And November's here. Just like that. There was a picnic - amidst birthdays, a massive deadline, accidentally discovering a new exitless, signless expressway (which was later revealed to be the new KPE or some other acronym); things have been falling higgledy piggledy out of each day, like apples from a tipped-over basket. Always nice in retrospect to feel like we've been productive and efficient, but hardly ever peachy while we're stuck in it. So.

There was a birthday picnic complete with strawberries and bubbly. Thanks, A and J, for arranging this lovely respite. We've not been in the Botanic Gardens in the last five years that I was all amazed by the lovely plants there now. Who looks at plants anymore, these days, I ask, who? Sometimes I amuse and console myself by imagining how life would be like, as a gardener, or a florist. Something botany-related. Would be good for the nerves, methinks, not to mention the environment.



A coupl'a weeks back, when we brought Dilly to the vet's for his booster shot, I started talking to this girl who had her very sick cat in its travelling basket. While Dilly was meowing gustily, as if the life of an innocent prisoner depended on it, the other cat's breathing was slow and shallow. "Nothing a jab and some pills can't fix," I'd intoned optimistically to the girl, as if it was some form of encouragement. Her cat was just under 2 years old. After an hour's wait, though amongst ourselves we muttered about this girl and her cat cutting our queue, we learned it had passed on, on the vet's table. The shock and the guilt? I never want to bear that again.

It was a sobering experience. I may have tried to pat the girl's shoulder and maybe given it a sympathetic squeeze, but nothing could've brought back her cat. I wonder how she is doing now: it's funny how you strike up a conversation in waiting lines, especially one with shared interests like the vet's, for instance, and go on and on about stories, habits and experiences. And not really get to know the person behind the pet. It is perhaps deemed appropriate to speak about a being that is not yourself in those times.



After spending the last weekend in Johor Bahru with my colleagues, there has been a bit of a dengue scare over at my side the past few days. Or Chikungunya. Have been to the doctor's and he's ascertained that it's a viral infection - untreatable by antibiotics. So there's a bug. Inside of me. I've got a new (albeit unwanted) pet. And my insides have become the unsuspecting venue for a battlefield.

Being bedridden for the past 4 days has been great. Not. I have experienced the greatest number of hours of sleep I've ever had in my life. Awake for about 3-4 hours each day, it's what my dad calls "payback sleep". I have been pottering about the house and not doing much at all; and I wonder: is this what the life of an invalid is like? Having been a great fan of Susan Coolidge's What Katy Did series in my childhood, I've always held a rather romanticised view of invalids, of being bed-bound, yet patient, gracious and dignified. I've been nothing more than a grouch in the past 4 days, whilst worrying about the [ever growing] pile of undone work sitting on my desk at the office. I've never been this sick in my life, so this is yet another sobering experience.

Seems to be an onslaught of sobering experiences recently, in spite of brimming work schedules. I really can't wait for December to come; October and November have proved to be such monsters.


Monster taking a keen interest in water flowing from a faucet