Yesterday seen a panoply of dismal expressions to a rather discouraging 2010. Strangely enough, there were actually friends who had liked the entry. Thankfully the likeness was generated upon empathy and not the quenched thirst for sadism through a chain of dejected events happened to me.

Despite a less than perfect last year, it proved to me that motivation could indeed be generated through the establishment of clear goals. Riding on the success from last year, I am again setting out goals which I desire to achieve in 2011:

1. Enter 5 photo competitions. Practices in 2010 have indeed improved my skills tremendously. However, I often find it challenging to motivate myself to carry the heavy camera gear around to take photos. So for this year, with clear objective in mind, I believe the motivation would be escalated;
2. Secure job and achieve saving target. The same goal set for the third year in a row. Sounds naive especially given my visa status. What I believe in, however, is not the evident obstacles to find a job, but is my own determination to never give up regardless of the situation. Moreover, from this year onwards, I believe the universe will conspire to help me;
3. Visit Greece and Spain. 2011 is potentially my last year in Europe. My travel map reminds me that the Greece and Spain must be on the travel list this year;
4. Read four books. Goal set at similar level as last year; and
5. Improve writing. Writing ability had cost me a job in 2010 and I will not allow the same issue to once again jeopardise my career prospects. I set to write an article a week and have it corrected.

Now, these are not exactly goals but some wishful thinking: an iPhone 4 for birthday, a relationship, a win in lottery. Haha!

Despite years of strenuous efforts and self-discipline to refrain myself from being victimised by the numerous Facebook applications, I, motivated by curiosity, had recently succumbed to Top Status 2010.

A year is a long time, especially in an era when status update has become as frequent as every other hour, or even minute through self-broadcasting platforms, including the famous Facebook and Twitter. A tool which brilliantly analyses the statuses based on popularity and then generates a list of top ten statuses thus becomes an intelligent application which everybody is frantically wow-ing about.

After having much fun with the application, I wondered with much greed, if there is an application that broadcasts the top ten events which happened to us? However fancy, I then swiftly realised that unless every single event was digitally recorded by a permitted stalker throughout the year, it is almost impossible for this genre of personal broadcast to become successful.

Therefore, until this state-of-the-art technology makes its presence, I resorted to the traditional channel through this entry. In conclusion, it wasn’t a particularly good year despite some consolations. I will, however, endeavour to avoid magnifying on the negative events, despite the lack of overwhelmingly upbeat events. So here is a summary of the important events which happened to me in 2010:

• An eventful year at work which forced me to change work location. After much efforts to prove that I am a worthy candidate, I finally received the severely delayed promotion which I deserve very much. Nevertheless, the hunt for an ideal job remains fruitless;
• The year started by seeing a chain of arguments with someone I had emotionally attached to. The relationship then turned toxic and finally ended in mid-year. Soon after that, a knight appeared and generously showered attention and kindness I almost forgot I deserve. However, the knight deserted me emotionally, not physically, after a flash presence, right at a time when I started to attach myself emotionally. It is left unanswered if I am capable of leaving it behind;
• My reliable external harddisk drive decided to betray my trust after dropping on the floor. I thus lost my university works and most importantly, photos which documented the two most precious years of my life – my master’s study;
• Early of the year, I moved into a lovely flat with a guy who I thought was a nice bloke. It turned out that he was a selfish, self-centred bastard who broke his own promise to our shared-dwelling agreement. Despite my frustration and hatred, I chose to compromise and lost half a grand financially; and
• My health condition was very good until the very last month when I was diagnosed with having skin disease. Even when I know it was a punishment to my own conduct, it indeed was an unfortunate end to the year.

Not very exciting from the above for certain. However, when looking at the goals set out for 2010, it actually was positive and affirming. Here are the goals and their respective verdicts:

• Secure job and achieve savings target – Verdict: Failed, despite some promising interviews;
• Two trips: Home and Egypt – Verdict: Achieved. A visit to Sahara Desert really was the highlight of the year;
• Read four books – Verdict: Achieved. Books read include Rough Guide: Egypt (Well, it is a book!), Travel Photography by Steve Davey, A Little History of the World, The Alchemist (A superb and inspiring gift from Fiona, thanks!);
• Revamp Sambal Delivery Post – Verdict: Achieved. It really made me proud when an IT friend complimented on the website. Read here: http://sambaldeli.blogspot.com; and
• Develop Photographic Skills – Verdict: On course. My most favourite picture of the year:

A shocking revelation of someone’s true age, as contrary to his profile age, has brought me to question if I, and many of you from the era when age discrimination is a crime, have become ageist.

