Sunday, July 31, 2005

Do, done

I had another moment of divine inspiration yesterday when, having been briefed by Jayne about what changes to make to this year's musical script, I set to write an additional song. I was absolutely bone-dry and would probably have found it difficult to come up with lyrics on par with Mary Had A Little Lamb.

Finally, having given myself the "Stop snivelling, it's not about you and your little illusions of inadequacy and low self-esteem" pep talk, I found the lyrics tumbling out in a rush, and in about 2 minutes had most of the song down.

Guess it's another lesson for me in letting go of my fears of failure and just digging into the task, knowing that it's the doing that brings results, not the idle waiting. (What did I expect, for two pages of laser-printed A4 to drop out of my expeller fan vent into my waiting hands?)

Thursday, July 28, 2005

Behind & before


Picture by Ren, July 11, 2003

Dreams
Great big things
Climbing mountains, sailing seas
Leaving behind a little me

Dreams
Simple small things
Living and loving, laughing and leaping
Leaving behind a little me

Dreams
Forever things
Walking the narrow, forsaking the shallow
Moving forward to a greater me

In memory of Neil Hanley, lecturer and friend (died July 24, 2005)


"Enter by the narrow gate; for wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction; and there are many who go in by it. Because narrow is the gate and difficult is the way which leads to life, and there are few who find it." Matthew 7:13, 14

Cat's Miaow


"Eat, Figgy," I tell him sternly, index finger pointing at a suitably intimidating angle towards him. "You can't ask for more food when there's already plenty in your bowl." He nods, tilts his head pensively, then looks at me and miaows again. My built-in Cat Translator kicks in.

"I really don't understand why you humans think you're the smartest people around. Take yourself, for instance. I've been following you from hall to kitchen, back and forth, for the better part of half an hour. Just in case you don't get the message, I sit squarely in front of my food bowl, which is filled with some strange inedible substance, and ask you to throw it away and feed me so I can have some decent food to keep body and soul together. And what do you do? Stand there and make your weird human noises! Gesturing towards my plate and refusing to tell me what's going on, when you speak cat, fluently! The amount of stress it takes to get a decent meal around here... it's enough to make a cat go to sleep for six hours."

And after another failed attempt at getting me to give him his food of choice (top-quality ebikko from the cold waters off Northern Japan, no doubt), he gives me a blink-glare through half-closed eyes and goes to work finishing off the plate of kibble.

Figgy is one of the sweetest-natured cats to have come to this family (Whiskey being the absolute all-round winner), but doesn't seem able to accept that yes, that substance in his food dish is food.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Giant Whiskey Bottle's Job-Seeking Guide



These days, even treating your best friend to a slice of birthday cake (or three) has its fair share of hazards. What you think will be a simple matter of sidling up to a nice, friendly neighbourhood cafe (with, oh, only 3 kazillion or so franchises worldwide) and ordering drinks and cake becomes far more sinister.

I knew I should have fled the moment the man with the giant whisky bottle appeared. But no, we had ordered, and we weren't about to back out. It turns out the staff were just doing a neat little birthday number for the benefit of some young patrons (with the help of the GWB). After singing a birthday medley (in the same way as an inexperienced teppanyaki chef could be said to be delicately converting $120-apiece fresh scallops into simplified carbon), they presented both (traumatised) birthday boy and girl with a complimentary slice of cake each.

As bemused Best Friend returned to her chair after a mysterious visit downstairs, I told her, "Don't worry, you won't have to go through that. I told them we'll be paying for the cake."

P/S: I'm not as horrid as this post implies. Really, if any of the waiters at this establishment read this, you're all doing great at work, and the cake (the one we paid for) was lovely. I know you were hired for your ability to wait on grumpy customers while smiling up a storm, and not for your singing talents, and probably you only found out about the singing bit after you took the job and they gave you a magnifying glass to read the small print with. And finally, in case you're wondering, that's not a picture of one of you. My camera made this one up after I told it this story. What could I say? Dim atmosphere, giant whiskey bottle; it had to try.
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