What a difference a year makes!
At the roughly the same time last year-- it was the transitory period between recovering from the trauma of Danzation and powering through the sting of Conversation rehearsals. It was a period where I was swamped, though in the ultimate end, I can now say, it was all good.
This year I am in the snow-blanketed London-- which is kind of reminiscent of Forks (apologies for the Twilight reference!) if you ask me-- one grey, gloomy town with a population so small that every Joe and Jane Doe must be somewhat related with one or the other either by law, birth or employment, and that the arrival of four unfamiliar Asian faces--albeit warmly welcomed-- must be noticible enough such as qualifying as a quiet intrusion. While space is ample anywhere and everywhere, the pace of London is as stretched as the wintry nights are long: time is massaged to accommodate for every single "How is it going?", "You guys hangin' alright?" and "You guys okay?" and of course, the habitual smiles which sandwich (almost) every single conversation. In the midst of the lips-cracking cold, the multi-layered ensemble and the Caucasianness, the amiability coating each good-natured banter amongst the Londoners feels effortlessly genuine, which get me thinking a little a first. If such were to take place in Singapore (or Indonesia, or any other places I've been to essentially), it would probably leave an awkward, patronising and unpalatable aftertaste.
On this side of town, the morning sun sneaks in through the window sill a tad later than in the East, taking its time jostling through the overcast, the shivering twigs and the bare branches. As slow as the sun presses against the grey skyline, the snow-coated patio basks in the light--glistening!-- while the white turns into slush, and the Christmas fantasy into mush.
The house-- o the house-- deserves a family to warm it up every day and every night. It is not a house, it is a home. From the soft glow lighting its every corner when the sun runs out, to the switch-controlled fireplace stashed in the basement, to the fit-for-a-chef kitchen and cooking appliances, to the cushy couch that sinks you in and lulls you to slumber each you rest your head on it-- the house is what this ungainly group of Asians expect, and then some.
On New Year's morning, we had our first try at a home-made big breakfast. Equipped with a series of Youtube how-tos, irregularly-sliced produce and the sheer faith that Lady Luck was on our side (or perhaps more appropriately, the sheer readiness to stomach any (in)edibles that may come our way), we stir-fried salami, sausages and bacon. I guess heart-disease was the only thing on menu for the new year. Thanks to Chef Ramsay and his three-minute guide on Youtube, I scrambled six eggs into one divine dish fit for four. Who knew cooking could be so therapeutic! Unfortunately-- to say the least-- as a result of what was tantamount to a secondary-school science experiment, the kitchen floor is now greased with bacon fats and despite our feeble attempts to rid off the stench, the air inside the house remains a fast-food-chain kitchen-stink. You can practically smell hypertension in the air.
Nonetheless, breakfast was lovely and delicious. We slept in for the rest of the day. For me this year, well, at least the first half of the year, is a year of winding down the turbo, a year of closures and a year of redirection. If this snail-paced lifestyle, and this quietude of the snow fall, and this ABC (alacrity, benevolence and calmness) of the Londoners, and the continual ventures to uncharted territories (metaphorically and literally speaking) were to be contagious and to change me-- and o I hope they will-- it would be a great year ahead, or at least a great half a year, and I cannot wait to make the most of it.
Happy new year!
