A Fortnight, Give or Take

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoWoke still rather blue. Not dramatically so — nothing that would trouble anyone looking at me — but the low weather from earlier in the week hadn't quite moved on. It was still there at the edges of the morning, the way a headache sometimes lingers as a rumour of itself.

London again, mostly. I've established by now that this is simply what my head does at this point in the year, and knowing the mechanism doesn't seem to switch it off. Some part of me has been packing a bag for weeks and keeps wandering into the hall to find it isn't there. I'd like to report a mature reckoning with this. In truth I just kept thinking about the particular grey of a Marylebone afternoon and being mildly annoyed at myself for it.

And Irfan goes in a fortnight, give or take, which is the other thing circling. It doesn't help that the number keeps sounding the same however many days pass — two weeks has a way of remaining two weeks right up until it's three days. I'm not making a production of it. He's going where he's meant to go and everyone concerned is quite sensible about the whole business. But there's a countdown running somewhere behind the ordinary hours, and it makes you notice things you'd otherwise walk past. Him in the kitchen. The particular noise of him coming in.

So it was a slow start, and I decided not to fight it. Might as well. There is a certain wisdom in recognising the days when your own resistance is the most expensive thing on offer. The morning went at whatever pace it fancied and I followed along behind it, and the world declined to collapse in the meantime.

In the evening Anita and I went to the Gardens for dinner. Nothing planned or particularly considered — just the two of us getting out of the house, which turns out to be a more reliable treatment than anything I could have engineered. The Gardens does its usual thing: polished, calm, a bit hushed, everyone moving at the speed of people who have decided the evening is not urgent. We ate, we talked about not very much, and the not very much was the point.

I've noticed this often enough now to trust it. A flat mood rarely survives a proper meal and decent company. It doesn't get argued away — it just finds itself with nowhere to sit. By the time we were heading back, the thing that had been sitting on my chest since morning had thinned out considerably, without anyone having addressed it directly.

Home, and a bit of television, which neither of us watched with full attention. Then bed, at an entirely reasonable hour.

The blue hasn't gone, exactly. It's more that I've stopped giving it a seat at the table. And there are two weeks yet, which is either not very long at all or perfectly adequate, depending on how you decide to look at it.

I'm choosing adequate. For tonight, at least.

Arrivals and Offerings - Aidil Adha 2026

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThe alarm went off at a hour that barely qualifies as morning, but there was no reluctance in it. Some early starts carry their own momentum, and driving to KLIA to collect Irfan is one of them. The roads were empty in that particular way they only manage on public holidays — the kind of quiet that makes KL feel like it's still deciding whether to wake up.

I reached the airport just after six, expecting a wait. KLIA on Aidil Adha morning has a stillness to it that you'd never believe if you've only seen it during peak season — all that polished marble and soaring architecture with almost nobody in it. As it turned out, the wait was shorter than planned. Irfan's flight landed a full forty-five minutes early, which is the kind of pleasant surprise that airlines so rarely deliver. He appeared through arrivals looking well, and just like that, the thing I'd been quietly looking forward to all week was done. Everyone home.

We were back by eight, the morning still young and full of possibility. The day's main obligation was the Qurban in Bukit Antarabangsa — the ritual sacrifice that sits at the heart of Aidil Adha. There's a particular atmosphere to these gatherings: communal, unhurried, purposeful. People milling about in the morning warmth, children darting between adults, the whole thing proceeding with the quiet organisation of something that happens every year and knows its own rhythm. We were all done by lunchtime, everything handled with satisfying efficiency.

Afterwards, the decision was made — as it often is on these occasions — to have some beef. When the day has already centred around the animal, it feels only right. We passed our share of the Qurban meat along to relatives, which is part of the whole spirit of the thing. The giving is the point, really.

The afternoon pivoted to something altogether more secular: shopping. Anita had a Rimowa trunk in her sights, and who am I to stand between a woman and well-engineered luggage? There's something almost architectural about Rimowa — the ridges, the precision, the satisfying click of the latches. A proper object. Then it was my turn for some clothes, because apparently one cannot live on the same rotation of shirts indefinitely, however strongly one might feel otherwise.

By the time we got home, the day felt genuinely full — the kind of full that comes from variety rather than exhaustion. Airport at dawn, Qurban by mid-morning, retail therapy by afternoon. Three quite different acts, all slotting together into something that felt complete.

Another day off tomorrow, which is a luxury worth savouring. But tonight, like last night, an early one. The body keeps its own counsel on these matters, and mine was making its position very clear.

The Art of Winding Down

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoTuesday had a specific energy to it — the quiet industriousness of someone tidying the house before going on holiday. Not frantic, just purposeful. Everything today carried the faint undertone of get this done properly so tomorrow can be tomorrow.

Clinic took up the morning, the usual rhythm of consultations ticking along at a steady clip. There's a particular satisfaction in morning clinic when it moves well — each appointment finding its natural length, nothing dragging, nothing rushed. The kind of session where you emerge at the other end feeling like the work did itself, even though you know perfectly well it didn't.

After lunch, the ward round had a clear objective: discharge as many patients as possible. There's an unspoken kindness in this before a public holiday — nobody wants to be sitting in a hospital bed over Aidil Adha if they don't need to be, and the ward staff deserve a lighter load too. So we moved through it with cheerful efficiency, ticking off the ones who were ready, making sure everything was in order. It's oddly gratifying work, sending people home. The paperwork is tedious, naturally, but the outcome is worth every duplicated form.

