seeing new places. I like doing something new. I like exploring. I like the excitment of travel. I work to go on holiday.

But this time, I sadly realise, I have gone on holiday for work.

I can’t be sure, but as far as I can remember right now, this was the first time I’ve gone on holiday to recover from and brace myself for, work.

According to Lonely Planet, if you are going to explore just one city outside of London, make it Bath. The city of Jane Austen, of ancient Roman Baths, of Georgian architecture, of cobbled-stone streets, of tea-houses.

Well, I haven’t been to all that many cities here, so I can’t vouch for that. But as this symbol shows, the city has so many listed buildings that the entire city of Bath has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Bath is indeed a beautiful city to be in and great to spend an easy weekend in. It’s big enough to have lots of shops, pubs and restaurants for you to wander round and little nooks and side streets to explore, but also small enough for you to walk everywhere, not get lost and not have to rely on transport.

Bath is architecturally very beautiful, but without a guide, all you can do is say that it is beautiful. If you do find yourself in Bath, I highly recommend one of the *free* Mayor of Bath’s Corps of Honorary Guides tours. Lasting, I think, 2 hours, you go on a guided walk around town with a great knowledgable volunteer who do it for no money at all. He explains the history of Bath, how the city and buildings came to be, and the characters in town. Not in a boring way, but in a funny and amusing way, with quirky stories thrown in here and there. I finished the walk feeling much more appreciative of the city, and the stories behind the residents and the buildings.

For example, without a guide, I wouldn’t have given much thought to the filled-in rectangular holes in the walls along the back gardens of these Georgian houses. Nor would I know that it belonged to an era when toilets have yet to be invented and the gentlemen and ladies of these houses would excuse themselves to the “withdrawing room” to pee and poop into a bucket, later which the maids would bring out into the garden to stash into the wooden cupboard built into the back garden wall.

At night, a man with a horse cart would go along the path next to the walls, and collect the buckets from the cupboards to be dumped into the nearby river.

Nor would I know that as the years went by, people went more high-tech and built cupboard extensions to their flats, where very few remain these days. The black little structure hanging outside the apartment in the middle of the photo is one example. It’s where people went to pee and poop, into a hole, which basically empties into thin air….

Spending 2 nights and 3 days there, I had more than enough time to wander about. In fact, I had so much time that I went to my first real church service in a real church (not a cleared-out classroom in a school or whatever), held the Bible and listened to the choir and pathetically tried to sing the hymns.

For one reason or the other, I’ve always found comfort in tradition and religion. Forget historical rivalries. Forget hypocrisies. Forget injustices and wars. I’ve sat in many a church and felt peace.

Three days of doing fuckall in Bath did calm me down…until I returned to London and hyper-ventilated at the thought of work.

And so the freeze comes…

It’s surprising how fast winter comes in this part of the world.

First it was park-lounging summer at 9pm, then all of a sudden it’s hat and gloves-wearing and toes-chilling winter. Was autumn even here at all?

I realise I’ve been walking A LOT faster lately.

My normally half-hour stroll to the train station in the morning has become a 20 min power walk.

Not that I’m always running late now. It’s just that pumping my legs is the only practical way for me to warm up on these cold mornings.

Cycling, I’ve always enjoyed peddling at a slower pace, esp. if I’m cycling into town, so I don’t end up being hot and sweaty in my (relatively) nice clothes.

But now, because of the cold, I can cycle faster without being too hot, plus I need to cycle faster to warm up and more so that I can get wherever I’m going to get indoors quicker.

Nothing propels me faster than the cold and the darkness. Cycling along the canal is when I peddle the hardest. It’s pitch black on many stretches and isolated stories of random bike robberies and D-lock beatings haunt me home.

People say they exercise and get fit during the summer. But who wants to run around and be in pain when you can lounge about in parks until 10pm?

Conversely, I think my cardio fitness just might make an improvement over the winter.  Either that, or I end up gathering fat huddling under the covers. Let’s see how it goes as the world around me starts to freeze over.

Purge the Cookies! Purge the Cookies!

I was trying to book a weekend trip away, when I couldn’t decide between Bath and the Peak District, the train or the bus, this hostel or that hostel.

So I had many browser tabs open, including one on a coach service to Bath on the National Express website. I saw that my trip will cost £14, and then went away to look at some other info.

A while later, I went back, and *gasp*, within the space of an hour or so, the price has increased to £18!

I still couldn’t decide, so left it for a while, thinking it couldn’t get much worst…only to go back later to see that it was now £19. WTF.

So I decided to see if I could purge  my computer of this price-increasing, money-extorting evil and decidedly exorcised my browser of all cookies, form-auto-filling-in thingies, and cache-majigs. Closed my browser, fired it up again, and went back to look at my bus ticket.

