A Tuesday That Kept Its Own Time

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThe football withdrawal is real, and mildly ridiculous to admit to. One evening without a match and you'd think I'd have adjusted; instead I spent the early hours doing the thing where you refresh nothing in particular, just out of habit, like patting a pocket for a phone that's sitting right there in your hand.

The phone itself had other plans anyway. An overnight emergency doesn't announce itself politely — it just arrives, mid-sleep, insistent, and you're up and moving before your brain has properly agreed to the arrangement. There's a particular kind of alertness that comes from being summoned in rather than easing in, a wide-awake-too-quickly feeling that no amount of coffee later in the day fully corrects. I got in early, dealt with what needed dealing with, and by the time the sun had properly committed to being up, I'd already done a day's worth of thinking before most people had done their first.

Traffic, naturally, chose this exact morning to be uncooperative. The light at the junction near mine seems to operate on its own private philosophy, one that has little regard for anyone trying to get somewhere with any urgency. I sat through it twice, which felt almost personal.

Once in, there wasn't much room for recovery — things needed sorting before the morning clinic could properly start, the kind of behind-the-scenes tidying nobody sees but which determines whether the rest of the day runs smoothly or limps along apologising for itself. Thankfully it ran smoothly. Or smoothly enough, which in this line of work is usually the more honest claim.

Lunch was Jyu Raku, which felt like exactly the right kind of pause — quiet, unfussy, the sort of meal that doesn't ask anything of you beyond eating it. Certain places earn their keep simply by being reliably good without ever making a fuss about it, and today I was grateful for exactly that kind of unfussiness.

The afternoon brought more referrals, which after the morning's early start had a slightly uphill quality to them, though nothing that couldn't be managed with the appropriate amount of tea and patience. Some days are front-loaded like that — all the drama spent before nine, the rest simply mopping up.

Small mercy: I made it home before sundown, which after a day that started somewhere in the dark felt like a modest but genuine victory. There's something quietly satisfying about arriving while there's still light in the sky, as though the day hadn't entirely got the better of you.

I allowed myself a proper sit-down in front of the television, no particular agenda, just the simple relief of a chair that wasn't a car seat or a clinic stool. No football, still — the withdrawal persists — but the stillness did its job well enough. Some days don't need dramatic endings. They just need a chair, and permission to stop.

Monday Ledger

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoGood sleep has a way of making Mondays feel almost reasonable, which is either a triumph or a trap, depending on how the rest of the day intends to behave. Mine woke up somewhere in between — properly rested, mildly optimistic, and entirely unprepared for how quickly the morning would fill itself in.

There's a particular rhythm to the start of a new week that I've never quite managed to outsmart. You tell yourself Monday will be gentle, a sort of warm-up lap, and then somehow by nine it's already sprinting. New faces queued up early, the kind of morning where names and histories arrive faster than you can properly file them away. Nothing unmanageable, just steady — the sort of busy that keeps you upright rather than buried.

By the time the afternoon clinic rolled round, things had eased considerably, almost suspiciously so. New patients, yes, but fewer of them than the morning had threatened, and the pace slowed to something almost civilised. I've learned not to trust a light clinic entirely — it tends to be lulling you into a false sense of calm before Tuesday reasserts itself — but for now I'll take the reprieve without asking too many questions of it.

There was a small, unfamiliar gap in the evening where football usually sits. No match tonight, which after weeks of the World Cup dictating supper times and sleep schedules alike, felt oddly like discovering an extra room in the house you'd forgotten existed. I didn't quite know what to do with the silence at first — kept glancing at the clock the way you might check a phone that hasn't buzzed in a while — but eventually settled into it. Turns out an evening without extra time and penalty shootouts is rather good for the nervous system.

Dinner was Al-Halabi, which is never a decision so much as an inevitability once the day has been long enough. There's something steadying about the ritual of it — the bread, the mezze, the unhurried business of eating with your hands and not feeling remotely guilty about it. Anita and I didn't talk about anything of consequence, which is precisely the point of that kind of meal. Some conversations are best kept as garnish.

Back home, I looked at my desk with the particular dread reserved for a mess you've been actively ignoring for a fortnight. Papers in geological layers, cables doing their best impression of abstract art, a coffee cup that has quietly become part of the furniture. I made a note — again — to sort it properly, filed mentally under "tomorrow's problem," which is where most of my best intentions currently reside.

Still, a good sleep, a manageable Monday, no football to referee my evening, and a plate of hummus to round it all off. Some days ask very little of you beyond showing up reasonably rested. This was one of them, and I'm not inclined to argue with that.

Wagyu, Wagon, and Watching the Semis Take Shape

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoEngland versus Norway called for an early start, and it delivered — a proper quarter-final, the kind that refuses to resolve itself tidily and drags you through extra time before letting anyone breathe out. Bellingham was, once again, the man of the moment, a brace that carried England through to a 2-1 win, the second goal arriving deep into extra time when the whole thing looked like it might crawl towards penalties. Haaland, by contrast, had one of those days that happens to even the best of them — quiet, contained, never quite finding the space he's spent the tournament living in. England through to the semis. Norway home with their heads held reasonably high, having gone rather further than anyone expected of them this time last month.

Ward round followed straight after, conducted with one eye on proceedings elsewhere, as Argentina and Switzerland were doing their own version of the same drama in Kansas City. Extra time again, a Julián Álvarez strike from distance eventually settling it, Argentina through 3-1 and now lined up against England in the semis — which means Wednesday just became rather significant viewing.