He was a guy I met a few months ago. He has a pair of lips constantly moisturised by lip guard and a body skin definitely softer than mine. I thought his profile age was an overstatement until he revealed that he actually was 5 years older than his virtual projection. Disbelieved. Is this even possible? And most importantly, what is the secret?

Let me briefly explain the term ‘profile age’ before we dwell on the topic. In our current time span when relying on friends to introduce their other single and available friends in the vain hope of finding love has become exponentially challenging, we resorted to the convenience of internet and have become heavily dependant on dating websites. Filling up the age column in a personal profile, genuine or not is evidently another topic, has become inevitable, if not mandatory, on many of these sites.

From personal observation, if someone is out of the socially regarded premier age group, or the 20s, a standard discount – five years younger – is what he will do to ensure a wider popularity and higher scoring chances. And for the record, I have met with people who skewed to the extreme of 10 years. No question, honesty is undoubtedly out of the menu. And yes, everyone wants to date a younger one: 30s prefer 20s, 40s prefer 30s (and 20s), 50s prefer 40s (and 30s and 20s), etc.

Nevertheless, my personal experience has convinced me that the disguises of these cyber liars are utterly undetectable. Well, that of course if we eliminate the idea that my stupidity in guessing one’s age is unbeatable. However, based on the recent revelation and my subsequent reaction, I couldn’t help but wonder, if I have known his real age, will I even consider meeting him in the very first place? And if I didn’t, does it make me an ageist?

I paused, recollected my memory, and then questioned myself: How many people have I turned down based purely on age? Many. And speaking from personal experience, filtering down the list of personal profiles and (subconsciously) associate a person’s age to a certain pairs of words has never become a strenuous task: young, energetic and unwilling to settle down for the 20s; mature, sexy and experienced for the 30s; experienced, romantic and seriously-looking for the early 40s; partially giving up, slightly desperate, and horny for the late 40s; perverse, desperate and rude for the 50s onwards.

Have you seen the downwards trend of the description? No wonder most people lied. Even though my aforementioned description may have been hinting a slight opportunity that I am perhaps an ageist, there is, as always in the rule of universe, exception – when someone looks good. And the guy we have been talking about on here, is definitely one of these exceptions.

When in discussions, while some (older) friends confessed they could hardly imagine themselves dating people older than 40, I questioned on why even though not preferred, I had always ended up with the 40s. Was it because I fell into their cyber lies? Maybe. Was it because I admired their maturity, gentleness and sex appeal? Probably. Or was it simply because I was horny and desperate? Idea rejected – in my defence, I have dated many youngsters too.

While my experience has taught me that as long as the preservation and maintenance are good, age normally doesn’t come in as an issue. However, the more serious underlying concern is, will we even share a mutual conversation topic, which is uber important in a long(er) term relationship? It will be funny to imagine myself talking about Lady Gaga while the other one is telling me about Sunset Boulevard, no?

Nevertheless, I have learnt from experience that despite the obvious fact that two people are from different generations, a relationship could work. The key to success is common interests that are of course independent of age factor. For examples, interests in photography, cooking, travelling, sports. When two people share an activity, for instance, going on a photography tour, they bond stronger together. Failing this, I reckon only magic could make things work.

What’s the conclusion? It’s clear that I am defending that we, well at least me, are not ageist. Or at least I would argue and advocate that we follow our hearts in most occasions. And I believe if you truly like someone, age will never become a topic of concern. (But err, maybe not too much?) Of course, good look never hurt! But then again, who can guarantee an eternal youth? And we certainly do not want to evolve from being ageist to ‘facist’ , do we?

“I am on my lunch break but I don’t have money to buy lunch.” It was a shocking revelation from not a predictable homeless figure, but a friend working in financial services industry who earns a what would be an estimated 2.5-fold of my present annual income. 

What has gone wrong? I asked curiously, not intended to pry. Deposit, rent, council tax, gas, flight ticket to Egypt, amongst other items which their presence are deemed absolutely normal and familiar in anyone’s financial list. Alright, maybe not the last one. Bewildered, I wondered have prices shoot up uncontrollably like they never should be due to the persistent inflation rate at worrying level?

Having discussed the issue with my other friends, whom of all are receiving considerably bigger paycheck than me, I discovered that having personal finances going astray is apparently not uncommon, and is certainly independent of one’s earning level. I am aching to uncover the root of the problem. After several discussions, it was dawn on me that all the patients of finances health problem share a common attribute – the endless desire to spend (carelessly) and the derisory determination to save.

