Cheese, and the Long Memory of Physiotherapy

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThe morning arrived bright and unbothered, the sort of Monday sun that flatters everything it touches and asks nothing in return. I met it with breakfast — a substantial one, the kind that suggests either ambition or denial. My body, meanwhile, had its own commentary to offer. Two days on from physio, the right shoulder has settled into that peculiar afterglow physiotherapists call progress and the rest of us call being slightly worse than before. I moved through the early hours like a man freshly assembled from instructions he hadn't quite read, every joint stiff and faintly resentful, the muscles still litigating Saturday's session.

Rounds, mercifully, were gentle. There are days when the ward seems to conspire against you, and there are days like this — orderly, unhurried, the kind that lets you actually look at people rather than merely process them. Not too busy. I've learned not to say that out loud near anyone superstitious, but it held. We moved through it without incident, and I had the rare luxury of arriving at lunch neither late nor frayed.

Lunch was with the pharma lot — pleasant, well-fed, the usual choreography of small talk and slightly oversized portions. These occasions have a rhythm to them now, a sort of cordial theatre, and I've made peace with my role in it. The food was good. The company was easy. One asks little more of a working lunch.

The afternoon clinic, against all reasonable expectation, matched the morning's restraint. Light. Almost suspiciously so. I kept waiting for the day to reveal its trick, the queue that doubles, the complication that unravels an hour — but it never came. By mid-afternoon I found myself, improbably, finished early, blinking at the unfamiliar gift of unspent time.

And there was a literal gift too. One of my patients, with the quiet generosity that still catches me off guard, sent me home with cheese. Not a token wedge, either — a proper haul, enough to give a man pause and a fridge a structural challenge. Idlan, who treats cheese the way some people treat religion, received the news with something close to reverence. He has theories about cheese. He shared several. I let him.

The evening folded itself around the World Cup, which is currently sprawled across North America in all its expanded, slightly bewildering glory — forty-eight teams, three countries, and a fixture list that mostly unfolds while we're asleep out here. So it's catching-up rather than live drama: highlights consumed after the fact, results half-known before the footage rolls, the small melancholy of watching a goal you've already been spoiled on. Still, there's a comfort in it. The tournament hums along in the background like a long, familiar song, and I let it carry the last of the day.

A light day. Stiff in the shoulders, heavy with cheese, asking very little of me. I'll take it.

The Father's Day Shift

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoAn early start, and not entirely by choice. Anita had decided, with the gentle immovability she reserves for these things, that I was going to the KL International Motor Show, and so I was. There's little use arguing with a plan once she's settled on it; the wiser course is simply to find your shoes and go along.

I got the rounds done by ten, and by eleven we were at MiTEC — ahead of the crowd, which on the final day of a motor show is the only sensible way to arrive. Parking, that great barometer of one's timing, was effortless, which told me everything I needed to know about how right we'd got it. An hour later it would have been a different and far more tedious story.

The show spread itself across two halls, comfortably uncrowded, and we managed to see most of it without the usual shuffling and craning. It was, tellingly, mostly Chinese and Japanese manufacturers this year — the balance of the motoring world quietly shifting in real time, on a Sunday, in Kuala Lumpur. We spent a good while at Zeekr and Xpeng, the Chinese marques that seem to have arrived fully formed and rather sure of themselves, all clean lines and large screens and an air of having skipped a few steps the rest of the industry took decades over. I'll admit they're impressive. Faintly unsettling, in the way of things that are clearly the future arriving slightly ahead of schedule, but impressive.

The Perodua, for what it's worth, was not bad at all — a perfectly respectable showing from the home side, holding its own amid the imported confidence. There's a quiet national loyalty that stirs at moments like that, whether you mean it to or not.

We were done in a couple of hours, which is about my natural limit for admiring cars I have no intention of buying, and had a quick lunch at the venue before heading off to PJ. The mission there was specific: wagyu cuts for dinner. Because it was Father's Day, and the dinner in question was one I'd be cooking myself — which is, I'm aware, a small and pleasing absurdity. The father, at the stove, on the one day nominally arranged in his honour. I wouldn't have it any other way. The cooking is the gift, as far as I'm concerned. Standing over good beef with a glass of something nearby is not a chore I need rescuing from.

So I cooked, and it was good, and we ate well — the marbled fat doing its quiet work, the whole thing requiring little of me but patience and a hot pan. And then, simply, we relaxed. No more agenda, no more halls to walk, nothing left to see or do. Just the slow settling of a full Sunday into evening.

A motor show I was talked into, a meal I talked myself into cooking, and a day that turned out rather better than its early start had any right to promise. A good Father's Day, by any measure I care about.

The Body Sends a Memo

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoA sunny start to the day, and the morning round went smoothly — patients sorted out in good time, the list closing neatly rather than fraying at the edges. There's a quiet satisfaction in finishing on schedule, in walking away from a morning that asked for nothing more than what you'd planned to give. A weekend round done well leaves the rest of the day feeling earned.

Which was just as well, because the rest of the day was largely given over to repairs. I drove out to Kota Damansara for physio — the right shoulder has been playing up this past month, and it has now reached the stage where ignoring it is no longer a credible strategy. It was sore enough to warrant acupuncture, that curious business of being made to feel better by means of small needles and quiet faith. I won't pretend to understand entirely how it works, only that the shoulder and I have reached an arrangement, and the shoulder, frankly, has the upper hand at present. The body, having served without complaint for a good while, has begun sending the occasional memo. One reads them whether one wants to or not.

After that, a late lunch at Johnny's in Alpha Angle — the sort of unfussy, familiar place that asks nothing of you but your appetite. There's comfort in a meal that requires no decisions, no occasion, just sitting down somewhere you've sat a hundred times before and letting it be exactly what it always is.

