Today —

You know how it's so odd to sit on your couch watching White Chicks on TV and laughing, and then realise that someone who sat at that spot and laughed too had just died? Someone who played the recorder with you in primary school, who sometimes frightened you with his age alone, yet seemed to be able to last forever, as if an unshakable vestige from memories that have long faded, of people standing in front of Fords, wearing the British Army uniform, grinning toothily? I first learnt of his death when his son called.

You know how something bad is going to happen when the person on the other line introduces himself as child/relative/cousin of so-and-so? How you instinctively reach for a pen and paper because you somehow realise you have to take down the address of the wake/timing of the funeral? And then the inevitable announcement to everyone else, where you have to keep a straight face without swallowing? I had to continue scooping claypot rice into my plate without looking too affected.

You know, right? You really really do? Because I was just about to lose my faith in humanity (I know—once again, for probably the 34th time this year. I'll probably lose it again sometime next week, but I blame hormones for these annoying vacillations from euphoria to despondency).

(oh, by the way, anyone wants to watch Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day? Assuming we won't be frantically mugging for chinese next tuesday.)