Friday, September 23, 2005
I feel stupid.
Here's my bleep.
I can't do this job.
I want to go and pack shopping bags in Tesco.
Friday, September 16, 2005
I wish..not (1)
Why is it that, more often than not things happen exactly the opposite to what you wish for.
As in, ‘I wish such and such won't happen to me today or such and such will happen today’ .
Then, the law of the opposite auto kicks in, the contrary happens.
I wish it doesn’t rain today- just bring your umbrella, afterall you're in Britain. I wish my op list is short today- just be prepared to come home at 7pm famished. I wish I am working with somebody today so I get relieved for breaks- just be prepared to hold your bladder and pray nobody would tickle leak you by accidental rubbing or nudging or god forbid you have to have to go and scrub for epidural, the tap is the killer.
Well, it would have been an ok on call had I not been woken up at 3 am to gas an ERPC- (evacuation of product of conception) who re-bled copious amount and passed more clumps of tissue (baby’s legs? Arms? Eughh) after just been done 6 hours earlier. ERPC is, sucking out pregnancy product from a miscarriage in layman’s terms. I am yet to find out who layman is.
Most of the time, this is fairly straight forward, but of course, under the new cosmic arrangement of the lunar-tic stellar, there has got to be some sort of ER to screw up my night.
Post op, she bled more and I didn’t go to bed just in case it escalated and she needed to go back to OT. Couldn’t go back to sleep anyway even if I staple my eyelids together. The woman didn’t drop any blood pressure or haemoglobin with the slow trickle which was fine by me. Woman did I say? I beg your pardon..she’s 18. So, a girl barely a woman. On that note, fancy stuff stuck up your punani and bits of body parts sucked out at 18? Arkhh..don’t blame you if you’re crossing legs now.
I was selling ice cream and busy playing hard to get at 18. Which I thought was a lot of fun until they told me you have to go to a school 13 hrs by flight away across the globe, speak English with your neck stiffened otherwise they’ll say ‘Wot, could you speak up please, you foreigner’ and live with a bunch of white girls and learn quadratic equation all over again with a classroom full of spotty white boys and a Thai prince. Urmmm.
Anyhow, with 3 hr sleep, I wasn’t actually feeling very bright, looking a bit dim, having greasy unruly hair just flopped on my head like a mop and was just hoping I could wrinkle my nose and magically materialize in the car. The walk to the car park which we call ‘The Pit’ is about 10 minutes, and it’s not what you want to do on a morning like this if you can help it. One of these days, actually before I leave this hospital I want to write to them, to congratulate their thoughtful effort in making NHS staff exercise more and also to make a suggestion to move the car park further. We’ll see what they say.
The sun was bright and I was struggling to see through such small slit openings. I can imagine liking the generous bombardment of lights hitting my skin, my face, my hair, vitamin D being made, bones cheering upon arrival of the vitamin D molecules ushering the calcium,
…. Yeah good imagination that, on any other day but today lah though. Huff huff puff puff.
I wish..not (2)
Sometime ago, one said to me as I was walking off the escalator in that Berjaya Time Square with him, ‘Why can’t you wear proper heels and proper handbag like other girls’. (not exactly the words out of his mouth.)
It was so selamba and needless to say a rhetorical question. It made me struggle for a while for appropriate something to say back. Never been told that one before. I thought I was supercool all this while.
The fact is I am probably not the kind he would normally be seen with, strutting the over populated over polluted city called KL with heels 24/7, clutching some overpriced funny looking thing called handbag, pencilled in eyebrows- when are they going to overwrite with a marker pen, saving them having to reapply it- funny yah?, poker straight ironed hair – what, they think baju is it must iron all the time.
Some serious slagging own species there, but hey I do those sometimes- not flippin draw an umbrella above my eye socketlah ok. When I want to feel casual, relaxed, and loose and airy and light and gay and merry in my own skin, do you think I'd appreciate an off key comment like that? It’s not easy to be what people expect you to be especially when comfort is compromised. I am for comfort, first, always.
