B is for Belated… and Berlin.


Berlin Moscow. Fabulous little joint.

Russian Ice. Complimentary!

Of Bears and Berlin. A chocolate treat with tea.

The Man.

The Walls.


Fearless birds with a taste for croissant.

The spectacular Jewish Memorial.

Poochy Love.

Royalty at a bargain.

Fancy lights.

How not to love?

I’m not the only hungry girl.


Died and gone to Adidas Heaven.


I need some time…

I’m not in a good place right now.

But I am trying.

I’m still going at that positive energy thing despite the… everything.

I woke up to go to class even though I just wanted to hole myself in… possibly forever.

I stayed back to study with M till late even though I wanted to excuse myself and go back to bed.

I bruised my brain trying to unravel the mysteries of French Gender even though I wanted to devote every precious second to moping.

And I am glad to have hung in there.

Because  I was left a note in the morning by B…

And I got a call from Aa just as I’d finished texting her…

MB texted me when she had all but 8% left in her phone… and she finished the much needed counselling just as it hit 1%.

And Shaz. I got off a stop earlier on the train because I didn’t get her call. Went to look for something I needed in the kitchen and couldn’t find it at all. Decided not to take the bus. Took the train to my shuttle stop. Got there 20 minutes earlier. Decided to walk the first floor of a mall through an entrance I almost never take. And there she was. By a shop I never knew existed.

Then someone said something that reminded me of a quote that I’d forgotten for a while, but couldn’t have come at a better time… “Everything is going to be alright in the end. If it is not alright… Then it is not the end.”

If that’s not a sign that my… OUR guardian angel is telling me to hang in there… I don’t know what is.

So thank you… all of you.


Hey M… I am… We are… Counting on you now.

From one Dream, to another Country.

It’s been four days since the proverbial curtains closed on Dream Country, and I’ve only just found the time and emotional strength to talk about one of the most enriching, demanding, beautiful, and intimidating experiences of my life (thus far, … Continue reading

We are our own ideal.

First, they tell us we’re too skinny.

Then, they tell us we’re too fat.

Now, they highlight this and say that it’s ‘particularly muscly’.

Their own words ‘Toned: The Duchess’s calves looked particularly muscly as she walked across the Ascot Park ahead of the Princes polo match’

It’s all in the phrasing. Well, and the drawing of that circle really. (By them, not me.)

If she’s toned, she’s toned. No need for ‘particularly’ to pop up at all unless you were intending to highlight what you deem as a flaw/excess.

Kate’s athletic gams are to die for, in my humble opinion of course. Unless you wanna look like a flamingo.

Now this.

This. Is particularly muscly.

First image courtesy of Daily Mail.

Second image courtesy of lachstdu.com.

Her Majesty’s Request… What’s in my bag.

Severe bruising, fatigue, and the stress of un/employment has taken me away from writing for a couple of days. (MISS ME? Ahh… you’ll survive!)

But after two full days of sticking medicinal patches and applying heat packs all over my body, I’m finally ready to face the world again…

Or so I thought.

Driving class was an absolute chore today – mainly because I’m still aching all over. My neck is still especially sore, which meant that checking my blind spots was nothing short of torture.

Fortunately, I had friends to look forward to after class. Seeing lovely people such as my dearest D, Shaz, Evie, SH, WL, Miss J, Mdm A and Mdm M reminded me just how lucky I was while I was holding my full-time job. Mdm A and Mdm M even managed to make our Very Serious Conversation enjoyable, though their combined loveliness didn’t make my decision-making process any easier.

Mdm M in particular (I love calling my boss that. Makes her sound like a top secret service agent.) just seemed to know exactly where I am, and where I hope to be heading without me even having to say a word.

I still have a couple of days and a handful of hours to go before I make up my mind, so I thought I’ll write this for Mdm M, who thinks a ‘What’s in your bag?’ post is in order.

“Look at the colour of her bag! Says so much about her state of mind right now!”

Brolly ‘cos I keep getting caught in the rain when I go for my driving classes.

A fan ‘cos I’m a secret Geisha-Ninja.

Sunblock ‘cos… well… have you ever met a tanned geisha? 

(Rather, fan and sunblock thanks to my many afternoon rehearsals.)

Elastic band, discontinued lipbalm =(, girl stuff (!!! Tee. Hee.), driving booklet, organiser, favourite pencil, mirror, eyedrops.
Ancient iPod, wallet and coin pouch, plaster, hydration, theory books that I am giving away.
Ninja-warming cape.
Dream Country reflection book, favourite pen, inspiration – Jeanette Winterson.

The Driveway is NOT a playground. And oh, there’s this thing called a Queue!

