Suburban squirrel

God help the NHS

So to add to the horror of tube travel, we're now told that it's essentially a massive petri dish, providing the perfect conditions to ensure the spread of swine flu in the capital. Imagine discovering this on your first reintroduction to society and public transport in a week.

As I read through the article in the free London Paper (every literati's publication of choice), I became increasingly aware of each sniff, hack, and cough that reverberated around the crowded carriage. Do you know how difficult it is to discreetly (because we are still English, pandemic or not) lean away from someone in a confined space and not touch anyone else?

I could add agoraphobia to my growing list of London-induced conditions: claustrophobia, mysophobia, obesophobia, toxophobia, and entomophobia. It would make anyone build a bunker, disinfect it, seal it off, and wait for the apocalypse, but then I wouldn't be a Londoner. So we'll just doff our hats to the riots, terror attacks, protests, strikes, viral infections, and financial meltdown, and carry on, wot?

Time to think

Dishes have reached critical mass in the sink but we're still resiliently working around the issue. It's much more fun improvising plates and cups than actually washing them.

Road tested the PS3 last Friday with Streetfighter and spent most of the weekend with really sore forearms and potential nerve damage. I also stood in front of the PS3 game offering at HMV and struggled to find more than two I'm really excited about. I think it's time to concede that I'm not a 'serious' gamer and that neither the Wii nor the PS3 really cut it. The opinion may be revised when we move to E14 and are in sore need of entertainment on the weekends all transport links to the Wharf are severed. I heard there are a lot of water fowl in the area though, and we have bread.

I've recently lost more than a couple of friends to the phenomenon that is 'going steady'. They go to ground and you never here from them again except on Bank holiday weekends. Springtime.

I've perfected my made-from-scratch pancake recipe but now I don't think I want to eat anymore. On the topic of breakfast, Weng made a half packet of instant oats, surmising that that since it's half a packet, it only requires half the time in the microwave. It, in fact, does not, but he ate it anyway. So far, his oat-eating experience has been less than appetising.

Learning French is great. There's nothing like group humiliation to make you learn your vocab! For once it's not me, which is even better. But seriously, the teacher is really good, or maybe I'm still haunted by memories of Mr. Yao and mandarin tuition. Did you know, I used to win 'don't smile' competitions because of him - I'd just call up the memory of his face and the grin would drop like a hot potato. Victory always came at a cost.

I'm just looking at my bookshelf now. Amazon has been too good to me. Then I found Amazon Prime and there's been no turning back since. Now I need to figure out where I can get a truck big enough to move it all come June, particularly since I've been shopping by a certain minimum number of pages. I can't bear to sell any of them either.

Singapore Day 2009

It's a lazy, lazy day because summer's gone, and I've done all the most procrastinating things I can think of. A nap will be next on the agenda I suspect, as soon I've written about Singapore Day.

So the Singapore govt's reportedly spent many dollars in a time when we're all stretching our last ones to bring a little piece of the city-state to the several thousand Singaporeans (and friends) in the UK. They couldn't've picked a better or cheaper time to host the event, actually, especially since the Sing' dollar appears hell bent on destroying my spending power when I go home.

They set up a formidable array of tents, stalls, and a massive stage a little ways from Hampton Court Palace, and then filled it with free food and more freebies than you could reasonably carry. Does our gahmen know us or what?

At first, I didn't really understand why we were being handed silicone breast implants at the entrance (apparently you can use them as heating pads when it gets cold), and then laughed at the ERP gantry that went 'boop' everytime someone passed (I should really check my bank account), and saw the shiny white tents, the colourful stalls, the rows of barricades, and my patriotism only skyrocketed from there.

Our goodie bags were so practical: wet wipes, a picnic mat, a rain mac, toys, muruku. The food on offer was insane: hokkien mee, laksa, ikan bakar, chwee kueh, carrot cake, chicken rice, prata, kway chap, char kway teow, nasi lemak, rojak, muah chee. If you weren't constantly thinking about your stomach and in the queue for food, you could also go around collecting all the other free things at the various booths: army rations, frisbees, bottles of satay sauce, soya bean milk, bottles of mineral water, t-shirts, personal planners, Mindef caps, and more toys.