I give in sometimes, but never on request. There are ways to make me dress up and put myself through torture with heels and the full works, but not by what’s just been said by him. And however cliché it might sound, it’s not what you say it’s how you say it.
Funny thing was, I felt hurt a little when he said that. He even went on, somebody of YOUR age should dress like a woman. I wasn’t angry, just gloomed. Frustrated that he couldn’t see beyond my physical appearance which includes what I wear. Felt like a complete old bag there and then.
You know, people will forget what you said exactly, people will forget what you did precisely, but people will never forget how you made them feel. The feeling still lingers.
Sometimes I dig my self an answer to questions like that when I am alone, most of the time it’s while walking towards my car, because I know as soon as I get in the car, those thoughts will leave me like dry leaves shaken from a thin tree, as I drive off.
Also in the car, reasonable thoughts like, I still get asked for ID outside HRC Pattaya or outside Walkabout, and I still get semi shocked expression from patients when I say I am a proper as in qualified doctor, filled my deflating sense of self. If these thoughts were bricks, they could probably build a multi-storey car park next to the hospital by now, instead of this flippin’ The Pit.
All of a sudden a silly thought entered my mind, ‘I wish he wouldn’t just walk up from the car park this morning’. I kid you not, I looked seriously like a woman been dangled upside down in a wind tunnel and I should probably walk around with a ninja wardrobe with hazard written across it.
Then walking up the hill towards me, I saw a figure. Broad shoulders, careless spiky hair offset by clean shaven jaw line. A combination qualified for an effortless look which I suppose would suit only certain people.
The sun was glaring, wasn’t sure if that’s who I thought it was.
Bollocks. It was him.
‘Hey doc hospital is that way’, cocky greeting and he laughed, a friendly laugh. He looked fresh, must have had a good night sleep I suppose. Alright for some isn’t it. I accommodated, I grinned wearily. I couldn’t say more, because I ‘ve forgotten the toothpaste.
He stopped curtly as we merged so I had to as well. My throat was dry, my lips were chapped my eye bags growing funny looking potatoes, as red and itchy as ass crack, and I just wanted to turn around pretend I hadn't seen him, but it’s too late.
Gosh I know I can’t write shit, but just look at the amount of shit on this page.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Like many people I am not happy with the petrol price 96.9 pence per litre. Not happy at all. I was even more unhappy when yesterday there was absolutely NO garage opened for petrol.
On the way back from work, my tankometre is tinkering just above red, I thought, I’ll go later since the queue was snaking half a mile long out of the garage I usually go to. Who wants to sit in the car for an hour at least, just to get petrol just so they can go to work? Too kiasu la kan. If the price goes up that much, that people picket, that we don’t get the supply, that we can’t run our cars, that we have to stay at home (and to make matters worse, morons go and panic-buy till the tank in the garages drought off) what are we suppose to do? I believe in fate.
There is always some kind of balanced ecosystemic- like equilibrium around us, food chain, the money chain, the water chain. You have the bigs eat the smalls, the few eat the many, then you have product of obligatory wind letting getting inhaled back in, while product of crapping getting eaten again day in day out without us consciously thinking much about them. Not directly of course.
But my point is everything is in harmony because we don’t stress these entertwining chain reactions which are kept at equilibrium. So why do people go bonkers over scarce yet overly priced petrol. Availability of petrol to some but not others do not equate to some being smart than others, it’s just failure of the system to maintain equilibrium so that resources is not stressed and able to reach right down to the level of those unfortunate enough to not get in the queue in time because they do not want their asses to be subjected to prolonged torture in the queue, in short, couldn’t be arsed to queue.
So, with just above the reserve amount in the tank I ventured out to the biggest Tesco garage with the most number of pumps. At 22:00. Only because it dawned on me I still have to go to work. It’ll have to be something like aliens resurrecting from the epicentre of the earth by lightning before they close hospitals because of petrol strike.
