Certainly not.

1 pm: Facebook. God's gift to mankind - a saviour in the times of entrapment caused by unreasonable weather. It is a site now commonly infested by statuses about snow, snow storm, bad weather, cars not working and albums of students in snow, snow storm and bad weather with snowmen. Mostly - not British.

2 pm: Spoke to my sister who is currently soaked in the tropical sunshine with an imaginary Pina Colada in her hands although she is under-aged, who told me that Dad has bought me shorts which I will not be wearing in winter for jogging. Creativity is his strength. A whole lecture on how I lost my reference number for my return tickets. ‘I can't believe you', she says. Being away means everyone forgets the pecking order in the family. I am on top.

3.35 pm: Went trotting in the snow for 20 minutes for a 60-minute lecture and felt absolutely like Sarah Brightman in her ‘Winter Symphony' cover. Somehow, the slush on her boots always goes unnoticed. Instead, all you get is a picture of a middle-aged woman holding on somewhat tightly to her coat with her raven black dyed hair less than presentable. That is Britain's familiar everyday story furnishing most soprano lover's collection. Creativity, perhaps, is not her strength.

5.20 pm: And, 108.0 Classic FM in Berkshire - my loyal companion on a cold winter day where the DJs are applauded for speaking as little as possible and the audience praised and thanked for listening. Britain. Somewhere in the middle of this, I will start humming to the tune of Claire de Lune. No, it's not Debussy; it's a name I can barely catch and definitely cannot pronounce.

6 pm: Cintan noodles - an embodiment of all things great about Malaysia in the absence of Ramly's burger, teh tarik, pisang goreng and nasi lemak on a winter's evening. Had 2 friends over who couldn't and wouldn't stop talking loudly, who also overwhelmed British flatmates with their noise. A long discussion about food we are buying and eating from Morrisons.

Life ends when the sun sets. And, in Britain on a winter's day, sun sets rather early. The weather, my friends, is not just a conversation; it's a lifestyle.

[[ music ]] Classic FM

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"I can't pretend to feel impartial about colours. I rejoice with the brilliant ones and am genuinely sorry for the poor browns."
- Winston Churchill

I am the brown with a splash of orange. Or was it red? I can’t recall.

Today, I woke up with the consciousness that the ordinariness of a day-to-day routine has resumed. So, I took that small effort and made that small difference. Instead of the usual Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Formula with Vitamin E which claims to soften, smoothen and relieve dry skin, I used The Body Shop’s Peach Body Lotion which apparently is a lightweight moisturiser with peach oil and Community Trade soya oil. And, I now smell like a fruit. This is not a sponsored post.

Bon Jovi’s Always in the grocery store.  Natalie Imbruglia’s Torn in the room I had to clean. Then, a dash of memories and recollections of what has happened in the past weeks, past months. ‘If only’ seems an absurd start to a sentence. In isolation, it is in itself a sentence. A decree so disquieting, so damning, so demanding. Choices are what we make of it, or what we refuse to make of it. The cul-de-sac is a common, convenient excuse. What a mess. Retrospectively, it’s still quite a mess. Nothing and no one has changed. Just that splash of orange or red.

It is simple, almost effortless. Live, simply live. Live when there is still life or breath or a beating heart. To see, to taste, to feel again and to love again. Living is simple; a sentence must not violate that simple, sacred covenant. And, in its small variation of shades or strokes against perhaps a different canvas make a new world. I don’t remember myself happier. I don’t remember myself unhappier to know myself never happier.

[[ mood ]] working

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