A good four times a week, I take a shuttle out to the train station to get to French class and Driving class. The shuttle, for as long as I’ve been taking it, has never been full. There are always seats available for everyone. Besides, the shuttle arrives like clockwork. I don’t even think our trains are that on time.

Which is why I don’t understand why people refuse to queue up for the shuttle.

Most of the time, I am the earliest to reach the driveway where the bus stops, but I usually end up being one of the last to get on. And yes, I’ve already said there are seats for everyone, so there’s no need for me to throw a hissy fit, right?

Problem is, there is this thing called COURTESY that does not exist in quite a few of these commuters, and that totally pisses me off.

Today, I was the second to arrive at the driveway. A well-dressed lady stood in line, poised for pole position. I elected to sit at the bench which already meant that I was resigned to get on last. A gentlemen joined her shortly, and stood behind her.


A young lady – about 18? 19? 243? Who cares? – stomped her way to the front of the line, in front of the first lady in the line.

Sh*t Phone Camera. Perfect for Spy Games. Even then, I make it look artistic.

Outrage. OUT. RAGE. No one said a word, though my eyes almost popped out and the two in line shot her a look. Of course, she was oblivious to all our hints of displeasure because she’d conveniently plugged in and zoned out.

Then, a recalcitrant middle-aged woman strutted over by the side. Stops. But I was already wary. This one. She is The Interceptor.

And when the bus arrived, true enough, she managed to edge out all of us with her massive frame and hop right on after Young Rude Girl.

But we didn’t get on right after. Because The Right of Way Mother and her Driveway Son were next in line by default. Because she is a motherrr, and he is but a cute lil 3? 4? 5-year-old?

Let me expound on RoW Mother and Driveway Son. The shuttle I take, technically makes only one stop – at the train station. But the drivers are nice enough to make an extra stop for the pair – at his preschool, I’d imagine – because it’s along the way. I think that’s fantastic. Understandably,  the pair should sit right in front of the bus so as to make a quick exit when they arrive at their destination. All good.

What is downright wrong, is the manner in which she brings her son to the front of the line, and conveniently marches right up after him without so much as a nod of thanks to the people behind her. On fact, on many occasions, her tot doesn’t even require her ‘Hurry, hurry! Go, go!’ prompt anymore. He just cuts right in and plonks himself down. Even on the occasions when there are elderly people in the line.

Is it his fault? Probably not. RoW Mom just expects people to give her son and herself priority because because.

Seriously though people, it’s a privilege, not a right. Everyone is just too polite and too bleary-eyed in the morning to tell you guys off.

So wait, why do I call the boy Driveway Son? Oh, this is so dumb it hurts.

The shuttle stop is a roundabout that services not only the bus, but also open traffic. When Mom leads Son down to the shuttle stop, the lil’ one, bursting with energy, will run right to the driveway and play there.


Run. To the Driveway. To Play.

And yes. Mom is present.

I don’t know about you guys, but when I’m doing something dumb and irresponsible and potentially life-threatening as a child (i.e. playing with fire – yes, literally.), my mother wasn’t around to witness it. And if she were around, she’d probably burn me first to give me a lesson I’ll never forget.

This Mom. No. She lets her tiny tot run right into the driveway, frolicking, skipping, hopping, pulling out plants on the landscape features in the middle of the roundabout. When a car turns in, she feebly calls out to him, ‘Dear, come back already.’

Does he run back to the pavement with enthusiasm, fear in his heart?


Because Mom was in no way firm. Not with her choice of words, not with her tone.

In fact… he TAKES HIS TIME to take step… by step… one hop… then another… Sometimes he even turns to give the shuttle bus/car a ‘scary face’. I’m assuming he is showing his might and the animalistic Conan prowess. And the whole time, Mom is watching.


Her tiny little son who cannot be properly seen by drivers is playing with vehicles that can literally crush him. And Mom is there. Watching. Allowing it to happen. Yippee-doo-da.

And again, I don’t blame him (yet). I don’t even bother making a face. Because RoW Mom is obviously an adult, and if her parenting book of rules allows for the possibility of her son getting into serious trouble, who am I, a non-mom to disagree?

What prompts me to write this angry post is that IF and WHEN an accident (Touch wood, of course. I want to get to my classes on time. Yea, yea, crucify me.) happens, RoW Mom will probably be the first to point her finger at the drivers for not being careful, for not looking out for her child. Natural reaction, I agree. But what are you doing to prevent it? What are you doing to educate your child about respecting other people? Respecting the dangers that roads bring?

Sure, you want to let your kids run free? I’m all for that – in fact, there are a few very safe grass patches right next to the shuttle stop, a few friendly neighbours even walk their lovely pooches there in the morning. Go there. It’s safe.

Roads are NOT playgrounds!

Not even if you’re cute.

Parents who let their kids play in the common driveway – what are you thinking?!

Oh wait.

You are NOT thinking.