Dr Bowels went with me because according to her, I have been a bit grumpy and under the weather these days it might cloud my judgement. I don’t know exactly what she meant, I was only kidding when I said if they don’t have petrol I am going to fill it up with water.
So we went and NO FUEL!!! Panicked, I bought tiramisu and strawberry cheesecake, trying to buy time before I have to start thinking how to make what I have to last enough so I can get more. Am referring to fuel, not illicit substance.
Next, I went to the one by the sea. It’s risky, it’s dangerous, it’s something unthinkable to do, oh no, it would be a waste of petrol if they too ran out, but somehow my compassion and love for something I have dedicated my life to, my work, oh yes, pushed me over my limit, make me do that extra bit more, unselfishly, just so I can get to work. And true they’ve too run out. Bollocks.
Wasn’t funny at all standing there wishing the guy rewound himself and say something like ‘Of course my lady, we are here exclusively for people like you who leave things to the last minute and we always make sure that all our customers are happy with our service.’
But he did say that a big truck MIGHT arrive in one hour’s time and that they are open 24 hr. Which made my head spin for a bit. Now if I went home, I might risk stalling my car coming back on the next trip. But if I waited I’d be sitting there like a melon, waiting for a big truck which might not even come after all and I was hungry and the Tiramisu was seducing the spare tyre in the boot and not forgetting it was getting pretty late.
So we went home. Dr. Vagina came over to help us finished the Tiramisu. He said to me, why the worry, I know a big garage which DEFINITEly has petrol. My head spinning a bit again then.
To cut the story short, we went, him in his car just in case.
My head felt glued to the steering and my hair pulled from all directions. Nobody would miss that painful sign. NO FUEL- exit this way. DEFINITEly?
I thought about the only other option. That one with the promised truck. In my mind my fear inflating, I was imagining my car stalled maybe 100 metres from the garage. Possible options then:
1) get a 100 metre siphon for the petrol to travel from the pump to my tank
2) fill up his car and siphon it out into my car, that way we don’t need that long a siphon
3) buy the petrol truck
4) leave the car and borrow his car to work
5) push the car to the garage
6) call AA and make them push the car, I don’t pay flippin 80 pounds for nothing
7) drug the truck driver and drive the truck off, black market petrol for 10 p less.
8) quit job at Scunnie Hospital
But like any adventure movie it was a happy ending. Megane didn’t stall half way, the truck was there, the pumps were full of fuel, he’s happy I didn’t strangle him, she’s happy she didn’t have to help me push the car, I was happy because I could not be unhappy . So we went to Walkabout, because it was a happy ending.
Was it just me who had this near car death experience?
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
I Believe I Can Fly?
We don’t always give ourselves the credits we deserve, the man said. And he sounded genuine as well, but would anybody listen to Dr. Rompy Pompy?
I was sitting across Dr. Rompy Pompy having coffee after putting a combined spinal epidural (CSE) in a patient for total hip replacement. He was telling me that since I got my ass pinned to do the Advance Life Support (ALS) course next month, I should make a fuss and aim to be an instructor while I am at it. The flippin thing expired 3 months ago and there is no such thing as a refresher course. Can you flippin believe it? I guess not. But..Me? An instructor? But..yeahbutnobutyeahbutnobutyeah.
I might not look scary enough to be an instructor, but I am old enough to be one. The thing is, would people take me seriously? Imagine standing in front of a hall full of people saying things like ok doctors, this is how you blow into somebody’s mouth and this is how you do the chest compressions. Everybody will be watching me kneeling over, French kissing the dummy and humping cardiac massage. Not knowing that in my head, there is this clever mechanism of autoplay steamy scenes from Basic Instinct installed. I hate to think I’ll crack up in the middle and blow off the whole thing completely. I have this propensity to do so.
I’d probably do things wrong as well and TEACH complete porkies to these doctors. Worse thing is I’d probably not notice until everybody gone silent and start nudging each other.
