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?

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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!

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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?

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“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.

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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.

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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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