Finding the Stride

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoBy now the week has stopped feeling like a return and started feeling like a week. That’s the moment I tend to trust. The first days back are all adjustment and good intentions; by the fourth or fifth, you’re simply getting on with it, which is where most of the real living happens anyway.

The morning was busy. Not chaotic, not the scattered busyness of the first day back, but the purposeful kind, where one thing leads sensibly to the next and you look up to find it’s nearly lunchtime. I’ll take that sort of busy every time. It has a shape to it. The other sort just has noise.

The journey home was less cooperative. The traffic had clearly decided that everyone should leave at precisely the same moment, and we all obliged. I sat in it with the resigned patience of a man who has lived in the Klang Valley long enough to know that honking only adds to the soundtrack. There’s a strange solidarity in a jam. Hundreds of people, each privately convinced the other lane is moving faster. It never is. I checked.

I don’t really hate the traffic, which is probably a contrarian thing to say. It’s one of the few places where nobody can reasonably expect anything of you. You can’t answer messages, you can’t do paperwork, you can only sit and think, or not think, which is often better. I’d never choose it, mind you. I just no longer waste energy resenting it.

Dinner first, then the evening meeting about MSH 2027. Next year’s gathering is already taking shape, and these early conversations are where the real work quietly gets done: ideas floated, gently tested, a few politely set aside. Planning something a year out has an odd rhythm to it. Everything feels both distant and urgent, as if you’re laying stepping stones across a river you haven’t yet reached.

I enjoy these meetings more than I’d let on. There’s a particular pleasure in watching a plan slowly firm up from vague enthusiasm into actual decisions. It’s slow, occasionally circular, and every now and then someone says something so sensible that the whole conversation shifts. Those moments make the hour worthwhile.

It also helps that it happened after dinner. A meeting on a full stomach is a more forgiving affair. Nobody is in a hurry, nobody is irritable, and the tea is usually better than the agenda.

By the time it wrapped up, the evening had grown quiet and the week had all but run its course. I’m settling in now with that pleasant, slightly hollow tiredness that comes from a full day properly spent.

The weekend is waiting, and I intend to meet it with very low ambitions. Rest, perhaps a decent meal, and the luxury of not having to be anywhere at a particular hour. After a week like this, that feels less like laziness and more like good housekeeping.

Re-entry, With Minor Turbulence

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThere is no gentle way back from a holiday. You can try to wake up early, eat a sensible breakfast and pretend that yesterday’s mee rebus never happened, but the body knows. It spent three days being told nothing mattered very much, and now it’s being asked to believe otherwise.

The morning made no allowances for any of that. It was busy in the scattered, slightly ungrateful way that first days back tend to be. Nothing was difficult on its own, but everything wanted attention at once, like a queue of people who have each been told they’re next. I spent the first couple of hours chasing loose ends I’d quite forgotten I’d left loose, which is the real cost of going away. The holiday is free. The catching up is not.

I’ll admit to a brief, uncharitable moment around mid-morning when I wondered whether the break had been worth it. That’s the post-holiday trap: you blame the rest for the rush that follows, rather than the rush that was always going to be there. I talked myself out of it, mostly.

And then, as it usually does if you leave it alone long enough, the day began to sort itself out. Things found their places. The noise settled into something closer to a rhythm, and I remembered, somewhat to my surprise, that I quite like the work when it isn’t shouting at me.

The rest of the day was fully booked, start to finish, with no gaps worth the name. I find I don’t mind a full day nearly as much as a fragmented one. A packed schedule at least has the decency to be honest about itself. You know where you stand, which is generally on your feet, and there’s a kind of clarity in not having time to wonder what to do next.

Lunch was the sort eaten with one eye on the clock. I won’t describe it, partly out of discretion and partly because there’s nothing to describe. After the weekend’s standard, it would only embarrass everyone involved.

I was back home a little after six. Not late, exactly, but late enough for the light to have given up on the day before I had. There’s a particular feeling to walking through the door after the first day back: not exhaustion, more a pleasant flatness, like a balloon that has decided against floating anywhere in particular.

The evening asked nothing of me, and I gave it exactly that. No plans, no errands, no admirable use of free time. Just sitting, a bit of quiet, and the satisfaction of having got the hardest day of the week out of the way on its first attempt.

There is something to be said for a day that starts badly and ends well. It makes a better story than one that is merely fine throughout. Tomorrow, presumably, will be a normal day. I find I’m rather looking forward to normal.

A Holiday for Some

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThere's something almost bureaucratic about a holiday that only half the country gets — Selangor still tucked up in its extended Merdeka afterglow while everyone a postcode or two over carried on as though nothing had been declared at all. SJMC fell firmly into the latter camp. No long weekend hangover there, no lingering bunting-and-lie-in energy — just Tuesday, dressed up as nothing in particular.

The clinic reflected it faithfully. Open as usual, and busier than the day's supposedly quiet reputation suggested — a fair queue of patients who'd clearly decided that other people's holidays were no reason to delay their own appointments, which is a perfectly sound piece of logic when you think about it. If anything, the mismatch worked in everyone's favour: quieter roads getting in, a full clinic once there, the sort of asymmetry that only shows up when the calendar disagrees with itself across a state line.