They won’t take me seriously. Only today the theatre nurses were talking about putting me in bed instead of the patient judging from the rate I was hacking the volatile cough. Oh did I mention? I have been unwell with cough and cold. Absolutely bunged up but hey, as long as I can stand and I can see the veins, never mind if my eyes are red, my head are buzzing, my joints are aching, my legs are shaking and at the end of a coughing fit my face looks like a baboon’s pink ass, don’t put me in bed. Don't even give me a day off. I’m fine. F.I.N.E
Len the ODA didn’t take me seriously, I told him I’ll be in the coffee room after the patient was positioned on the operating table and he said ‘Don’t worry as long as you’re still coughing, we’ll find you’. Earlier I said ‘Could I have Morphine please’, and he said ‘You should cut down Naj’.
The patient didn’t take me seriously. I told him there will be a lot of pushing and feeling of your back before I stick the needle in and he replied, No worries, as long it’s by a pretty young lady like you. He’s lucky he’s got a broken hip and not so many teeth left otherwise I would have sumpit him with needles. I don’t attack cripples, defenceless men or men without weapons. It’s cruel.
Dr. Rompy Pompy said, just be yourself because you will make any room brighter. Pause. I don’t want to be cocky but, he’s not exactly a straight talker from my limited experience. His eyes also seemed to occasionally found a comfortable rhythm in stealing small purposeful glances at the tip of my bluescrubs V.
But what he said next, I suppose is justifiable. Because of you, I now have 3 proposals for the house. You’re smart for a young girl. I like the first bit, but young girl?
He is leaving for another hospital for a better managerial post you see, as he’s been the Head of Resuscitation Training in the region for a while. Long while. I suppose the more people you know the more you can be picky about where you want to work. So, he needed to sell the house. What I did was, a little bit of clicking here and there on the www in attempt to put his house on the internet as House To Let. I was only doing it because he described the internet to me as a human eating machine/ghost. Now he can leave his house with a piece of mind that it will pay him money and get looked after as well. No need to sell. Aren’t we all chuffed now.
Anyhow, I hope he’s right and if the man himself feels I am a potential candidate, whyyyy not lah. Give it my kick ass shot.
Perhaps, we all could turn up to this ALS course with some sort of a character we like, because to be honest everything in it is very dry. I don’t think people pay much attention after half an hour. We need to spice up a little. If you turn up as Elektra for example, my idea is apart from bossing people around and kicking baby doctors’ asses you could also just sit down and look cool with your swords. But being Elektra is risky, I don’t like being identified so I need a mask. Catwoman would be a safer option, plus there will be a lot of floor action.
Some of the male instructors can role play. ‘Batman has been struck by lightning and was found not breathing with no pulse by Catwoman. Catwoman spotted a livewire by his feet. Tell us Catwoman how would YOU approach this disaster’.
Ehem. Meooowww…Purrrrr. (Crawling over Batman).
I need more cough syrup.
permission not obtained to reproduce this picture, please don't put me in jail or ask money from me, I am happy to do odd jobs.
Monday, September 12, 2005
He sent me a song.mp3. I can’t help but put it under the microscope. Why has he sent that particular song after not speaking for a month. This is not today by the way.
Is it because he wants your opinion about the particular song, or does he want you to google the song lyrics and start unbaffling a conundrum about the particular perpetually failing lovelife? Is there a hidden message? A way to say ‘I miss you?’ Or maybe to make you weep at every single agonizing beat of the song? Because you know well that no matter how badly you want to save what’s left, it’s a sinking ship situation, one can only save oneself.
Listening is like snip snipping open still red raw barely granulating wound held by merely haphazard throws. My toasted feelings are so susceptible and crumbly I wish it’s an extra limb I could just amputate with a butter knife. Whylah you do this to me.
Or maybe there’s a gremlin in my amygdala playing poogye with my limbic system. This is the thing you see. You just don’t know. And my hyperactive cynical centre in my brain is not helping much.
I have a song to give it back to him, probably bit of a Moulin Rouge, but hey you can't take any man seriously these days apartt from your dad telling you his legs are swollen and feeling a bit out of breath. These two songs should be played one after the other like Indian curry and Lager, or Nasi Lemak and Teh Tarik.
