Halfway, and Slightly Behind

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoAnd here we are in July, which means the year has quietly folded itself in half while I wasn't paying attention. I could have sworn 2026 arrived only yesterday, still creaking with resolutions and good intentions, and yet somehow six months have slipped past like coins through a hole in a coat pocket. There's a particular vertigo to reaching the midpoint of a year — the sense that the ledger is now half-spent and the columns don't quite balance. Time to get things moving faster, I keep telling myself, though telling oneself is rarely the same as doing.

It was, ironically, a slow day that gave me the room to think all this. There's a certain kind of quiet that doesn't soothe so much as prompt — the mind, given a little slack, immediately wanders off to audit itself. Not unpleasant, exactly. Just a reminder that stillness and ease are not always the same thing.

The middle of the day was given over to a lunch meeting with a pharmaceutical rep, that peculiar genre of appointment where the food is generally better than the conversation demands and the pitch arrives somewhere between the mains and the coffee. Pleasant enough, and mercifully unhurried.

The afternoon clinic, however, had other ideas. What began as a manageable list stretched well past its expected borders, helped along by a couple of emergency admissions that arrived without appointment or apology, as emergencies tend to. There's no arguing with the genuinely urgent — you simply rearrange yourself around it and get on. So I finished considerably later than planned, the afternoon having quietly consumed the early evening before I noticed it was gone.

Still, I made it back in time for dinner, which after a day like that feels like a small negotiated victory. There's a great deal to be said for arriving home while the table still means something.

Then came the evening's great moral test. My Oura ring — that small, well-meaning tyrant on my finger — has been increasingly pointed in its counsel, nudging me nightly toward the radical proposition of proper sleep. It has a case. It usually does. Unfortunately, England were kicking off at midnight, and no wearable device yet invented can compete with the pull of a knockout tie at an unreasonable hour.

They made me suffer for it, too. DR Congo led early and held that lead with alarming conviction, until Harry Kane finally remembered his job description and scored twice in the closing stretch to drag England through, 2-1. A nervy, unconvincing sort of win — the kind that gets you into the next round and precisely nowhere in the estimation of anyone watching. Mexico await, apparently. I'll worry about that later.

For now, I've made my choice, and the ring will note it disapprovingly in the morning. Tomorrow I shall suffer — bleary, under-slept, and entirely without regret. Some bargains are worth the interest. This, I suspect, was one of them, though I reserve the right to revise that opinion at around six a.m.

A Day Measured in Fares

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoSome days announce their length early, and this was one of them. It began, as the busier ones tend to, with rounds — the steady morning ritual of working through the ward, that unhurried procession of names and notes that grounds a day before it has a chance to run away. I moved through it knowing the rest of the morning had other places to be.

From there the city took over. A Grab across town to Hospital Ampang, that particular Klang Valley experience of watching your estimated arrival time negotiate quietly with the traffic and losing. The occasion was the launch of the new CPG — one of those events that exists somewhere between ceremony and admin, equal parts polite applause and genuine usefulness. There's a satisfaction in seeing one of these things finally put down on paper and sent out into the world; a great deal of patient work goes into a document most people will only ever skim.

Lunch followed, and then I dropped by Jerome's office — the kind of unscheduled detour that turns a working day into something more companionable. A conversation here, a familiar face there, the small social mortar that holds the professional bricks together.

And then the long crawl back to SJMC, which is where the day presented its bill in the most literal sense. Sixty ringgit. I sat in the back doing the arithmetic of distance against fare and arrived only at a quiet resignation. Surge pricing has a way of finding you precisely when the city is at its most congested and you are at your least patient. I paid it, of course. One always does. But I noted it, the way you note a small injustice you've no intention of contesting.

Home, mercifully, came early — early enough for a proper sit-down dinner rather than the rushed, standing-over-the-counter affair that long days usually produce. There is a particular pleasure in an early dinner after a day spent ricocheting across the city: the food unhurried, the chair welcome, the sense of the day finally consenting to slow down.