Lunch was the day's proper centrepiece: Bendang KL, a first visit, tucked into Kampung Baru in a way that made the whole outing feel slightly like a discovery. We'd booked ahead and arrived early, which turned out to be the right instinct entirely — by the time we left, the place had filled up considerably, queues forming at the door for a table we'd had the good sense to claim in advance. Mak joined us, the lunch doubling as a proper extension of the birthday celebrations, and the food more than justified the trip — good service too, attentive without hovering, the sort of lunch that makes you wonder why you hadn't been before.

From there, a change of pace entirely: Mid Valley, and the ongoing saga of Irfan's phone situation, which finally resolved itself with his old SIM card reactivated and back in service. Not the most glamorous stretch of the day, but satisfying in its own small, administrative way — one of those loose threads finally tied off.

Dinner at home rounded things out gently: a beef carpaccio salad, light and unfussy, exactly the sort of thing an evening asks for after a day that had already delivered its fair share of drama, both culinary and footballing. Two extra-time quarter-finals, a new restaurant discovery, a resolved SIM card, and a semi-final now looming on the horizon — not a bad haul for a Saturday, all told.

Desk, Wagyu, and a Small Victory of Timing

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThe morning began the way most working mornings do — early, purposeful, ward round first before the rest of the world had properly stirred. This one came with a slightly unusual travelling companion: Irfan's Jellycat, smuggled along to the clinic for no better reason than birthday afterglow, sitting somewhere near my desk like a small soft-furred colleague who contributes nothing but morale. It did its job admirably.

The rest of the working day settled into its familiar shape — behind the desk, steady and unremarkable, the sort of stretch that doesn't ask to be remembered so much as simply got through. Straight through to the afternoon, no great drama, just the quiet accumulation of tasks ticked off one after another.

Lunch, though, was the day properly announcing itself. Kyomo, and wagyu yakiniku that did exactly what good yakiniku ought to — arriving in modest portions and somehow still managing to feel generous, each piece better than the last. Irfan went the sensible route with a kale salad, presumably atoning in advance for whatever excess the rest of us were about to commit. The kimchi tray deserves its own mention, genuinely excellent, sharp and well-balanced in a way that elevated everything around it rather than simply sitting there as garnish. A properly good lunch, the sort that leaves you slightly regretful about the afternoon's remaining commitments, except today there weren't many, which made the whole thing feel entirely without consequence.

From there, a change of register entirely — the pasar malam, all noise and steam and the particular chaos that only a good night market can produce. Otak-otak first, that smoky, wrapped little parcel of a thing that never quite photographs as well as it tastes, followed by nasi lemak, because no proper night market visit really concludes without it. Street food after fine dining is an odd sort of whiplash, but a welcome one — the day covering an impressive amount of culinary ground without ever feeling indulgent for its own sake.

Altogether, a genuinely good day, the sort that doesn't announce itself as special in advance but adds up nicely in the retelling. Wagyu at lunch, otak-otak by evening, a plush bystander watching over the desk in between — not a bad spread for a Wednesday, or whichever day this technically was.

Early to bed regardless, with England kicking off the next morning and no intention of missing it groggy. Some things are worth protecting a night's sleep for, and a quarter-final is squarely one of them.

The Day Itself

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoBirthdays have a way of announcing themselves before you're properly awake, and this one did exactly that — soto and tiramisu for breakfast, which is either a wildly eccentric pairing or a perfectly logical one, depending entirely on who's cooking. Anita had it all prepared before I'd fully surfaced, savoury and sweet sitting side by side on the table like two very different arguments that had somehow agreed to get along. It worked. It shouldn't have, on paper, but it did, and there's something rather lovely about a breakfast that refuses to explain itself.

Presents followed over the same table, which is my preferred way of doing these things — no ceremony, just things handed over between mouthfuls. Irfan's contribution was a Jellycat, the sort of plush absurdity that has no business being as charming as it is, and which I suspect will now take up permanent residence somewhere it has no practical reason to be. It's the kind of gift that says more than its price tag, chosen with a fondness that travelled rather further than London to get here.

Work didn't let the occasion pass unmarked either — more cake arrived through the day, the sort of low-key celebratory ambush that happens when colleagues remember a date you'd half hoped they'd forget, if only to spare you the candles. I didn't mind in the slightest. There's a particular kind of good cheer in being fussed over mildly rather than extravagantly, enough to feel noticed without being made to give a speech.

The day, in truth, was busier than I'd have liked for a birthday — celebrating in fits and starts between everything else that still needed doing, which meant very little in the way of video got captured. Birthdays and documentation don't always cooperate, and today they simply didn't; I was too occupied living it to film much of it, which is probably, on reflection, not the worst trade to make.

By evening, the day had earned its quiet close. Home, settled, nothing more asked of it than rest — which suited me entirely. I caught up with Star City, that strange and compelling corner of the For All Mankind universe, letting an alternate version of ambition and orbit play out on screen while my own feet stayed firmly on the ground for once. A fitting way to let a birthday wind down, watching people reach for the stars while I reached for very little beyond the remote.

The weekend ahead has more meals lined up already, which feels appropriate — birthdays in this house have a way of refusing to stay confined to a single date, spilling generously into the days either side of it. No complaints here. Forty-odd years in, and the soto-and-tiramisu logic still tracks: some pairings simply work because the people making them care enough to try.