By three o'clock, the clinical side of the day was done. What remained was the administrative tail — the notes, the letters, the various bits of documentation that accumulate like sediment over a working day. I worked through them methodically, the kind of low-intensity task that suits a mind already half-turned towards tomorrow.

The drive home felt lighter than usual. Perhaps it was knowing there was nothing pressing on the other side of tonight. No alarm set to a punishing hour — well, actually, that's not quite true. The alarm would indeed be going off early, but for the best possible reason. Irfan lands tomorrow morning, and I'll be there to meet him. There's a different quality to an early start when it involves collecting someone you've been looking forward to seeing.

The evening was deliberately uneventful. Just the gentle deceleration of a day that had done its job. No grand plans, no elaborate dinner, nothing that required standing up for longer than strictly necessary. Sometimes the most luxurious thing you can do with an evening is absolutely nothing at all.

An early night, then. The kind where you're in bed before the hour feels remotely embarrassing, and entirely at peace with it. Tomorrow the holiday begins properly — Irfan home, Aidil Adha ahead, and two unhurried days stretching out like a cat in a sunbeam.

But that's tomorrow's entry. Tonight is just the pleasant business of stopping.

The Unhurried Wednesday

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoSome days arrive without any particular ambition, and there's wisdom in letting them be what they are. Wednesday came in slowly — not sluggish, just serene, as though the day itself had decided that urgency could wait. I didn't argue.

Breakfast got its proper due this morning. Not rushed, not squeezed between tasks, just a quiet sit-down before the drive in. There's a version of the morning routine that feels like preparation and another that feels like presence. Today was the latter. The coffee was unhurried. The toast was deliberate. Small luxuries, but real ones.

The afternoon clinic matched the day's tempo — lighter than usual, the kind of session where the gaps between patients give you room to breathe and catch up on the administrative debris that accumulates when things are busier. I'm not one to complain about a slow clinic. The work still matters; it just moves at a pace that lets you be a little more thorough, a little more present with each person in front of you. A transplant meeting rounded things off before I headed home, the sort of discussion that always carries a certain weight regardless of the day's general mood. You shift gears, focus sharpens, and then it's done.

The family dispatches were more interesting than mine tonight. Idlan had a long day at Taylor's, but the good kind of long — the kind that comes from being properly engaged rather than merely enduring. He seems to be settling into his new course, which is quietly reassuring. There's a particular relief in watching someone find their footing in something they've chosen, that moment where obligation starts to shade into genuine interest. Early days still, but the signs are encouraging.

Anita, meanwhile, had assembled herself a rather civilised itinerary. Lunch with a friend at Rebung — Chef Ismail's place, where the Malay spread is the kind of thing you don't so much eat as surrender to — followed by tea at Carcosa Seri Negara. There's something wonderfully old-world about Carcosa, all that colonial architecture and manicured calm. She came home with that particular glow of a day well spent in good company, which is its own kind of contentment.

And then there's Irfan, who's just finished his exams in London. The relief must be enormous, though knowing him it'll manifest as quiet satisfaction rather than anything theatrical. He's spending a week with friends before flying home next Tuesday, which feels exactly right — that liminal stretch after exams where the city belongs to you again and responsibility hasn't yet reassembled itself. London in late May, with nothing to do but wander and eat and stay out too late. I can think of worse prescriptions.

A slow day, then, but one that held more than it first appeared to. Sometimes the unhurried ones carry the most.

Mixed Feelings

Idlan joined SSU - Sekolah Sri Utama - back in 2008 in kindergarten. He spent 3 years in pre-school before starting primary school, finishing off with his UPSR last year. He left a couple of weeks after the exam to join the school he is at now.

Irfan also joined as a 4-year-old back in 2010 and will be leaving in September. It looked like we would be completing our 9 year association with the school soon and I was there today to pay for Irfan’s term fees, which would eventually be the last for him. With that fee paid, it meant that this may be the last bit of business I would be doing with the school except for collecting the school bond when Irfan leaves later.

Over the years, it was clear that the school was heading for a decline. They were actually lucky as there were a number of schools nearby that had completely closed over the years. SSU was still surviving, but I fear for their future. The quality of the teachers had deteriorated. They had a number of headmasters recently, with one only just recently resigned. Most of the teachers were local - the last headmaster was Caucasian. With a PhD. I didn’t think that he was a perfect fit from day one.

One of my main gripe was the fact that the school do not have a Parents-Teachers Association. Dissemination of informations had been weak over the years, much to my frustration. And there were no avenue for us to voice our concerns. I did write a letter to the then headmaster when Idlan left, and he did reply back. From the tone of his email, I could sense that he was just as frustrated with the arrangement at the school.

The school Idlan - and later Irfan - would be moving to was way different to Sri Utama. They put a lot of emphasis on parents’ participation, their activities were great and Idlan had definitely moved on from. He was miserable in the last couple of years at Sri Utama. We told the teachers about that but unfortunately they weren’t at all interested.

I still have a soft spot for Sri Utama. It was convenient when we were living in Gombak before. Time has changed and the school had certainly been left behind .... We were still in contact with some of the teachers from yesteryears. They still remembered the two boys, and how they had grown over the years .... I still had the photo of Idlan’s first day at Sri Utama in 2008 framed on the wall at the house in Gombak.