Hail Mary. The devil is gone. It’s £14 again.

I said a silent “You fuckers.”

Mooning the hills

I have never been partial to hiking.

To me, hiking conjures up images of middle-aged men with sticks or pretentious people in unnecessarily expensive gear walking up hills in show-off hiking boots.

Hiking is one of the biggest outdoors activities in Hong Kong, and yet I’ve never done it.

I went “trekking” in Nepal once with a group from uni., it didn’t impress me very much.  Perhaps it was more to do with the people I went with.

I’ve always found hiking to be a needlessly long, hard, uphill slog; unlike the thrill of beating your opponent to the ball on a pitch, scoring a goal, or saving a few as a goalie. I like being part of an organised strategy, spurts of activity, clear objectives, and elbowing the opponent if need be.

Nasty, Nasty’s dad, and Nasty’s brother (boy,I make them out to be the Nasty Family don’t I?) rented a cottage in Ambleside and spent a week adventuring in the Lake District, north-west England. Encouraged by the thought of free accomodation, I packed my bags and joined them for a 3-day weekend.

They spent the week hiking, scrambling, climbing and mountain biking.

I really wanted to see the hills and lakes of this famed English country-side and if not for walking, I don’t know how else is the best way to see it. I was convinced that my winter duck boots would do the job, but the boys shook their heads and I was dragged to one of the many outdoors gear shops in town. Home to THE largest outdoors shop in England, every other shop in Ambleside is an outdoor clothing/camping gear/climbing gear shop. I would probably not believe you if you tell me there is a higher concentration of such shops elsewhere…

I forked out £40 for my first ever pair of hiking boots, put it on immediately for the hills and braced myself for pain and blisters for the rest of the day. I consoled myself with the fact that they were on sale: down from £80! Woohoo!

For all the action we got that day, not only did it not hurt or give me blisters, it worked perfectly fine! I was very very impressed. No breaking-in needed at all!

If for some reason you are as freakish as I am and think hiking boots is just a gimmick, they made all the difference because they saved me from spraining my ankles at least 15 times. Knowing that you can trudge through bushes, mud, water and rocks without getting your feet wet or cold, or slipping and falling, they give you all the confidence you need to not have to worry all the time about what or where you’re stepping into and can instead focus on enjoying the scenery or even skipping through the fields a la The Sound of Music (which I did try to do, until I realise I was skipping onto piles of sheep poop.)

Over the weekend, I’ve realised that the form of hiking I hate is the continuous tromps through more or less smoothed paths. I get tired, and they bore me to tears. Just a constant never ending repetition of putting one foot in front of the other.

The reason I have been converted this time round, is the fact that the trails were anything but smooth. It was a constant negotiation up and down rocky paths, going on your hands and knees up and round boulders, crossing streams and puddles, avoiding sheep poop but stepping into mud holes, scrambling up rock faces and trying not to look down and realise that if I lose my hold, that just might be the end of my life.

It rained, I was hot, I was wet, my hands were cold, and I was tired. It was certainly uphill, but I wasn’t bored. It was challenging and you get a sense of acheivement from reaching the top in ways you never thought you could.

I’ve never scrambled before, and didn’t know it was an activity on its own until now. A sort of middle ground between hiking and actual climbing, I think of it as something like crawling up hill. Hmm.

I think if my hike involves some sort of scrambling, then I’m a happy bunny. Or sheep.

My first brilliant hike though, eventually turned into the Hike From Hell when we couldn’t find the trail down. Nasty’s dad abandoned us thinking that we’ve made our way down and the three of us were left lost in the mountains with a million sheep, Nasty yelling obcenities into the air, the brother declaring that it was the worst day ever, and me thinking we’ll all need a shot of vodka each when we get down.

Trying to find the trail, we clambered up rocks and pushed through knee-high bushes along the sides of the steep hills, which effectively killed my knees and ankles, at which point I was in quite a bad mood. A planned one-hour descent turned into 4 hours and eventually we gave up trying to find the darned trail and decided to go down the mountain whichever way we could. We settled into following a rocky stream downhill, which turned out to be The Descent From Hell.

This is one of the last photos I took of the day, because afterwards, I became the Very Unhappy Hiker In Pain. Without something to scale, the photo doesn’t do justice to how big, long and difficult that rocky stream was and how hellish it was trying to negotiate it in sorry knees and half-rolled ankles. In protest, my knees wanted to just sit down and call Mountain Rescue. Nasty said it wouldn’t be very wise. But I argued that I pay my taxes, plus wouldn’t it be cool to ride in a helicopter? It was just very frustrating to be able to see where you want to go, but not being able to get there.