The acts were great, of what I could understand and what I watched when I wasn't chasing the next craving. The porta-loos were spotless and there were enough of them, and there was none of the mud you'd expect from hosting something in a giant field with lots of generated waste. Phwoar, how did they do it?!

Currently employed as: Lady of leisure

So none of the Big 4 firms' consulting practices want me, which is fine. It's just occurred to me that there's probably a difference in the way they define 'consultant' (3 years + managerial experience) as to the way we define consultant (not a partner). I think I was supposed to have been looking at 'business analyst' (a.k.a. data gimp) vacancies instead. Ah, we live and learn. Either way, I guess He knows how frustrated I'd probably be running implementation programs with disillusioned backoffice people, so it could be a good thing.

I'm enjoying the life - long lunches, netball, no rush hour tube madness, but I should really get back on that job thing before the money runs out. My dad told me I've got time so I should write a book, be the next JK Rowling. I can barely hang onto a single idea for long enough to spin it past one paragraph, much less into a 600 page novel. It would be a really short book. My mum said she was kinda expecting I'd be back in KL by June, high hopes regarding my employability indeed.

My job aspiration this week is to be a commercial planner, so I spent today and yesterday getting excited about that. Also had big hopes that I'd get more studying done today, but looks unlikely. The CFA burden is heavy. Literally, and more specifically Book4 (Equity Investments and Alternative Asset Valuation), very heavy. I've been lugging it around London the entire afternoon.

Having said that, it's a beautiful day to make like a pack mule. The sunshine has dulled the edge on my pedestrian rage, and lunch was cheap. I'm almost afraid that this unnaturally warm April is pretty much all there will be to summer. Every day this year seems to be record breaking in some way. Global warming, the financial crisis...we live in interesting times.

Off to game on someone else's PS3!

Why the flu in spring?

I've been so out of everything for the last week and a bit. The flu seems reluctant to leave, flaring up on only the sunniest and most summery days of the year. So I've been home, with a CSI playlist, my CFA books, and the FX markets.

The first looks after itself. Sina.com is amazing, these people who compile season after complete season of couch-potato heaven need to be given an award. I don't even need to touch anything except play, and occasionally pause, when my body demands a toilet break or another tissue box. Did you know we apparently produce 1.5l of snot everyday*? And that amount doubles when you're ill. Someone should call Guinness because I think I'm close to breaking the record. If you dissolve and distill all of the snot out of my accumulated tissues, you could verify that. Can you distill snot? We should ask CSI, they can trace ANYTHING.

My CFA books are guilting me. I keep them close because at some point during the day, the guilt reaches breaking point and I stop everything and crunch through four pages before the steam and the panic runs out.

The FX markets cannot be beaten, as Weng found out today. You'd think that even without reading up on the news, one could just guess and the odds would be fair. There are only two outcomes, either go up or down i.e. 50%. How is it then, that in 8 out of 10 trades you post, the graphs immediately ticks very far the wrong way.

I've been getting some sun, on the way to the tube station, getting myself to netball games. Introduced Weng to mixed versatility today, which is essentially five-a-side netball in a small hall, with no outs and a lot of barely-contained aggression. Just to confuse everyone, you move positions every time you score so the zones you're allowed in keep changing. It was fun and well fought, but too much excitement for me I think, coz I'm still awake.

*BBC Three late night TV, on a programme called Bizarre ER. There was a lady who had her finger ripped off by a dog leash, but I didn't hang around to watch that segment.

The power of prayer

This emailed story got me teary eyed half way through a chapter on discount dividend models. Believe what you will, but I think we all need a little encouragement sometimes.

Written by a doctor who worked in South Africa.

One night I had worked hard to help a mother in the labor ward; but in spite of all we could do, she died, leaving us with a tiny, premature baby and a crying two-year-old daughter. We would have difficulty keeping the baby alive; as we had no incubator (we had no electricity to run an incubator).

We also had no special feeding facilities.

Although we lived on the equator, nights were often chilly with treacherous drafts. One student midwife went for the box we had for such babies and the cotton wool that the baby would be wrapped in.

Another went to stoke up the fire and fill a hot water bottle. She came back shortly in distress to tell me that in filling the bottle, it had burst (rubber perishes easily in tropical climates)...

