A lazy Sunday reading about intercorporate investments. Every now and then my eyes will blur and I will reach out and pat the cat. It is interesting, just a little draining to concentrate on formulas when there is so much going on in the world. It sometimes just feels like that. I am starting to love my time in the sun the more I age.

Last night, met up with T again for his birthday bash, and had a whale of a time. T was Jack Sparrow with black eyeliner for the night, and met some old friends and new ones. The Marina Bay Sands suite was gorgeous and had three bathtubs in one room if I recall correctly. A whole tea tray. The view from Ku De Ta was fantastic. I’m going swimming.

I in his gear somehow reminds me of an old friend of mine, J.C. Here’s a pic of what I mean, same same but different, right?

T-Pain Trev swallowed three bottles of Tabasco after losing at a game of rock paper scissors…the psychology, T, the psychology…

Move to next suite.

It has a tv room?!? And the bar is cute.

The UCL lawyers. Ben’s girl is supposed to represent…*ahem.

On another note, I received note that I won the first round of the Reebonz Spring Clean Fashion Blogger Contest! My entry > The facebook friends round is opening shortly, will be canvassing for votes! Blog readers, please support me, yes.

I’m still finishing up my previous batch of vcds I got from Esplanade, but really loved As Young As You Feel. Marilyn Monroe was just a cameo, but it was a hilarious take especially on corporate structures of companies! And I loved the Paris Reviews on Playwrights at Work, have placed an order on Abebooks, together with orders for the new Kate Atkinson novel, Started Early, Took My Dog. Also reading alot of Scott Fitzgerald, but the lesser known like Beautiful and the Damned and Diamond as Big as the Ritz. Rather light, enjoyable reads.


I really want to watch the Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Elizabeth and Whispers of the Heart (by the creators of Spirited Away) this week. All inspired by WS who told me a story of a boy’s little dream to become a violin maker in Cremona.

Re-kindled a love for Serge.

Version by April March, also one of my favourites.

From NYBR:

In “The Boy in the Garden,” young Jiro has joined his father on a New Year’s visit to the home of Mr. Ozu. While the two men talk, the little boy wanders into Mr. Ozu’s beautiful garden, where he sees a graceful crane poised in a serene river of small stones. He thinks it’s like the crane in the story his mother has told him (a famous Japanese folk tale, included here as a preface), but the men, watching from the house, interrupt his reverie by laughing and announcing that the crane isn’t real. “That’s only a statue,” his father calls, and he and Mr. Ozu laugh together. The unthinking, oh-so-adult cruelty of that laughter is reflected in Say’s close-up portrait of Jiro, abashed and feeling very much alone. For Say’s picture-book heroes, isolation is both alienating and liberating. It allows Billy Wong, too short to play American basketball, to remake himself as a Spanish bullfighter in “El Chino.” It caused Say’s grandfather to leave Japan and look for himself in America, a story told in “Grandfather’s Journey,” which received the 1994 Caldecott Medal. And here Jiro’s elders’ rejection of his imagined crane causes the boy to retreat into a story he loves. Still in the garden, he finds a path to a small cottage. In a picture as vivid and reverent as a holy icon, it has become a snowy night, and the Crane Woman appears at the door, with the illustrations now taking over the entire expanse of the right-hand pages. Jiro and the Crane Woman enjoy soup together, and all is well until the next day, when she goes into her weaving room, making Jiro swear not to peek, the admonition that causes everything to come undone in the folk tale.  When, on taking their leave from Mr. Ozu, Jiro’s father stops, looks and says, “You know, son, for a moment that crane looked real,” he’s apologizing. But Jiro has already learned about the deceits of dreams and grown-ups alike: “It’s just a statue, Papa.” Call it a compromise. A closing image of Jiro’s house, with the boy “fast asleep in his own bed” while a crane flies above in the light of the full moon, assures us that Jiro’s dreams will continue to sustain him.

Agatha Christie/ Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side

‘I was thinking of when my mother died. I was five I think. Five or six. I was having dinner in the nursery, jam roll pudding. I was very fond of jam mil pudding. One of the servants came in and said to my nursery governess, “Isn’t it awful? There’s been an accident and Mrs Craddock has been killed.” … Whenever I think of my mother’s death, d’you   know what I see?’   ‘What?’   ‘A plate with jam roll pudding on it, and I’m staring at it. Staring at it and I can see as well now as then, how the jam oozed out of it at one side. I didn’t cry or say anything. I remember just sitting there as though I’d been frozen stiff, staring at the pudding. And d’you know, even now if I see in a shop or a restaurant or in anyone’s house a portion of jam roll pudding, a whole wave of horror and misery and despair comes over me. Sometimes for a moment I don’t remember why. Does that seem very crazy to you?’

Oscar Wilde/Portrait of Dorian Gray

“I believe that if one man were to live out his life fully and completely, were to give form to every feeling, expression to every thought, reality to every dream–I believe that the world would gain such a fresh impulse of joy that we would forget all the maladies of mediaevalism, and return to the Hellenic ideal–to something finer, richer than the Hellenic ideal, it may be. But the bravest man amongst us is afraid of himself. The mutilation of the savage has its tragic survival in the self-denial that mars our lives. We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Nothing remains then but the recollection of a pleasure, or the luxury of a regret. The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also. You, Mr. Gray, you yourself, with your rose-red youth and your rose-white boyhood, you have had passions that have made you afraid, thoughts that have filled you with terror, day-dreams and sleeping dreams whose mere memory might stain your cheek with shame–“







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