Sounds like a cliché I know and I am convinced that you would probably argue that everybody knows this. You may even fight and complain who doesn’t want to save but our earning is just unfairly less and disproportionate to today’s basic expenses. But then again, who doesn’t want a big pay check, bigger bonus, and the smallest tax?

Everybody likes to spend, including myself. However, being brought up in a financially deprived family, I learnt as the first lesson in my life, if you fail to take charge of your personal finances, you are destined to fail. However, to my delight, I also learnt that the key to successful personal finances, or more accurately the secret of successful spending, is no myth and surprisingly simple. It all lies in the state of mind and is resembles to the simplest and most primitive form of trade – barter system.

It is not as intelligence-demeaning as simply comparing prices among similar items, for instance, the difference between tuna from two different brands, although I would definitely argue that price comparison is the fundamental step to successful spending. As we compare prices, we become smarter in familiarising ourselves with marketing and packaging deception. And listen to me, if your tongue can’t distinguish the taste between two seemingly identical products, go for the cheaper one.

Back to the barter system, it requires one to achieve a paradigm shift in their mind when he/she spends, it educates one to distinguish between needs and wants, and most importantly, it frees up individuals by eliminating their desire to purchase and make them recognise the potential of not spending.

Sounds vague, let’s look at an example. Say you walk into a supermarket and pass by the juices aisle. Pick up a carton of orange juice, start asking yourself: Do I want this juice or do I need this juice? The answer is most definitely want. Now think of what you can buy if you swap the orange juice with something else? A loaf of bread which you probably need to make sandwiches for lunch. You will be amazed if you repeat the exercise throughout the entire shopping session and come back home realising that you have bought only what you need but not what you want.

Stretching the paradigm shift to beyond grocery shopping, walk into a fashion store, styling yourself with a £30 blouse or a £50 pair of jeans. Now start questioning yourself do you want or need them? The fact is you want them. Now think of not buying the clothes, what could you spend on using the money? That is one-fifth of a return flight ticket to Egypt. Now the real trick kicks in, weighing between a new piece of garment and an Egypt travel, which one is more enticing to you?

If you choose the former, go for it. There is nothing wrong in wanting a pair nice jeans instead of travelling to Egypt because that is what you want. The example I am giving here is for you to recognise what is the potential of your money, or in other words, the value of your money. It is imperative that we appreciate the value of our money and not its face denomination – the key to barter system.

We save ourselves from purchasing certain items because we realise we don’t need them. At other occasions, we save ourselves from purchasing certain items because we recognise the money is valuable for something that will supply greater satisfaction to us, although it could mean a repetitive exercise before the goal is finally achieved. But the ultimate winning recipe to successful spending control is to save, and recognise how often the word save has appeared in this paragraph.

Possessing a conservative mind, I am a firm believer of saving before spending. My ultimate advice to my fellows: Save at least 3 months, although it would be better 6 months, of your current salary before you start spending. This would serve as a crucial financial buffer if things go sour. And if could achieve a paradigm shift through barter system, congratulations, you are on track to your own finances recovery.

Note: Advice given above is based purely on personal experiences.

(Note: Click on all images to enlarge.)

It is condemnatory that the hefty investment of my camera gear has not turned into a wise one due to severe practice shortage. Deterred by wintry blizzard earlier of the year, I am now excuse-less since the summer has been blistering hot. Encouraged also by my imminent travel to Egypt, I dusted my camera and headed to Greenwich Park earlier this week with a purpose – to shoot bracketed photos for HDR, or high dynamic range images.

HDR image is a photographic technique where three or more images taken under different exposure settings are combined to form a single picture, in a scene where the contrast is starkly different for it to be properly exposed by the camera.

However, as I was editing post-processing my photographs taken under a mildly disappointing and thus less dramatic weather, I couldn’t help but began to wonder, how much control do we have to perfecting our images before they become, erm, unrealistic?

The first of the three photos above was the ‘correctly’ exposed photo as interpreted by the camera. It is evident that the foreground (the building) in this photo was underexposed and the background (the cloudy sky) was washed-out. In order to preserve both the dramatic sky and the details of the building, a HDR solution has to be summoned.

So by combining the normally exposed photo, with one severely underexposed (for details in the sky) and another extremely overexposed (for the details in the building) photos, the following HDR image is produced and is compared to its original image on the left.

