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!

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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.

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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.

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“I’m looking forward to reading your 2010 outlook,” expressed by a friend.

After reading the sentence, how is it possible to kid myself thinking it was a flattering concern from a friend whom I reckon to be very hardworking and goal oriented, and not overwhelmed by the inevitable and insurmountable pressure exerted by it?

Following the conversation, I therefore questioned myself: How was your 2009?

In retrospect, it has been a busy year (what a cliché?!) – exams and master thesis, permanent and temporary job applications, the gigantic move to London which included the exhaustive perfect lodge hunting, visa application and work.  

However, comparing the goals which I have set last year with the “results”, the force of juxtaposition was so imaginably great that I felt like I had just been pushed to commit a reluctant suicide by driving in a car with malfunction brakes, along a treacherous hill road on a rainy night.  I asked myself: How could it be so utterly disastrous? The diagnosis returned the following embarrassing results.

Goal #1: To secure a permanent employment and double my savings (Failed)

Not only I have failed to find a proper employment after months of endless trying, with the latest splurge on a shining new camera today (oh it is so pretty!), my saving is officially one-third lesser than the beginning of the year. Any reasons (or excuses)? I was both income- and job-less for two months after graduation. And yes the money splashed out for the hot air balloon treat to celebrate me turning a quarter of a century old (But it was spectacular and memorable experience which deemed to be priceless). And of course, the camera! (Excuse me, a camera when you are broke?!) Oh my god! It is time to spend money home again! Damn Chinese New Year! (!@#$%^&* and an unhappy teary face)

Goal #2: Learn French and sit for DELF A2 exam (Failed)

I really did set out an immaculate learning schedule and I started studying, for, err,  two weeks. You probably are saying: Eh, okay…

Goal #3: To get involve in a relationship (Failed)

Well yea, silly. But under peer pressure I was forced to make this ridiculous goal with my friend. Well, good for her as she did get a French boyfriend for three months. And me? I started the year promiscuously sleeping around, trial-ing potential candidates. But was struck by an ambiguous interaction with a promising someone soon before I realised. Experienced the most amazing period of my life for months, but also communication breakdown for a good few weeks. And now on course to celebrate our one year anniversary of ambiguity. Not too shabby, right? (Oh pathetic!)

Goal #4: Read a book per month (Failed)

Books read include The 7 habits of highly effective people (c0mpleted) and A thousand splendid suns (one-third), The photographer’s eye (completed), Turkey travel guide (completed). Does Ikea catalogue count? I spent a lot of time reading it! (Oh whatever!)

Goal #5: To obtain my post-study work visa (Achieved)

Yay! Finally a fulfilled goal! And it was after months of hard work collecting documents and letters, maintaining cash fund and months of worry. And yes, a £500 fee! Think I should add that to the Goal #1. See, I am not spending lavishly on unnecessary items. (Speaking with head held high, very high.)

In conclusion, 20%! A grade bad enough to be categorised as failure! But the past was the past. Time to move forwards.

So what are there for 2010? Needless to say, no more stupid relationship joke. But of course, resolutions could be fun. And fun means including travels and hobbies.

1. Secure a decent job by September and to achieve savings target as in 2009
2. Two trips: Back home trip and Egypt.
3. Read four books (guess this is more reasonable and achievable for me).
4. Develop photographic skills and post-processing knowledge through weekly photo trip
5. Wanted to run for London Marathon, but they accept no more participant.
6. Revamp Sambal Delivery Post and make it a pure travelogue.

Okay. Now that they have been publicly announced, it is only fair that the visitors (you) be the watchdogs and gauge my progress. So I am going to put them down on the right hand side panel and update the progress. Need to be a bit harsh and strict to myself otherwise nothing will happen, right?

Happy New Year!

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It took me a very long time to digest “If I Ain’t Got You” from Alicia Keys before it becomes one of my all time favourites and a must played song every time I turned on my media player. Alicia Keys has always been able to impress me with her first, second and sometimes third single, but never the entire album.

When I noticed her chart climbing single “Doesn’t Mean Anything” lately on the UK Top 40 Chart, I knew this is going to be another great voyage with Miss Keys. Contradicting to the ballad-R&B style “If I Ain’t Got You”, “Doesn’t Mean Anything” seems more appropriate to be categorised in the Pop-R&B genre.

Yes, it seems like Alicia is ready to broaden her fans base by channelling herself to a more mainstream music orientation. Coincidently, another great artist, Norah Jones, has also stunned many of her loyal fans recently with her pop-oriented jazz album. The good news is, both albums seem to be a tasteful and refreshing delight than a disastrous music make-over.

The lead single from Alicia is indeed very hearing-friendly. The piano coupled with catchy bases as introduction does sound very intriguing. Very simple construction on the lyrics. At the first glance, the story sounds very similar to “If I Ain’t Got You”. But after careful scrutiny, “Doesn’t Mean Anything” reveals the vulnerability and fragility of a woman’s heart, whereas “If I Ain’t Got You” shows more strength and power.

