Ramen, and the Rest of It

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoA sunny start, which after the week's steady grey felt like the city had remembered it had another setting. Everything looked better lit. It's remarkable how much of a mood is simply a question of what the light is doing.

Anita was out with friends today — a continuation of the birthday, which has by now stretched comfortably into its own small season. I approve of this entirely. A single evening never seems quite adequate, and she has the sort of friends who treat a birthday as a standing invitation rather than a fixed appointment.

Once the morning's work was behind me, I drove straight to Bukit Bintang. No particular reason beyond wanting to be somewhere with people in it. Ramen for lunch, which is a decision I make roughly once a fortnight and have never once regretted. There's something restorative about a bowl that demands your full attention — you can't check anything, can't half-do it, you simply sit there and get on with the business of eating. Twenty minutes of enforced presence, delivered by broth.

Afterwards, a short walk around the area, mostly to let the ramen settle and partly because it seemed a waste to leave immediately. Bukit Bintang in the early afternoon is a strange, pleasant thing — half the crowd is tourists moving slowly with their heads up, the other half is people who work there moving quickly with their heads down, and the two streams flow through one another without much friction. I walked without a destination, which I do far too rarely, and noticed several things I've driven past a hundred times without seeing.

Physio in the late afternoon. Necessary, useful, and conducted in that brisk, unsentimental manner these sessions have, where you're praised for something you didn't know you were doing and corrected on something you were certain you'd mastered. I came out feeling loosened and mildly humbled, which is presumably the intention.

Dinner at Bangsar Village, alone, and unexpectedly enjoyable for it. Eating on your own has a bad reputation it doesn't deserve. Nobody to consult about the order, nobody's pace to match, and a perfectly good excuse to watch the room. Bangsar on a bright evening is good watching: the shopping-bag brigade, a few families negotiating with children, the usual cast of people who appear to have been sitting at the same table since noon.

Then home, and prep for tomorrow's talks. That's the part of the day that always takes longer than the estimate, because the material never behaves the way it did in your head. You read through what you've prepared and find the joins, the bit that doesn't quite lead into the next bit, the slide that seemed clever on Tuesday and now seems merely busy. I got it into decent shape. Not perfect — nothing is, the night before — but decent.

Tomorrow will be a talking sort of day. Tonight was a walking, eating, stretching sort of day, and that seems a fair way to have earned it.