It is undoubted that the HDR image was processed compulsively. Nevertheless, very few people will deny that such an image is actually very pleasing to the eyes and even when they do, they are often amazed by the details preserved in a picture using HDR technique. However, here comes the question: When it comes to photography, are we striving to capture a photo that could genuinely represent a real scene even when the end result is slightly disappointing, or are we trying to gimmick-ly processed photos and so the details are retained?

Challenging question. But what if we tone down the processing method and produce a closer-to-life image that is capable of preserving details? (Take a look on the following photos.) Now we notice that the sky is less dramatic but the clouds are clearly distinguishable from each other as opposed to the original image. The details of the building has also become sharper. The overall tone of the image is warmer and thus eliminated the hazy feeling of the original image due to perhaps incorrect white balance setting.

Now another question: If presented only the lightly HDR image, will you suspect it is processed? And if given the last couple of images, which one would you have preferred in general?

I understand and share the same perspective as many of you, photos are best left untouched. But what if HDR image, if realistically processed – if that ever exists – could significantly enhanced the details of an image and bring it closer-to-life, which is highly impossible to be captured using a camera solely? Take a look on the following example, could you tell it is processed?

Fiona, my best friend in London, challenged me to post an entry without the assistance of a dictionary or thesaurus. Instead of accepting the challenge with an open arm, I went on instantaneously wondering her discovery. Was it the bombastic words heavily deployed in my recent updates that revealed a rather forceful English composition? Or has she secretly installed a pin-size camera in my room perversely obtaining pleasure through spying on my every activity? Well, at least I am flattered if it was the latter.

Her comment, however, weighed more heavily than a silly spying  joke. It reignited a particular concern I have had recently – the lack of proficiency in written English, which unfortunately has cost me an employment offer I have longed for. And as the comment came amid my concerted effort to improve on my writing via frequent practices, it sparked my worry that perhaps I have gone overboard and become trying too hard.

Nevertheless, I accepted the challenge eventually. As I began thinking of my options, my first thought, a skilful trick to bypass the challenge with an one-sentence-entry which probably says “Fiona, this is my update without the use of a dictionary,” entered my mind with an evil grin. Even when I think the entry is unquestionably eligible for the challenge, it wouldn’t do me a glorious favour. And so it was aborted.

My second option, based on Fiona’s profound interest to unveil my not so secret talent to (frequent) random hook-ups, was to reveal the raunchy conversations I have had with my rapidly changing sexual partners. While I started recollecting the images of these people through a lighting speed image flashing, the thought of me being stabbed to death by not one, but the many former brief encounters, after a potential detrimental public humiliation to their openness in sex-hunt via the revelation of supposedly discreet conversations, cooled my sharing excitement.

Moving on, I pondered if it would be more appropriate in this particular circumstance, where English language itself is the focus point, to adopt a more formal channel by sharing my limited experience in English literature. I can and will of course draw your attention towards the only short story I have remembered from my high school English literature classes – The lotus eater. I believe when the discussion developed, I would probably dwelled into the simple but effective style of writing and bla bla bla, which will undoubtedly encourage you to close this window at the soonest with just a click on the finger. 

After careful consideration to keep this post slightly amusing, I, still revolving around the English language, was inspired to discuss the inability of most Malaysians to pronounce the last alphabet of English words, which of course has inevitably landed me in many humiliating occasions. And I will most likely share with you one of the most classic examples of my personal experience – a grocery shopping in a Norwegian supermarket with my European and other Asian friends when I have had to spend half a day explaining my desire to purchase half a dozen of egg. The obstacle I faced in pronouncing the ‘g’ in the simplest English word has literally made me spelt the word out before my bewildered friends were finally enlightened with hysterical laughter.

Just when I thought that this indeed could be a potential blog entry for this English challenge, I realised the thought process itself has utilised the words limit I normally allocate for an entry. Despite my keen desire to continue, I conclude my current entry prematurely with massive regret by saying: Voila Fiona!

Directed by David Cameron and supported by the coalition production crew, with Theresa May as the lead female verbal puppet, set off by muted Nick Clegg in the name of comprises-made-to-coalition-government, together had presented the latest episode of the long-winded austerity drama, Cut in what most business leaders and political correspondents are at odds over – the immigration cap (on highly skilled and skilled workers).