Or better still the songs can be a remix Simon versus Kelly featuring (some black rapper Snoop Dog or 50 cent would do)– Lay your hands without poking these hazel brown eyes. We can change clothes 9 times and run around the foot of Himalaya, or roll on the grass in Kashmir. The next shot would be in Holland under the windmill doing peek-a-boo and the full works. What say you hun?
Don’t’ give in, don’t give in, remember you don’t like competition.
SIMON WEBBE Lay Your Hands
Sometimes life can be a burden
Try to stay one step ahead
I feel the world upon my shoulder each time
I'm standing out on the edge
And my hopes have all deserted me
Like they washed away in the sand
And it's hurting my pride
Try to survive
But i know i stand a chance
When you lay your hands
'Coz it's the only thing I have that still makes sense
(Oh baby, when I'm calling out) Give me love and affection,
Keep telling me, show me the way.(Oh, if you see me falling down)
Lift me up from the shadows
Will you take me away to a better place?
(And when I'm in my darkest hour)
You're by my side, to turn the tide,
Until the suffering fades.
When life is getting me down,getting me down, i'm close to defeat,
Come and lay ur hands on me.
Feel this road is getting longer now
And i'm too far away from home
Still I gotta keep on moving on
But I can't do it on my own
Baby keep my head above water
Help me swim for my life
'Coz the game is getting harder
The strain is gettin stronger
And I can only face the fight
'Til I'm healed again,
Rediscovered my strengths,
Those bitter blues are gone...Oh, gone...
KELLY CLARKSON "Behind These Hazel Eyes"
Seems like just yesterday
You were a part of me
I used to stand so tallI used to be so strong
Your arms around me tight
Everything, it felt so right
Unbreakable, like nothin' could go wrong
Now I can't breathe
No, I can't sleep
I'm barely hanging on
Here I am, once again
I'm torn into pieces
Can't deny it, can't pretend
Just thought you were the one
Broken up, deep inside
But you won't get to see the tears I cry
Behind these hazel eyes
I told you everything
Opened up and let you in
You made me feel alright
For once in my life
Now all that's left of me
Is what I pretend to be
Sewn together, but so broken up inside
'Cause I can't breathe
No, I can't sleep
I'm barely hangin' on
Swallow me then spit me out
For hating you,
I blame myself
Seeing you it kills me now
No, I don't cry on the outside
I read other blogs. I go back if I like what they write. I leave comments if what they write hit some bonding centres in my brain. Bonding centres are like things that I could just imagine the writer and me doing together.
Like going to Perhentian Island skinny dip under the debauchery of beyond satiable orange moonlight. Orange moonlight makes your skin glow and enhance curves. Don't you know that?
The reflections against the glistening dark sea, awakens the mysterious monstrosity in any innocent girl. The cooling breeze envelopes those needing less distance apart.
Like going to Bali and letting the beat and the spirit of humid hot sweet rave sweat do the talking in De Ja Vu or was it Ku De Ta. Where body language is everything, where a drop is on the beat, where the next beat sees a slithering sultry move, up to pierce your eyes and linger quenching your thirst, where the grind fits and interlocks, leaving sweet talking and sipping sweetness for very very after. Ja Rule and Ashanti –Down for you- is what I mean.
Like frank view on an issue making me see the timid child in the writer. Enough to allow you compare notes on how vulnerable we all can be.
Like a struggle through a dip in life. A cancer, death, lost, refusal, denial, unrequited love (ones that doesn’t involve me), betrayal or just simply a nicely written piece on loneliness and boredom. I can relate to all that. If I didn’t experience them I would have at least seen them.
I can’t list them all but I love those that depict living life to the fullest. But some makes me gag. Retch and screw my face. Coorrr, like vinegar on fat chips.