If you are looking for the female domination factor as I did with Alicia’s latest album, you will not be disappointed. “Put It in A Love Song” featuring Beyoncé is the answer for you.

In conclusion, as in my experience with other Alicia’s albums, I am still struggling to love the entire album although a couple of singles manage to dazzle with surprises. I doubt “Doesn’t Mean Anything” will evolve into my all time favourite as with “If I Ain’t Got You” or maybe even “No One”, but at least it is hot in my playlist currently.

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The immaculate image where tables of classic English ladies and gentlemen gather in a tea house on a typical morning, sipping their well-travelled English tea, sampling over the crispy almond biscotti, while exchanging words in the perfect manner intended to minimise disturbance to their neighbouring diners has, sadly, been substituted with the following scene:

Queuing beyond the point-of-sale in one of the international coffee chain giants with either a (bunch of) friend(s), or a cell phone, or a newspaper, or a handheld gadget with internet access, a young and trendy 21st century hip Brit is either talking and laughing hysterically to his/her friends with the tone intended to broadcast the entire conversation or to inundate his/her neighbouring conversation, ignoring the waiting from the cashier and the queue behind, or communicating on the mobile with the same condemnable manner, or concentrating on the newspaper or handheld gadget while placing his/her order without even bothered to place a precipitous glance at the cashier.

It is agreeable that life is hard and sometimes harsh in London. However, has the haste and hassle of London resulted in the deterioration of the pristine and complimentary classic English manner which we all have learnt from English literature? Deserving better attention is the question that even if busy life does impose pressure on keeping the plausible manner, is it acceptable at all?

One interesting observation is even when London is a genuine metropolis and a humongous social melting pot of numerous cultures, it still baffles me to learn that this loud conversation is actually a particular attribute of the Y-generation, or the young generation of British. And in the generation where females start to dominate males academically, the females have not failed to overwhelm the crowd in the realm of annoying conversation. Bravo gentlemen! Well, the slightly more gentleman young British boys.

Excuse me for making all the brouhaha about the loud noise surrounding my every presence in London. In my shallow opinion, it may be lovely to watch Alesha Dixon laughing uncontrollably while judging celebrity dancers on Strictly Come Dancing for, let me emphasise, ONCE a week, it is pretty intolerable to be constantly bombarded by the identical English young girls chit-chat sessions gossiping the, guess what, X-factor, girl friends-boy friends and bitchy talks.

It is your freedom to talk whatever you desire. But perhaps it could be carried out in a more respectful manner? And what is with the attitude that you think the people working in a coffee shop is less superior than you so you can ignore an eye contact while placing order?

In conclusion, this entry is not intended to make young British realise how the good manner maintained by their parents has slowly paving to extinction. It is posted as a relaxing humour for non-British. And this is what we are saying:

Let’s face it. The classic English manner has now been transformed to the X(tra loud) Factor!

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Again, I lost control of the situation and had put up a hard time for you.

I understood what you meant when you told me this evening that I have to make a decision and quickly. I wanted to rush myself for a decision. But I knew, the decision time is not yet here.

All I could do is to give you a hard time no more, stupid questions no more, and just enjoy the current moment. I am no longer having any expectation, imagination, or dream. I admit I had been away with the fairies. But I believe time will eventually fade the feeling away and we could be normal.

What you may already know is I didn’t text you to come online for a hard time. But what you didn’t know is over those sleepless nights, I kept measuring myself against your love for your ex.

Wanted to be around him a lot; sharing amazing intimacy; always think that he is cute and intelligent; wanted to be him at times.

Amazing bedroom fun, and the cute and smart impression,  I think I have achieved them. But a wall was erected instantaneously when I learnt that I wasn’t a figure you wanted to meet often. I knew the feeling wasn’t reciprocal. But it still had created some uneasy ripples in my heart when I was honestly informed.

And life inspiration? I couldn’t help but kept waking up at those sleepless nights, asking myself what could I offer as a boy making coffees behind the bar? Inferiority inundated my sleepless nights.

I used to think this isn’t one-sided. I used to believe you were trying to avoid what you felt for me. But standing in front of your love for someone else, I couldn’t help but feeling so naive, so immature, and so insignificant. I felt so, small.

You were always so nice to me. But I’d finally realised, I shouldn’t confuse kindness with anything else.

I, as much as I would like to maintain my infamous stubbornness, was really very thin-skinned. I was embarrassed. Embarrassed by my own naiveté.

I am doubtless that you do care for me. But I knew, it wasn’t anything significant. Nothing comparable to what you have shown to others.

I-don’t-love-you, I heard you said. I accept defeat.

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It was at the moment when I submitted the application when I knew the power of control has now shifted onto another pair of hands. There is nothing more I could do from this point onwards.

It took me months to carefully maintain the crucial £800 maintenance fund. Not that the amount of money poses any challenge to me since I inherited a handsome savings from my scholarship. But the constant paranoia worrying that I might accidentally over-charge on my bank account and thus breaking the minimum benchmark for maintenance fund was almost unbearable.