They claimed it as a vital approach to curb the country’s rising unemployment rate currently stands at 7.9% or 2.5 million and a patriotic move to return British jobs to British workers. They further emphasised the imposition will duly reduce the pressure exerted on immigration-related social welfare including schools, hospitals, council housings and other public services, which will ultimately helps the coalition government to achieve its target on fiscal tightening policies.

Undeniably the Tory has been charged with the duty to materialise what it promised in the general election – to reduce net immigration. But, in my opinion, the proposition serves not as an effective formulation to deal with successfully the upward spiral of immigration but merely a brainchild of political gimmick.

Firstly, the cap was ill-targeted. A friendly reminder to my dear readers, the cap is aimed at reducing the admission of non-EU economic immigrants under the Tier 1 (highly skilled) and Tier 2 (skilled) points based system, which represents a derisory 27,000 out of all the massive 406,000 approved visas, or 6.5% in the first three months of 2010 (Source: ONS). I am bewildered. Just how significant the impact of a cap like this will have on improving the jobless figure and on easing the pressure of public services? Neither.

Under the point based system invented by the Labour government, Tier 1 visas are granted to migrants without a guaranteed job because they are likely to generate wealth and expand the economy. And my profound confusion expands uncontrollably over the logic to restrain workers of this type to enter the country and to stimulate the growth of, if not rescue, the economy from the aftermath of an unprecedented economic disaster. And for no other reason, highly skilled workers are imported for a good cause – to fill up the talent fissure the country has failed to seal. The saying on returning British jobs to British workers is thus simply ill-founded and unjustifiable.

And the ability of these talented individuals to secure employments leads me to question on why they are blamed as the parasitical recipients of social welfare including social housing. If we scrutinise the provision of social housing and other welfare benefits currently burdening the indebted government, it is not challenging to realise the claimants are, of course the British, and an enormous population of Eastern European moved from their respective countries under the European Free Trade Agreement after being enticed by the UK’s generous welfare system. And in fact, immigrations within the EU forms more than a third of the total immigration into the UK each year.

But then of course, many would argue since British are allowed to purchase assets and take up employments in mainland Europe, it is only fair if their European counterparts enjoy similar privilege. Moreover, for jobs which the British deemed themselves to be too conceited to commit, for examples, construction, cleaning, or even in coffee shops, which in my humble opinion are all British jobs, the reliability of their European peers is indisputable. So will tossing them back when you are in the midst of a crisis sound a tad inglorious?

On the topic of an effective (cost) cut, I compare it with domestic cost saving and corporate restructure. If you want to save on domestic expenses significantly, you do no bet on reducing the purchase of food that supplies you with immense energy to work, you move to a simple and crude house in tinier size. If you plan on downsizing an organisation, you do not only reduce the amount of workforce, but also make non-contributory departments redundant via corporate consolidation. And if you are BP endeavouring to contain oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, you know in the long run, the more effective and permanent solution is not to capture oil spilled through containment cap but to seal the source with relief wells.

So now, if you were the leader of the coalition government, and you were determined to reduce net immigration, are you going to eat your own words and go around violating your own promise for the creation of an open business environment  that would help stimulate economic growth, by limiting the import of highly skilled and skilled workers this country badly needs? Will you revolve around the peripheral of immigration border? Or will you contemplate a more radical reform that may allow a generous chuck of unmanageable immigrants?

The roasting summer heat currently permeates the streets of London accentuates the obscenity of remembering the prolonged winter blizzard just a couple of months ago. And just when my body is teetering on the brink of a complete melt, the merciless human-induced heat wave originated from down under engulfed my struggling effort to stay intact and had completely liquefied me.

In just a night, my already cruising prevailing neighbourhood was bombarded by the most blatant and effective advertising agenda I’ve ever witnessed. And just when I confined the coverage to the vicinity of my gay-dominated village, Aussiebum, the international underclothing manufacturer from Australia famous for its broad gay fan base, and evidently also the mastermind responsible for this sexually unreserved campaign, has erected identical advertisement literally across the entire London town. 

Leaving aside the discussion on whether the company has pushed the boundary too far to challenge the legal allowance for public display of raunchy images, I doubt if anyone has failed to notice, let alone to resist the erotic temptation to follow the hunky model’s chiselled chests down to his washboard abs before reaching at the dangerously skimpy black swimming trunk that houses almost unsuccessfully his well-endowed manhood that is screaming noisily to escape from its casing. Ugh, I need a napkin to wipe the saliva drooling down my chin off!