Like that one on how to lose weight by making a machine wobble your fat so fast that your boobs sag few inches more. It’s completely against the law of thermodynamics. Energy can’t be lost you whales, you transfer it to another form. So if you plan to lose all those flippin fat why not lose your gardener and do the gardening yourself. Lose your cook and do the cooking yourself. After all a woman like you don’t have an office to go to, don’t have a children to run around after.
Instead, you pay people to use electricity to move a machine which generates kinetic energy to jiggle your flabby full of fat front silly. Did you yelp like Homer as well? And what kind of energy expenditure did your fat body do? Exactly. To lose energy, you apply more energy, Very clever. And yes the mud wrap or whatever they call it, I have been made to believe that your skin works from within my dear, even if you cement yourself into a wall it wouldn’t shrink your X size. Unless some bones are crushed in the process.
And you slag these people because ‘it’ doesn’t work. These people make money (your money or your husband’s) from stupidity and ignorance people (that includes you) still carry around like birthmarks. You melon.
On that note, some are so good at what they do, writing specifically, I envy some of them, but there is absolutely no sense in some of the things they do, hence the content of what they write. Why do people stop thinking?
Some are pretty (I give that), but they have to spoil it by writing something stale and greasy like ‘oh saya sangat bagus dengan budak-budak, mesti masa orang tengok saya kat kenduri tu orang fikir, eh bagusnya dia ni, macam ibu misali, dahlah sangat cantik dengan kebayanya, nak buat menantulah ’. I see right through that one. You are single and available, yes we know that now. Could you not be so see through and a bit classy? What they write makes me gag. I feel sorry for myself for not ‘feeling’ it but, you shame my kind girls, the single kind.
One I remember, wrote about Merdeka celebration by getting drunk. And actually is proud of doing that. Let you celebrate whichever way you want you say, do you really think that is patriotic? Do you? Do you now? You make me itch la.
You getting drunk is your business, but why drag Merdeka into it? Looks like they Brits hadn’t really left Malaya after all. I know you have more balls than that, show why not a bit of respect for Merdeka celebration (not your balls). Even lack of celebration appears more appropriate after reading mixture of what people think is right by them on how to celebrate. I am sure you will reread what you’ve written and beat yourself with some soiled knickers later. If you haven’t done so lah.
And of course they’ll say it’s my blog I can write what I want. Pffftt…of course.
I have run out of toothpaste.
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Few beings and their antics in the exam hall annoyed me, so much so that if I was wearing a pair of sandals I would have plonked it on the respective annoyer or annoyist. (the thingy that had caused somebody to be annoyed).
I can never tell when to use –ist or –er. Also, I am violent these days. I must have been possessed but possessed people don’t normally say they are possessed. Anyhow,
1) The woman invigilator with heavy fronts wearing a tight top and clonking shoes. When the clonking is that loud, you can’t help but investigate what impact the clonking has on her heavy fronts. It was quite hilarious to watch but that wasn’t my point. Some body must have experienced the similar incarcerated distraction and took the liberty of telling her to take the shoes off. 15 minutes into the exam she was spotted surreptitiously floating around barefoot. I don’t know where they got her from, her hair had electric blue rinse and her face- eyebrow piercing, nose piercing and 3 other piercing on each ears. Very distractive.
2) The guy with Topshop label on his T-shirt sticking out tempting me to go and tuck it in once and for all. He sat on my left front, stooping over, kept rubbing and massaging his neck. Every time his hand past the sticking label I felt like going over and do it for him. Did he do it on purpose? Just flip the flippin’ label in will you! The more I looked, I somehow felt the label got bigger and bigger. It creaked as well; the neck. Eughh.
3) The guy front right had Cadbury chocolate bar, Twix, Polo mints, Starburst chewies and a bottle of coke nicely displayed on his desk. I mean go on bring whatever you want but how do you unwrap sweeties without making noise? And he surely knows one cannot die from 3 hours of nil per oral. Bring a basket with plates and wine glasses next time why don’t you doc and we all can have pasta and Bollinger picnic. Wait, don’t forget croissants, apricot jam and a tumbler of hot chocolate as well please.