And perhaps it was the familiarity of the place, or the slowness of a sore Saturday, but we fell to reminiscing — back to the Gombak years, when we lived out that way and the boys were still small. Funny how those days arrive unbidden, summoned by nothing in particular. They were not, at the time, days we thought we'd one day miss. They were just the days we were in — busy, ordinary, faintly exhausting in the way that small children make everything. And now they have that warm, burnished quality that ordinary things acquire only once they're safely behind you. We didn't dwell on it. You don't need to. A few minutes of "do you remember" is enough to acknowledge the thing and move on, which is probably the healthiest way to handle the past.

A quick stop at the pasar malam in Melawati on the way back — that reliable parade of light and smoke and noise, the smell of grilled things hanging in the evening air. I didn't buy much. Sometimes the walking-through is the point, more than the buying.

Then home, and an early night, the shoulder insisting on it more firmly than I'd have chosen myself. There's no arguing with a sore body once it's made up its mind. It had been a good day, in its quiet, slightly creaky way — a morning done right, an afternoon spent mending, and a brief, unsentimental visit to a version of us from twenty years ago. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday. The shoulder may disagree. It usually does.

A Friday and Its Small Acquisitions

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoFriday again, and it arrives now with the quiet familiarity of an old acquaintance — the same face at the same hour, no longer surprising, still welcome. The week has a way of folding itself up by this point, and Friday is where the creases finally settle.

The morning clinic was a long one, but efficient with it, which is the best a long clinic can hope to be. There's a meaningful difference between a morning that drags and a morning that simply contains a great deal — the first wears you down, the second merely fills you up. This was the second sort. Names came and went in good order, the list behaving itself, and by the end I felt productively tired rather than simply depleted.

The afternoon turned to procedures, that more deliberate kind of work where the hands take over and the mind narrows to the task immediately in front of it. There's a particular focus to it that I've come to value — the world shrinks to a small, manageable size, and for an hour or two there is only the next careful thing. Then paperwork, inevitably, which has never once narrowed the world to anything but tedium, and I left late on its account, as one does.

Home, dinner, and then the proper business of a Friday evening: something to watch. We started Star City — the Soviet spin-off of For All Mankind, which Anita and I have followed faithfully for years now. It takes the same alternate history and walks it round to the other side of the Iron Curtain, all cold and watchful and grim in a way the parent show never quite was. Bleak, certainly, but compelling. There's something fitting about ending a long week in the company of people having a considerably harder time of it than you are.

And then the small triumph of the day, which had arrived earlier and waited patiently for attention: the Lofree Flow 2, finally here after its slow passage from China. I'd ordered it some weeks ago and half forgotten it, so it had that pleasing quality of a gift from one's past self. It's a low-profile mechanical thing, all milled aluminium and quiet, satisfying keystrokes, and I'm pleased to report it was better than expected — which, given my expectations, is no small claim. It types beautifully. It looks faintly too good for my desk.

This is, I should confess, the beginning of a plan. I've decided to buy one keyboard a month — a resolution I've dressed up as a measured, disciplined enterprise rather than what it plainly is, which is a hobby acquiring momentum. One a month sounds so reasonable. So sustainable. I'm aware of exactly how these things go, and I'm proceeding anyway, which is rather the point of a hobby.

So the week closes on a good clinic, a grim Soviet drama, and a keyboard I didn't strictly need. A fair haul, all told. The weekend can take it from here.

The Reward for Resting Well

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoBack to work, then — but I returned to it the way you return to anything after a proper rest: a little reluctant, a little restored, and quietly grateful that yesterday happened at all. There's a particular contentment in having spent a day off well. It pays out the next morning like interest.

The first business of the day was, admittedly, conducted at four in the morning. England played Croatia at that ungodly hour, and against my better judgement I was awake for it. They won, which made the lost sleep feel like a sound investment rather than a foolish one — though I'll confess the line between the two is dangerously thin at that time of night. By the second half I was less a supporter than a man simply too far in to turn back. It paid off. It doesn't always.

The ward round came and went with the usual rhythm, and then it was off to Sentul for teaching — that part of the work I genuinely look forward to, the chance to hand something on, to watch a concept land behind someone else's eyes. There's a quiet pleasure in it that the rest of the day rarely matches. You spend so much of your time solving problems that the act of simply explaining one feels almost restful by comparison.

Back to Subang for lunch, and then another meeting with the pharma people — the kind of appointment that arranges itself into your afternoon whether you've made room for it or not. These meetings have their own choreography by now, familiar enough that I could probably conduct one in my sleep, which after the four a.m. start was nearly a literal possibility.

But the day, kindly, was a short one. Done early, home by half five — an hour so civilised I scarcely knew what to do with it. There's something faintly disorienting about arriving home while the light is still generous, the evening still ahead of you and entirely unspent. We had an early dinner, the unhurried sort, and the whole thing felt like a small act of rebellion against the usual order of things.

Anita, meanwhile, had spent her day at the KL International Motor Show with Razak, returning full of it. The new Prelude had caught her eye — Honda's old coupe, back after the better part of two decades away, reborn as something sleeker and quieter and electrified. I find there's a particular pleasure in watching a name you'd half forgotten reappear, dusted off and reimagined for a different age. She described it with the enthusiasm of someone who has decided, without quite saying so, that she'd rather like to sit in one.

So the week resumed without protest. A short day, an early dinner, a head still half-full of football and lecture notes and Anita's revived motoring ambitions. Not every working day needs to be a long campaign. Some, mercifully, just let you home in time to enjoy the evening — and you take those gladly, without asking why.