Despite of all the careful nurture of conservative oriental virtues, I give no reprimand to this unpretentious marketing campaign. In fact, for no other reason, I welcome it with open arms for it has at least motivated me to go out from my house more often than I would be. A minor but significant gesture that might help trimming away my body fat and fit myself into one of these trunks.

But do I want to rush my head to the departmental store immediately for an impulsive and lustful purchase? As much as I am lubriciously seduced by the model, I remain adamant that there is ought to be mega body sculpting construction before my confidence braves me for an equally impactful public showcase of my own shell.

Nevertheless, I suspect there are already plenty of advocates. And to be honest, I can’t wait the sights for sore eyes. Summer days are too warm to stay indoor but we all need a reason to stay out. And if there is no other reason, perhaps a vain hope in meeting a guy as in the advertisement who will make you scream out: f**k me!

I love Sex and the City the series and have been replaying the series for numerous times. So I was ecstatic when the first Sex and the City Movie was released. Despite the frenetic buzz, I thought the movie was a tad overrated. Bearing the disappointment from the first movie, however, I still devoted my most ardent support and reported to the cinema at the quickest possible pace upon the screening of the sequel.

The frantic (negative) reviews on the movie probably have convinced you that the movie is fairly disposable. However, I personally see it as a quantum leap from the the first movie, with reservation. At the very least, the entertaining value of the movie deserves compliments. Nevertheless, it doesn’t discount the movie from criticisms.

First of all, suggesting the workaholic Miranda to quit her job was an insane idea. Remember the witty utterance by bewildered Miranda when she discovered that she has got pregnant by Steve: “I don’t have time for this baby. I don’t even have time to schedule an abortion.”? That is was how Miranda loves her job. Even though scripting her resignation over a no-talking hand gesture by her superior was a little insulting to audience’s intelligence, one must admit that the related scenes were rather amusing. Furthermore, characters evolve.

Talking about the evolvement of characters, when the shift of Miranda from career-centred to family-centred was further emphasised by Charlotte’s motherhood distress, I was jittery that the film will risk draining drastically into the gully of  Desperate Housewives’ style dull and dramatic domestic affairs. However, one must then again admit that the heart-to-heart conversation between the two mothers, at the presence of cocktails of course, was an intelligent and humorous plot. Honestly, who will be able resist the urge to laugh out hysterically when Charlotte confessed “How could I lose the nanny?”

Perhaps the only character that didn’t evolve was Samantha. She, inherited her sexual adventurer spirit repeatedly highlighted from the series and the first movie, was indeed the focus point of the movie. Although separated the “girls” from their familiar New York streets (and the tantalising men) was again intolerable, the scene where Samantha’s unreserved seduction on hunky architect Rikard, which caused the latter to demonstrate an obscene erection in public that offended a conservative Arabian couple, was immensely entertaining. And although the condom scene where the eccentric Samantha irrationally provoked the conservative Arabian (men) community was slightly exaggerating, it was again a highly entertaining plot.

However, I struggled to remember anything in particular when it comes to Carrie, except that the rapid ageing of Sarah Jessica Parker had caught my undivided attention. Did you notice how her fake-tanned skin looks rugged like a dried mussel and the sagging muscles around her arms? And it really was hurting the eyes to watch how Aiden swallow his saliva forcefully signalling he was sexually aroused by the apparently old Carrie’s presence in her lustful outfit. And to be honest, her marriage crisis with Mr. Big was just lack of intensity. It really was sad that the centre character has lost her charm.

When it comes to the supposed dazzling array of outfits, I thought it showcased a severe wardrobe malfunction throughout the film. Did you see what Charlotte was wearing when the four characters emerged from a hill of Arabian desert? It was spandex yoga outfit, disastrously sewn using leftover pieces of cloth decorated by some vast pieces of carelessly picked material more suitable to be used as curtain.

To wrap things up, I stick to my view that this isn’t Sex and the City since there isn’t much about the city but plentiful of Arabian desert. Nevertheless, who would have cared when the comedy element never failed to fill the two hours up with almost constant laughter? And just why was the rating worse than the first movie when it was much more enjoyable to watch?

“I can see you have changed a lot: from enthusiastic those days to dull at present,” a recent count from my ex-course mate which had stunned me greatly.

Something which I hate to admit, but the nasty politics at work that threatened my existence, the stress to excel in the only job interview from more than 100 job applications, the pressure from an expiring visa and the stringent requirements for an extension, the envy of peer success, the uncertainty in my future path, and the 5 break ups with the same person in 6 months have really worn me down.