4) The Indian girl on my right kept erasing answers and blowing the rubber bits on my direction. Does it say on the exam booklet that if you have marked you answer wrongly, erase it and aim to blow to your left as hard as you can until the girl next to you choke and gasp and die from asphyxiation?
5) The guy behind me who had this unruly leg oscillating at high frequency making such a frustrating wobbling nyetnyetnyet sound. Not sure if it’s his synthetic leather shoes or his artificial knees, but both didn’t impress me much.
6) The Malay looking invigilator who was supposed to be the reference invigilator if any of us had any questions related to the paper itself, who spent nearly 2 minutes towering over me looking down at my blank answer sheet (the first 5 questions were absolute porkies), then another 2 minutes picking up my driving licence, staring, examining, scrutinizing probably thinking ‘Oh melayu rupanya budak ni, kenapa first 5 questions tak jawab2 lagi ni, susah sangat ke , masa I buat exam I dulu I star gila semua buat pakai sebelah mata aje, kesian I tengok budak ni, dah la gambar lesen macam muka botol kicap …heheheheh’. The picture on my driving licence is not what my mum would use for arranged marriage photo let’s put it that way. Yes there has been a talk of that magnitude lately.
I later found out it was all highly premenstrual, poached with good proportion of nerves and anxiety. I have no idea how it got to me, or how I manage to let it get to me and why the world needs to know that. And what I'd say is when you can’t explain, it’s usually the hormones. So, I should photocopy this and let people read it whenever they go ‘So how was the exam Naj?’
I am still whiney and grumpy and in need of a fix.
Murder In A Cab
Taxi driver: Where to love.
Nervous passenger: Fellowfield, Armitage centre.
Taxi driver: Alright love.
Cruising merrily whizzing and spinning past the many roundabouts.
Taxi driver: You student love? Lots of foreigners here in Manchester. Blablabla. You Japanese love?
Nervous passenger: Err, no not a student. Left uni 4 years ago. Not Japanese either.
Taxi driver: Oh you’re not love? Blablabla Pakistani blabla muslim blabla Manchester big blablabla universities blablabla foreigners blablabla good food blabla good night out blablabla vomit in my car blablabla…my daughter student blablabla become a lawyer blablabla
Nervous passenger then started having a not-so-cool-pre-exam-shitting-moment.
Is Cimetidine an enzyme inhibitor?or is it an enzyme inducer? Warfarin is an enzyme inducer, that’s positive. Is it? Which one? Arghhh shut it shut it shut it. You’re going to make me leak in your car.
Then the nervous passenger calmed down and rationalized.
I need a sat-nav. All single women should have one. Nobody wants to get verbally murdered by a Pakistani taxi driver an hour before an exam, when you can get to where you want safe and hassle free with a sat-nav. I need a sat-nav. I need I need I want I want.
Some Change Some Don't
Exam venues should now be newly classed as highly sociable, happening and cool.
This time it’s Armitage Centre, NOT, I repeat, NOT flippin’ 2 miles away from my hotel room. When the Pakistani cab driver asked £11.10 from me I literally clenched my butt, feeling a bit tight I suppose parting with more than a tenner for a cab. 2 miles my foot to that lollipop hotel receptionist (she wasn’t even blonde), and 11 pounds my butt to the paki cab driver. Grrr..
Outside the hall the usual people were already there Kev, Nav, Ravi. Bickered to them about the colossal cab price. The fact that they thought I was being conned as well didn’t make me feel any better but the fact that none of them really know what it should be instead, helped me got rid of the ideas of how to murder a cab driver.
There was about 100 doctors or so mingling and chatting. Not any different to a wet market. The whole noise just blended into basic tenor note which I could just selectively ignore. Soothing white noise. It’s such a good feeling to see many worried faces as well. Almost hearing Michael Jackson’s You Are Not Alone tune filling up the lobby.
A guy walked past with ipod earpiece dangling off his auricles. A walk I recognised and brought back some comical memories. Oh dear, he is really gay now. (If it was the person I thought he was) I didn’t realize what I said wasn’t just confined in my head, so I had to explain to everybody who I thought that was. Ravi screwed his face.