My worry was further exacerbated by story told during an open house gathering in London. A girl was rejected visa because the period when she maintained her fund was only 2-month and 29-day instead of the pre-requisite 3-month.

Yes, the Malaysians, the Americans, the Middle Easterners, the Chinese, etc., have all warned me about the same thing – they will dig deep into the ground and use whatever reason they can to reject you.

Maintaining minimum fund was only one of the stringent requirements. The troubles to gather the certificate of award, the university letter, the sponsor letter, the bank statements, and renewed passport, which altogether had taken me almost a month, was tedious. But these were mandatory before the final stage – 49-page paper application.

It was as thick as a book so as my Italian colleague would describe the form. But I knew it was my job to file an impeccable and immaculate application. I had doubt of course as it was another generic form and not individually tailored. But thanks to the consultation service offered by university, my confusion was cleared months ago. So, I was confident.

However, I still found myself couldn’t stop checking. Checked, and checked, and checked. My heart beat rate increased by 10-fold right as I sealed the envelope. Nervous but it seemed inevitable and completely acceptable. I was at the precipice of suffering a fatal heart attack for no exaggeration.

But now I know, for the coming 6 weeks, it will be nothing more than a miserable hell of anxious waiting. I need luck, lots of it!

P.S.: The author is applying for the post-study work visa for the United Kingdom.

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I know we’re not friends.

I also accept that we’re definitely not in a relationship.

But I also realise, I am nothing more than just one of those regular characters you already have. The only difference might be the free delivery.

It is part of the deal which we had signed on. And I understand I have since then signed off my right to demand. But the truth is I really am deeply troubled by what happened between you and the other people.

I wondered if I ever mean anything to you.

It was indeed sweet to know you think of me sometimes. But I also have been told (by you) that I am just foolishly getting over-involved.

You might be true in what you said, as friends have agreed. But they also have advised on the best thing to do. And I know it too.

Do I want to keep pouring out and recollecting my emotion in a repetitive cycle?

How many times do I want to remind myself of my own pathetic character?

Can I keep maintaining my sweetness and pretend that I do not want to demand anything at all?

I have no answer. At least not yet. I don’t know what (I want) to do.

I understand about your worry. But rest assured my humility and rationality will guarantee you a psycho- and drama-free solution.

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“But you only make coffee.”

It is the identical stereotype saying IT workers only do typing and bankers only count banknotes that I detest profoundly. Is it because the statement undermines the importance of my job? Or is it because of the blatant reality that I have refused to accept?

Undeniably, I do make coffee. But while waiting for your decaf triple grande three-pump sugar free vanilla skinny extra dry warm cappucino, haven’t you observed that my job also involve one of the most strenuous tasks in any job called the customer service?

I make coffee, it is true. But I am also paid for to make sure you have received the greatest Starbucks experience, or an experience that makes you feel like your lavish £3 spending over a 12oz fluid is rebranded as style. It is our principle to make you think that holding the green logo cup walking on the high street is something glamorous. And guess what? You buy it!

It is indeed to my knowledge that even in the United Kingdom, in London, that people think drinking Starbucks coffee is something that makes them stick out like a sore thumb. What makes the global coffee chain garners such a fame? I have no idea. But what I know is even when you are working with a distinguished coffee company, what people think of you really is the person who stands behind the bar (only) making coffee.

Instead of being the one creating the special experience and repeating the hundreds complicated and highly customised beverages,  why couldn’t I be the one queuing at the receiver’s end, even when I am neither a coffee nor tea drinker.

Worse, it seems like living in London fosters the spending culture. You have to buy something nice (and ridiculously expensive) to reward your hard work after a week is what I have been brainwashed with. Hard work? What have you really done in the office? Typing? Counting banknotes? Or pure chit-chatting?

No, it wasn’t my intention to undermine the importance of your job because you get paid more than me. Stop raising the placard and claim that you work for personal satisfaction instead of the money that pays your frequent overseas travels, your branded shopping spree, your so called stylish dining which in my world really is an unnecessary binge eating and drinking session you happily indulge yourself in.

Yes, you smell it right. I am jealous and not contented. Having the same earning and subsequently the spending power as you do, why am I stuck in Starbucks harvesting physical crops instead of mental intelligence fruits? In a world that values more brain than hand works, I’ve learnt that the only means for me to satisfy my materialistic attribute is to join your camp, even though I highly doubt I will evolve to one of those sun-glasses wearing bonkers who walk with their noses higher than their foreheads.

Yes, I desire to possess the power to give out £10 tip just because someone has spent time talking to me while he is mopping the floor and while I am having my panini sandwich at a secluded corner in Starbucks. I never thought that what I normally perceived as a polite insult or friendly reward could be such a refreshing inspiration.

It is a big tip. It is an even bigger reminder of my objective. I must abandon complacency and strive forward. I want to be one having the power to give out a £10 tip, or spending £300 on a sling bag. Skin deep I know. But one shouldn’t really stop before he could be skin deep.

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