All we were trying to do was get down that bloody valley and we ended up climbing over farmers’ walls and then eventually Nasty running ahead of us to find his father having a pint at the pub.

My hopes for hiking was not all lost though as we set out again the next afteroon in bright, dry, sunny weather and climbed what I thought was steps equivalent to flights up a 30-storey building.

I was unhappy because, besides from reeling from the pain from the day before, walking up steps was just, well, extremely boring. Then I got excited when we had to scramble and I looked down and then thought I really shouldn’t.

Then I needed to pee really badly. Really.

We were finally at the top, and I felt bad about having to pee in such a beautiful place. But Nasty reasoned that since the sheep poop everywhere, it wouldn’t be so bad if one human peed somewhere. It was very cold and windy and I thought about Google Maps as I cowered in that rocky bowl-thing on the left and mooned the country-side. I cautioned Nasty not to pee into the wind.

And voila, things you do on a hike.

Someone Once Told Me

Taken towards the end of August, here is what I think is a great photo, except for the very idiotic-looking me in it:

I don’t want to steal Mario’s thunder, so if you want to see my ugly smug, hear my voice, and understand the story behind this great project, Someone Once Told Me is worth visiting.

Remember that anyone anywhere can participate, so go ahead, ask Mario to go visit you, or send in your own!

Perhaps as a sign of paranoia of my own voice, I still haven’t been able to bring myself to listen to the audio recording that accompanies it. *cringe*

As he was taking Nasty’s photo, I stood huddling in a corner outside that tube station, trembling in fear of what I was going to say. No one has ever stuck a tape recorder in my face before. I realise that having to blurb out something coherent in one go, especially something personal, while someone stares intently at you in the eye is in fact very intimidating.




Although, at the moment, I feel about 20 miles away from what I felt at the time, not long after that photo was taken, I decided to write this. Perhaps as a reflection of the quote, or of the summer that’s just been, but it better captures my mood in what was just little more than a month ago, than anything I could muster up in my PMS state right now:

Nasty has recently told me that I seem more happy these days.

I asked a friend, and she says the same too.

I hadn’t really noticed, but then I thought about it, and I realise, yeah, I AM quite happy these days. :)

I think for once in my life, I can say that I AM satisfied. I AM happy.

Don’t get me wrong. Nothing’s perfect.

I would rather have a different job. But I am grateful just to have one at all. Memories of unemployment are still too fresh in my mind.

My flat is in quite a state of disrepair. But I do have a front yard I can attack when I have a bad day, or when the sun shines on a Sunday afternoon.

I don’t have  Joey or Phoebe as flatmates. But at least they aren’t evil, although not enthusiastic, but friendly and nice.

I still don’t have any real friends. But I’ve somehow settled for what I have right now and have stopped pining for them. I’ll have friends when they come along.

I’ve become good at keeping myself busy. I’ve become good at discovering things to do around town.

I call home once in a while. Sometimes I really do miss the people I love (or maybe just the food).

I am still disgusted with a lot of what I make myself to eat. But I do cook up something brilliant once in a while.

I’ve recently joined a climbing gym and am doing a climbing course. My aim is to do a proper climbing trip outdoors one day.

Eating sushi makes me really happy. Riding my bike makes me happy too. Nasty still thinks farting in an enclosed space is funny. I’ll probably think so too, if I’m the one, erm, contributing.

What do dead people do with their journals?

Because Po wrote about this time last year, I dug out one of my journals to see what I was doing then.




On Sunday, 28 September 2008, I wrote:

I was happy and excited on Friday arvo when I finally confirmed my leaving date with [my boss] and booked my ticket [to London] with [friend who works at a travel agency] and told [Nasty] about it.

But I came home and was promptly put down by mom.

Then I have to deal with [my brother].

I spent that night crying my eyes out watching The Notebook.




So basically, I bawled my eyes out the night I have confirmed arrangements to come to London.




Which is not exactly what I really said on this blog.

This blog has a facade. It is written to be cringe-proof. (Or at least I think).




I cringe when I read back on my journals. I hope when I die, they will somehow automatically self-destruct.

Extreme Bestival

All I can say is: What’s the point?!

How NOT to interview at Sainsbury’s

Nasty’s little brother decides to get a job at a supermarket to save up for a gap-year stint in the United States.

He got to the interview and was asked:




“Why do you want to work at Sainsbury’s?”




No one knows what he was thinking, whether he was joking or serious. We only know that he was serious about getting the job.




“Waitrose sucks!”




I guess we can conclude that dissing a rival supermarket doesn’t help.


It probably runs in the family though, since Nasty failed his Sainsbury’s interview the first time as well (he learnt his lesson and passed the second time).  Smart arses.