When he came out of the loo, I was right, it was him. Gay, very. Green body hugging T, white K-swiss, sling bag hung across his broad shoulders, spiky well gelled hair would survive any kind of hurricane and arms to die for. He must have gained inches vertically as well. Why can’t non gay men look after themselves as well as? That’s not true actually but I like to be inflammatory.
I wasn’t sure at the time if I should keep looking until he caught my eyes. If that happens I had to then act all surprised denying the fact that I have actually been watching his butt, which to some might be good enough to sink your teeth and claws into (I heard a woman said that once, so I am just copycatting because it sounded appropriate and cool). Under no circumstances would I say that out loud. If I look away then that is a silly thing to do because God knows when we’d see each other again and I have to know if he really is a poof. That’s crucial.
From the corner of my eyes I saw him making a beeline towards my table and stopped a feet away in front of me.
‘So you liked what you see?’ Posing like a Neptune which made me half stunned and half hysterical.
Slapped him hard across his shoulder and got squeezed and pecked in the cheek in return. And why can’t non-gay men smell as good? Over generalizing there, but men MUST know that one of the ways into a girl’s heart is through the olfactory bulbs. Good smells awaken good gestures I say.
Reminiscing the times we had at med school, the people we know and bit bout anaesthetics.
So why have you turned into this sinful speciality Naj?
I said I hate clinics and ward rounds and I like things get done quickly. Bluntly.
Exactly! Blahblahblahblah.He said with unnecessary hand movements. I swear he looked like a lobster trying to get out of a hot boiling pot. He lives in Brighton now and I think he’d blend in the community with no problems at all.
Half way up the stairs another familiar face and, do people always look better the more years you’ve spent not seeing them? I don’t know how it happened but some girly shrieks exchanged which I vowed once before I wouldn’t do ever again because it got the whole restaurant tutting and shaking their heads, but hey once a TKCian, always a TKCian, shrieking or no shrieking.
She must have lost about 3 stones looking absolutely ravishing. Parted a deserving compliment to her and she said ‘I know hahahaha’ flicking her purposeful tumbling locks out of her face, in return. It’s hard sometimes to throw compliments because you feel a bit sick of how some people know they are going to get the compliment because they get it so often, so you have to force yourself making the obvious statement before you insult them by not mentioning anything at all. I mean 10 minutes into the conversation and then only mentioning how good she looks is a bit risky. Bit like having to swallow a bitter tablet the size of your thumb, you know you have to do it; which is only true by the way, if you are 8 because they don’t make that big a tablet nowadays.
Wish she said the same thing about me, but instead she said I haven’t changed much. I just took it as a compliment. At least in that 5 years hadn’t put on that much on me so add another 5, I should still be good. (yeah, pfft I say to that, then what? Pickled, canned, barcoded with backdated expiry date and shipped to Antigua?)
Anyhow, it’s sad that the reason I get to meet some old friends is because we were doing more exams. Somehow I wonder if we were selected before birth to become guinea pigs to see if some of us would swing to the other direction and come out of the closets from the pressure and amount of exams and studying we have to do. Whose fault is it though, huh, huh, huh?
After the exam, some decided to drown themselves in some by product of sugar fermentation so we removed our battered and severed bodies and asses to a different venue. I had two paninis and it was only 6pm. Exams always brought out the pig in me, I felt like eating an elephant. Roasted. Can we eat elephant? It’s a herbivore after all. Felt like a medical student after an Easter exam all over again, what with all the stupid jokes and gossips ping ponged all across Travelodge club. I changed my mind about Travelodge, it’s not bad at all.
Couple of people rang through to ask about how the exam was. One call was from somebody unexpected. After all this time? He asked me quite normal questions, conversation was quite normal. Analyse why don’t you Naj.
Today is muggy, and I am stuck in this poky flat.
People should think twice before going to any hospital the next day.