'And it is our last hot water bottle!' she exclaimed. As in the West, it is no good crying over spilled milk, so in Central Africa it might be considered no good crying over burst water bottles.

They do not grow on trees, and there are no drugstores down forest pathways.

'All right,' I said, 'put the baby as near the fire as you safely can, and sleep between the baby and the door to keep it free from drafts Your job is to keep the baby warm.'

The following noon, as I did most days, I went to have prayers with any of the orphanage children who chose to gather with me. I gave the youngsters various suggestions of things to pray about and told them about the tiny baby. I explained our problem about keeping the baby warm enough, mentioning the hot water bottle, and that the baby could so easily die if it got chills. I also told them of the two-year-old sister, crying because her mother had died.

During prayer time, one ten -year-old girl, Ruth, prayed with the usual blunt conciseness of our African children. 'Please, God' she prayed, 'Send us a hot water bottle today. It'll be no good tomorrow, God, as the baby will be dead, so please send it this afternoon.'

While I gasped inwardly at the audacity of the prayer, she added, 'And while You are about it, would You please send a dolly for the little girl so she'll know You really love her?'

As often with children's prayers, I was put on the spot. Could I honestly say 'Amen?' I just did not believe that God could do this.

Oh, yes, I know that He can do everything; the Bible says so. But there are limits, aren't there? The only way God could answer this particular prayer would be by sending me a parcel from the homeland. I had been in Africa for almost four years at that time, and I had never, ever, received a parcel from home.

Anyway, if anyone did send me a parcel, who would put in a hot water bottle? I lived on the equator!

Halfway through the afternoon, while I was teaching in the nurses' training school, a message was sent that there was a car at my front door. By the time I reached home, the car had gone, but there on the verandah was a large 22-pound parcel. I felt tears pricking my eyes. I could not open the parcel alone, so I sent for the orphanage children. Together we pulled off the string, carefully undoing each knot. We folded the paper, taking care not to tear it unduly Excitement was mounting. Some thirty or forty pairs of eyes were focused on the large cardboard box. From the top, I lifted out brightly-colored, knitted jerseys. Eyes sparkled as I gave them out. Then there were the knitted bandages for the leprosy patients, and the children looked a little bored.. Then came a box of mixed raisins and sultanas - that would make a batch of buns for the weekend.

Then, as I put my hand in again, I felt the.....could it really be?

I grasped it and pulled it out. Yes, a brand new, rubber hot water bottle. I cried.

I had not asked God to send it; I had not truly believed that He could.

Ruth was in the front row of the children. She rushed forward, crying out, 'If God has sent the bottle, He must have sent the dolly, too!'

Rummaging down to the bottom of the box, she pulled out the small, beautifully-dressed dolly. Her eyes shone! She had never doubted!

Looking up at me, she asked, 'Can I go over with you and give this dolly to that little girl, so she'll know that Jesus really loves her?'

'Of course,' I replied!

That parcel had been on the way for five whole months, packed up by my former Sunday school class, whose leader had heard and obeyed God's prompting to send a hot water bottle, even to the equator.

And one of the girls had put in a dolly for an African child - five months before, in answer to the believing prayer of a ten-year-old to bring it 'that afternoon.'

'Before they call, I will answer.' (Isaiah 65:24)

And one for you:

Heavenly Father, I ask you to bless my friends reading this. I ask You to minister to their spirit. Where there is pain, give them Your peace and mercy. Where there is self doubting, release a renewed confidence to work through them. Where there is tiredness or exhaustion, I ask You to give them understanding, guidance, and strength. Where there is fear, reveal our love and release to them Your courage. Bless their finances, give them greater vision, and raise up leaders and friends to support and encourage them. Give each of them discernment to recognize the evil forces around them and reveal to them the power they have in You to defeat it. I ask You to do these things in Jesus' name. Amen

That's the spirit

I like writing when I'm on a warm buzz from an alcoholic beverage. I'm so much more inspired to spout and much more articulate in my ramblings, at least from the fuzzy view over here.

Today's been a mixed bag. I bought that sweater I loved - found a UK stockist for Dace in Norwich somewhere who do free UK delivery, yay! (Weng says I is naughty)

I decided my outfit worked, although there's a definite inconsistency in the feedback from the mirrors around our flat and whether or not you stand on something when you're looking into them.