I am exhausted and now I want to return to smiles, joys, energy and ambitions. It is time to change for good.

After winning the most number of seats in the recent election but not a majority to form a government on its own, the Conservative is now forming the first coalition government in 70 years with the Liberal Democrats. By having Nick Clegg elected as the Deputy Prime Minister, it is undoubtedly the Tory has generously compromised to its former opposition. But what a Cons-Lib government could possibly mean to general public? And most importantly to desperate immigrant like myself?

From a foreigner’s perspective, raising the income tax threshold from £6,500 to £10,000 is undisputedly the most exciting present brought by the newly formed coalition government. This, although translate to a £17bn loss to the government, results in near 50% saving to me. However, the plan will only be introduced by 2011. I look to live a London life long enough to taste the political sweet.

Secondly, the stringent austerity measure campaigned by the Conservative before the election – to significantly reduce public spending by £6bn in one year – has been approved. I smell an imminent flood of workers into the job markets. God bless me please to find another job before the already stiff competition gets even more grievous.

On the other hand, both parties agreed to cap on non-EU immigration. Hello? Already I’m required to earn a minimum of £30,000 annually before qualifying for my next visa  under the newly “revamped” immigration requirements, I wondered what this new agreement would translate into the potential hardship awaiting me in the near future. Nevertheless, it is not entirely hopeless. But looks like it is time to prey on a suitable candidate for marriage.

Following my discussion with an English friend earlier arguing if I am a Tory’s supporter, I think I finally have the conclusion – a political marriage that put an apple on a table too high for me to reach.

I wondered if I’d just ventured on the well-trodden path of everyone living in London, or was I just a greedy-guts who was never contented with what was presented. Regardless of the examining result, it has now become my strongest devotion to believe that if you are not committed to one of the three searches – the search for the perfect apartment, the search for the perfect job, and the search for the perfect Mr/s. Right or Mr/s. Right-now – then you are not exploiting the immense opportunities this city is offering.

After having hunted on the snowy properties wilderness for an entire bitterly cold winter, after battling my physical and mental endurance against the frequent bombardment of disappointing photo-decent-reality-disastrous apartments, I was eventually rewarded with a sparkling property jewel at an ideal location, excellent transport links and reasonable space with high ceiling – a property nirvana.

However, the search for the perfect apartment wasn’t an easy stroll along the journey. Firstly, it of course has to be tailored on my seemingly shrinking financial physique, or more accurately, the generosity of my flatmate to make up the missing rent not affordable by me, which unfortunately in the eyes of many estate agents, was impossibly derisory for our specifications.

Right, earning a shameful emolument that is only one-third of my flatmate, I must endure the guilt for exacerbating the already challenging flat-hunting spadework crucial to the construction of a shelter we both would like to call home. But believing (that our budget wasn’t an insane optimism but a sane possibility) was the key to success, although it was righteous to say that I had unwillingly pushed my budget to the brink of landing myself on a socially paralysed and financially handicapped future living.

Nevertheless, the satisfaction when I was welcomed by an impeccably cleaned apartment during check in was absolutely insurmountable. I knew, despite all the cumbersome requests to gather sufficient financial references, the numerous unsolicited phone calls that interrupted my work and the intrusive questioning into my background more stringent than applying for a visa from the Home Office, it was worth it.

However, as uncomfortable as securing the flat, the check in process was an equally eye-popping experience. A non-exaggerated hour was required to run through the three-page long inventory list that was so detailed and precise up to the point where a magnifying glass was literally deployed to spot a less than 1mm thick scratch mark at one foot from the bottom left corner on the chest drawer, which of course had been clearly defined on the list.

Undoubtedly, the carefulness of the landlord with regards to the inventory and maintenance of the property deserves esteemed compliment if not a ceremonious gold medal. But the surmounting pressure to maintain the flat in its upmost pristine condition is now inevitable if not overwhelmingly excessive, otherwise the risk of losing a handsome deposit is surely going to escalate wildly, which of course is not desirable.

But then again, believing is the key to success. With two perfectionists living in the same flat, I am confident that maintaining the flat would be a cakewalk. However, two-perfectionist living also entails complication of harmonious living. But that of course belongs to another entry.

In conclusion, from Canada Water to Oval, from Southeast to Southwest, from Southwark to Lambeth, from SE16 to SW9, I am now officially in my second lodging along my London adventure. Time to say: Welcome home baby!

They didn’t come when I was dismissively rejected on Friday.

They didn’t come when I received your final words on Saturday’s morning.

