Saturday, February 13, 2010

Sat through 90 minutes of "the frog and the princess" today.

There was this kid 9 years old or so I'd think, and his little sister, who were two rows away from us. Stupid kid laughed out REALLY loud at fucking nothing all the time. REALLY forced kind of laugh or so it sounded to my ears. And his little sis started to fucking copy his stoopid laugh as well. I wanted to walk over to punch him in the face. His mom, oh yeah, his mum, was sitting one row in front of him. As well. It's a stoopid disney film which should never have reached the cinemas (mind you it was full house today), and even though there were some marginally laugh out loud funny bits, the kid was not laughing at any of those moments.

So, as I was raging and stuffing pop corn into my gob, I fantasized about how I'd walk up to the kid and his mom and give them a good talking to. Maybe pour coke over their heads. Yet on the other hand, I thought maybe he has some kind of condition that might've somehow explain this curiously annoying craziness.

And so my mind drifted as described above, whilst on the big screen, humans turned into frogs, frogs into humans, et cetera.

Friday, February 12, 2010

There's active mould on my walls. And ceiling.

Sunday, May 24, 2009

Was in mainland China last week for our annual programme retreat. Stayed at quite a nice hotel complete with puny private beach.

Always bizarre and predictable but not entirely unpleasant, this annual 'get together' is basically an entire day's worth of meetings which could have taken place in any old crappy room with big table and thirty chairs. Yet, when under the guise of 'retreat', results in an out of town experience that only the clinically insane would agree is not a complete waste of taxpayers' money.

I said not entirely unpleasant, because people are trapped and therefore forced to socialize with one another. With the aid of copious amounts of overpriced plonk, it is actually one of the few occasions where you get to see the other side of people whom I normally imagine to be boring freaks. One guy kept quoting from "that famous book" called "Seven habits of highly effective people". A bunch of females kept daring one another to go up the stage to sing. When there was actually a band ALREADY doing the singing. At the top right corner of the dark Italian restaurant, an M Phil student was getting her much needed meeting with her supervisor (aka "the dodger"). And yes, her thesis is due in a month.

And this morning I taught Sunday School for the first time. I was told that my voice was too loud. Bloody right it was.

Dear God, why are other people's children always such useless brats?

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

It's that time of the year again, end of term, except that I'll be teaching summer school so June will be busy if not busier.

Went to students' graduation dinner last night and this is my second time after 11 years of working in this place. Last time it was held at a hotel, and this time in Asia-Expo or whatever that big hanger place is called next to the airport. Bit of a surreal experience. Not so much because of the size of the place, but the various 'ceremonies' and 'rituals' that took place before we were finally fed.

First off, the MCs, there were six. All girlos. All dressed up in shiny nylon and satin and lace and flowers in their hair, shoes too tight with heels too high. I couldn't take my eyes off one of them because the neckline of her blue velvet dress leads down to her belly button (okay me exaggerating a bit - maybe down to the point where the lowest ribs are). And she had created for herself an impressive cleavage to boot, seemingly with no help from conventional bras. What the hell? We had esteemed members of society amongst us. Legco and Exco members, Head of this or that commission, lawyers, vice-chancellors, and me! Do we really need to see that much boob?

The next surreal event was when everyone was asked to stand up whilst our esteemed guests enter the hall. Music was played, red carpet rolled out, someone holding a big flag leading the entrance. I had my arms folded across my chest and my back facing the entrance. I was wearing jeans. The blisters on my pinky toe were hurting. Trying hard to suppress the urge to fart.

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

Spot the difference!





[Style guru Gok Wan vs Democratic Party legislator Cheng Kar Foo 鄭家富]

Wednesday, April 01, 2009

My father is in his early seventies and recently has had to undergo some major dental work. He has never been slim. As far as memory serves me, he has always carried around a pot belly with him. But in the last couple of months he had lost a whole load of weight because the dental work has seriously affected his ability to eat normally. My aunt said he'd wanted to come visit and see the kids a month ago, but she advised him against it cos she was afriad he might frighten the kids.


His face now looks sunken, body shrivelled, his whole person has somehow been disfigured. I now see a fragile, vulnerable old man.

Which is what I will look like one day. If I get to live that long, that is.

When my mum was sick with cancer, living out her final days in a hospital bed some quarter of a century ago, she didn't want us kids to see her, either. She thought she would scare us.

Now, honestly, it is not so much how my mum and dad look like that could scare me. It is the thought that they thought they would scare me, that I find scary.

Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Life begins at forty. Well, yes. If you think of "life" as labouring to reproduce the system. Yes, it kinda sucks. I suppose I've had it good for the past twelve years, where my job primarily consists of teaching, writing, doing research. Now I spend two hours ploughing through my email and another hour through my in-tray, yet another on the phone, none of which are teaching or research related. On average I spend six hours per week in meetings where I sit and listen to da-man-wida-head talk. Yet another hour or so every day planning more meetings.

So, life begins.

***

I have this irrational fear that I might be drinking too much. It is irrational, because I know I don't drink too much at all. Okay that depends on who I'm comparing myself with. I'd say I don't drink any more than I did twenty years ago (haha), and my husband constantly reassures me that I have to be nuts to think that I drink too much. Anyhow, I am concerned about the size and texture of my one and only darling liver, so for the past couple of years - God, has it really been that long? - I've been trying to not drink very night.

And I have been methodical about it. I kept a journal. Over the past 100 weeks, I only managed 2 weeks where I drank 5-6 instead of 7 nights a week.

On Sunday, I spent the whole afternoon cooking and drank a whole bottle of Syrah in the process. WhenI woke up Monday morning, I felt so very guilty, thinking that I have mistreated my poor darling liver once again! I'm such a bastard. So last night I administered punishment to myself by drinking nothing but green tea and went for a run as well.

Strangely enough, this morning I didn't feel any better. In fact, I felt worse than I normally do.