My mock fit interview went well although preparation was minimal. My coach said I was articulate and well spoken. When I watched the video, I was completely fixated on (and utterly horrified by) my completely mangled accent and the dork on screen. Then I bombed my case interview because I couldn't remember the 3 C's or the 5 forces or the 4 P's or any other arbitrary number of letters, and I couldn't add without a calculator or an Excel spreadsheet.

Liverpool lost in the C'League, which really sucked. At home, which sucks even more. To Chelsea, gaaaah.

Came home to find that my net position on my new and very adult portfolio of investments was down 0.19%.

Ok, so in retrospect, the day started well but ended in the potty (like the stock market), only it doesn't feel that bad because I'll have a beautiful new sweater in a couple of days and because I think that one G&T might have inadvertently been a double, thank you mister firstdayonthejob bartender.

Desperate for Dace : how to lose an entire morning

Automated websurfing
Check all of your regular sites - email, facebook, blogroll, twitter. Then find something interesting in your twitter feed to click on, like notcot.org, courtesy of Rudy in this instance.

Notcot.org
Great site for feeling creatively inadequate. The grid view's like being in a candyshop. Look around at all the things that catch your attention - you'll have to be selective here or risk your soul to eternal websurfing, then look up and sigh quietly at how the clocks have zipped forward an hour and a half. Mosey on over to notcot's sister sites and stumble across Notcouture.

Swallow the prejudice and all other words associated with 'couture'
Whoever put this site together should set up a shop and be a fulltime buyer. Almost every image is captioned with a very perky "I love...!!" or "Perfect...!!", and then shed that poor-person's cynicism and agree that every piece makes your clothing want list look like the catalogue of the British Library.

Begin the obsession
Pick a piece and decide that you really can't live without it.

And reset!

It's Monday. I wish that mattered to me the way it once did. And it's a four day work week here, again, missing the excitement that comes with one of the 8 Bank holidays a year.

I now think job applications are actually fun. I love stalking job ad sites, so my CFA studying's been relegated to the bottom rung at the moment.

I've also been hanging around a lot of photographers, and once they start talking, I want to buy a 'proper' camera. The ones that are big and bulky and not automatic. They'd also set me back about £500.

Talking about cash or the lack thereof, our Wii vs. PS3 debate has turned into Wii vs PS3 vs X-Box. Thanks for stirring the mix.

An assault on the senses

The smell of fried onions wafts around the stands, the roar of voices raised in team song, the thundering underfoot when the impatience of that elusive goal translates into a reverberation of clapping hands and stamping feet.

We only hit the woodwork four times, so when that extra-time goal slammed home, coherent thought was impossible. We screamed, pumped out fists in salute, celebrated like that ball had come off our own boot.

And then there was Weng standing quietly next to me, thinking about the kind of hill Man Utd would have to climb tomorrow.

Five days of aggravation

Monday: Realised that the possibly fastest-ever job application was only made to THE best digital media agency in the world, crappy cover letter and all. Score.

Tuesday: Discovered that aspiring copywriter/journalists don't get paid enough to actually live in London. Dragged myself to a totally uninspired chat with a headhunter on why I'm an amazing quant (because i<3 financial services and montecarlo simulations). Then travelled an hour to get crushed by the opposing team. Got repeatedly sat on by the goalie (netball is a strange game) and gave up fighting the 40in ass that kept body checking me.

Wednesday: Waited at Buckingham Palace for 5 hours (ah the joy of being jobless) for Obama to rock up - saw the Mexican president twice, Camilla, someone in the Navy with things on his shoulder, several black limos and entourage-bearing Vianos, and the back of Obama's Lincoln when it finally nipped in on the right when we were looking left. Then rushed across London for versatility only to run hard, but still lose.

Thursday: Rushed to French class in the morning, then spent the rest of the day entertaining myself and thinking about the quickest capitalist-driven way to blow my ISA money.

Friday: Blew my ISA money in fifteen minutes while sitting on the couch in my pyjamas. Hurried to an assertive behaviour workshop only to be reminded that I'm not successfully assertive in any way, just aggressive and reactive. Spent most of the evening listening to the awesomeness of 1088 only to never make it there in the end.