Three hours later, it marked the end of your mourning when you moved on to the infamous source started looking for alternative. They still didn’t come.

They were absent on Sunday, and Monday.

But this evening, after finished reading the little history book, I unconsciously picked up the book again and flipped to the page where you left the message. Staring at your handwriting, I could no longer restrain my disturbed emotions.

They – the tears – came.

Dear you,

Sitting in front of the cold non-interactive laptop whilst I am supposed to meet a talkative responsive you. The word “no” is still thundery lingering at the back of my ears. It is still challenging to digest the unsolicited visit from the “no” again.

Juxtaposing to the astounding surprise, I found myself bizarrely sitting down calmly, reminiscing our almost year-long journey. 

My first confession blurry floating. I couldn’t really recall the exact detail despite it was a painstaking virgin heart break.  But I vividly recalled the overwhelming embarrassment. You told me I was not the person you wanted to meet often when I was self-indulgingly and actively arranging meetings with you. “Everything was single-sided”, you said. I felt like my exposed heart was stepped mercilessly.

I constantly reminded myself not to repeat the mistake since then so I deliberately kept a distance from you.

But you consciously or unconsciously wanted to step closer. You miraculously made an effort to visit my place; shocked me with a public kiss which you purport to reject so profoundly; you confessed your love for me.

Too much. It was too much for my little head. I was exploded in naiveté, blindly presented my uncovered heart for your delight, once again. I failed miserably and inundated you with emotion too immense for you to handle. You retrieved and harshly commented: “I don’t love you, never loved you, will not love you”. You told me I was the one begging you to say you love me.

Humiliated. Just why did I think the new year had magically relieve the loving facet of you? Just why did I believe the grand gestures meant something different?

But I couldn’t pull the emergency stop button just yet to exert an irreversible end to our relationship. Nevertheless, I finally realised the necessity to divert my attention on other people. So I started organising congenial meetings with new fellas.

Your possessive nature soon prevailed, questioning about these new fellas, commenting them, even their names when you didn’t even know who they were. And then you started the cycle again. “Please don’t leave me, don’t ever say goodbye to me, allow me to be the person who is always be there for you”, you begged (of course you would deny the choice of word here).

The moment I read the sentence, I burst into tears, and not at one occasion, but three nights in a row. I cried wasn’t really because I was touched. Instead, it was mainly due to the disappointment towards your selfishness and the fear of upcoming misery. Everytime, your kind gesture will entail an inevitable crass remark. I wondered in horror what was going to happen after the begging. I was being careful not wanting to get hurt, for the third time.

And from tonight incident, I have finally realised, you indeed had not changed – your heart has never opened (to me). You are still the same old dog, only with new tricks. I could accept tiredness as a reason to cancel meeting. But what I missed to fathom was why didn’t you care to inform me earlier regarding your intention for cancellation? Why waited until I was all prepared then only you decided to say no and expected a tacit compliance? Even if you want to take back, why couldn’t it be more diplomatic? I couldn’t help but wonder: Am I not deserving an information even when I am not wanted to be seen?

I felt like an unwanted order you hesitate-lessly returned. I felt like a toy you think you could caress or dismiss at your wish. I finally accepted that the “A little less you, a little more us” (even when it is for friendship) is impossible. You care too much about yourself to really consider me.

Perhaps my sweetness has led you into believing I will grant your commands with complete compliance. But perhaps I wasn’t clear about how surprisingly easy-going I was when it comes to you when in fact I am a real difficult character.

Perhaps you do really adore (a word you deliberately adopted to substitute love) me. But perhaps I wasn’t clear that my desire to be respected with dignity and self-esteem is actually overwhelming the need to be adored.

Perhaps you meant it when you told me you do care about me in your own little way. But perhaps I wasn’t clear about how your alternating gentleness and churlish treatment had confused me so often. And on this occasion, you simply care too little. Or perhaps I am too insignificant to deserve even an information.

I know I am in no position of demand and I don’t want to stamp on my feet arguing, like you would call it. I know tonight’s incident was something really minor. But I think enough is enough. I don’t want to worry about the hidden heart-breaks behind your every grand gesture. I don’t want to be taken for granted. I want to be respected. I want to regain the freedom of my heart. I want my love to be appreciated if not responded reciprocally. Unfortunately, I could no longer imagine their possibilities with you.

And therefore I have finally decided – I want to call an end.

It was really nice, or even amazing to have met you. But for now, goodbye.

J.