What struck as the day went on was how smoothly it all moved. Not the kind of smooth that gets remarked on at the time — more the kind you only notice in hindsight, once the last patient's gone and the day hasn't left behind the usual residue of minor delays and small frictions. Everything more or less ran to time, which for a full clinic is its own quiet achievement, rarely celebrated because there's nothing dramatic to celebrate. Things simply worked, in the unglamorous way things are meant to.

That kind of day has a particular reward attached to it: getting home earlier than expected, with none of the usual scramble to make up lost time. There's a specific pleasure in a commute that ends before you've mentally prepared for it to — the sort of small, undramatic win that doesn't photograph well but counts for a great deal by the evening.

And the evening, once it arrived, didn't ask for much. The tiredness had been building quietly underneath the smoothness of the day, the way it often does — not the dramatic, flattened-by-a-difficult-shift kind, just the ordinary accumulated sort that a full clinic leaves behind even when everything's gone well. So there wasn't much resistance to an early night. No attempt to squeeze extra life out of the evening, no scrolling past the point of usefulness — just the fairly sensible recognition that the body had cast its vote and the vote was for bed.

It's an easy kind of day to undersell in the retelling, precisely because nothing went wrong. No queue disasters, no scheduling chaos, no lingering half-holiday confusion bleeding into the work itself — just a state on holiday, a clinic that wasn't, and a day that got on with things efficiently enough to earn its own quiet exit. Some days give you a story. This one gave an early night, which, depending on how the week's shaping up, might be the better prize.

Back In The Rhythm

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoBack to work, then, the holiday duly filed away under fond memories, and the day wasted no time reminding everyone how the other five work. A full morning from the off, no gentle easing back in — straight into it, the way a return to routine tends to arrive whether you've asked for a warm-up or not.

Even getting there took a bit of doing. Traffic had opinions about the morning that it insisted on sharing at length, and the result was a later arrival than planned, the sort that sets a faintly apologetic tone before the day's even properly begun. Nothing dramatic, just the low-grade friction of sitting in a queue of brake lights while the clock gets on with its business regardless of your objections.

Once there, the morning didn't so much start as continue straight into the afternoon — clinic back to back, no real seams between one thing and the next, the kind of stretch where the day organises itself into a single long push rather than any tidy sequence of parts. There's a particular rhythm to that sort of run, less a series of tasks than one continuous hum, and it has a way of eating the hours without much ceremony.

A lunch appointment broke it up, at least in name — a pharma meeting, the sort that counts as a pause on paper but rarely feels like much of one, conversation and agenda threaded through the meal rather than set politely aside for it. Useful enough, and a change of scene, but not exactly the kind of lunch that leaves a person restored. More a different flavour of busy than an actual rest.

Back into it after that, the afternoon picking up exactly where the morning left off, and by the time things finally wound down, the day had comfortably outstayed its welcome. Home came late — later than the morning would have guessed, given how it started — and there wasn't much left in reserve by the time the door shut behind it all. Properly tired, the kind that doesn't need explaining, just acknowledging and then, ideally, sitting down for a bit.

Not a bad day, exactly — full days rarely are, they're just demanding in a way that only shows up once they're over. Traffic on the way in, no real gap in the middle, a lunch that worked twice as hard as it looked, and an evening that arrived a little later than invited. The sort of day that doesn't ask for sympathy so much as an early night, which, fair enough, is exactly what it's about to get.

Extra Time, Extra Tired

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThree in the morning has a particular quality of silence to it — the kind where the fridge hum sounds like an orchestra and every footstep on the tiles feels like a confession. That was the hour the alarm went off, not out of necessity but out of principle. The World Cup final does not wait for a reasonable bedtime, and neither, it turns out, does Anita.

She was up before me, already settled in with the air of someone attending a proper occasion rather than watching football at an ungodly hour. The halftime show was the priority — BTS were on the bill, and she had opinions about camera angles before a ball had even been kicked in the second half. I'll admit I was there for the football and stayed, somewhat helplessly, for the spectacle. Shakira, Chris Martin, a school choir from Staten Island, and enough pyrotechnics to make the neighbours wonder if we'd finally gone to war with someone. Ten minutes of it and I still couldn't tell you how they got Coldplay involved, but there we are.

The match itself was Spain's, thoroughly. Argentina had Messi, and Messi had one good sprint in him early on, but the rest of the night belonged to a Spanish side that defended like it owed someone money and attacked like it didn't. A red card, a disallowed goal, a goalkeeper making saves that will be replayed for years — and then, deep into extra time, Ferran Torres did what substitutes are occasionally put on the pitch to do. Deserved winners. Argentina, for all their pedigree, never quite looked like men who believed it was their night.

None of which helps at half six in the morning, when the alarm goes off for real this time and the body simply declines to cooperate. Getting to work felt less like a commute and more like wading — everything slightly delayed, as though the whole day had also stayed up to watch the final and was equally reluctant to get going. Clinic ran long, the way clinics do when everyone in the room is operating on borrowed sleep and good intentions. Patience held, just about, though there was a point mid-afternoon where a very ordinary sentence took three attempts to land correctly.

Small mercy: I was back home in good time, which felt like the day's one unambiguous victory. No extra time required for that particular fixture.

What's left now is the business of recovering — an early night non-negotiable, sleep owed and about to be collected. And somewhere in the back of my mind, the quiet, low-grade nag of a JB trip that needs packing for, sitting there patiently, waiting its turn. Tomorrow's problem. Tonight belongs to the pillow.