The evening, though, still had one thing left to offer. I settled in to listen to a talk by Elias Jabbour, over from MD Anderson, with Jerome in the chair — the same Jerome whose office I'd lingered in hours earlier, now presiding from a stage. Jabbour is the sort of speaker who makes a complicated thing sound almost conversational, and there's a quiet luxury in being able to take it in from the comfort of home rather than a conference hall's unforgiving chairs. I listened with the contented attention of a man who has done his travelling for the day and intends to do no more of it.

A long day, then, and a crisscrossed one — measured out in fares and finished, fittingly, with someone else doing the talking. I was happy enough to sit and absorb, the city's traffic safely on the other side of the window.

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 Second Verse of a Familiar Song

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoTwo holidays in a row is the sort of luck that ought to feel indulgent, though the wards remain stubbornly indifferent to such generosity. So once again I rose early, while the rest of the household enjoyed the particular smugness of having nowhere to be, and went to do the morning round — still covering for the two colleagues whose meeting in China had stretched comfortably across the long weekend.

I have no complaints. The rounds were smooth, almost suspiciously so, the kind of morning where everything is where it should be and nobody springs any surprises. There is a quiet satisfaction in that, the professional equivalent of finding the milk hasn't turned. By the time I left, the day still had most of itself ahead, which is the chief reward of an early start one didn't ask for.

Lunch was the day's small adventure. We went to Banglo 289, tucked within Bangunan Sultan Abdul Samad — a building I have admired from the outside for the better part of my life without ever expecting to eat inside it. I arrived with the modest expectations one brings to any restaurant trading partly on its address, and was promptly proven wrong. The ambience was genuinely lovely, the sort of room that makes you sit a little straighter, and the food more than held its end of the bargain. Better than expected is faint praise on paper, but in practice it is one of life's more pleasant verdicts.

The afternoon was given over to a nap, which I will defend to anyone. There is no finer use of a holiday than the deliberate, unhurried sleep that comes after a good lunch, the kind where you wake unsure of the hour and entirely at peace about it. I surfaced slowly, the light gone amber, the day having quietly carried on without me.

Dinner was Irfan's call, and Irfan wanted Thai, which meant Busaba at Bangsar Shopping Centre. There is something reassuring about a young person who knows precisely what he wants and is not shy about saying so, particularly when the answer involves tom yum. The food did its job, the conversation drifted pleasantly, and we let the evening take its own pace, in no hurry to be anywhere.

Then home, and rest. Two holidays bookended by morning rounds is a peculiar rhythm, but there is a logic to it — the work anchoring the days that might otherwise float off entirely. Tomorrow the calendar reasserts itself and the ordinary week resumes. I find I don't mind. There is comfort in the return of structure, in knowing that the rounds will go on, the colleagues will fly back, and the small machinery of normal life will pick up where it left off.

For now, though, an early night. A good meal, a better nap, and Thai food chosen by someone with strong opinions. As holidays go, it asked for very little and gave back rather a lot.

The Day That Wouldn't Be Pinned Down

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An early start, with one clear objective in mind: be back by noon. A simple enough ambition, the kind you set yourself with reasonable confidence at six in the morning, before the day has had a chance to make its own plans.

The day, of course, had its own plans.

A few unwell patients delayed things just enough to nudge the schedule sideways. Nothing dramatic — just the gentle reminder that medicine doesn't keep to anyone's diary but its own. By the time I extracted myself, "back by noon" had quietly mutated into "back at some point", which is a downgrade I've learned to accept with reasonable grace.

But lunch made up for it. Rebung — finally. Anita has been harping on about this place for weeks, with the particular persistence of someone who knows she's right and is simply waiting for everyone else to catch up. And she was right. The spread was excellent, the kind of buffet that doesn't feel like a buffet but rather a thoughtful tour of Malay cooking done properly. Generous without being showy. I shall, in due course, admit she was right. Perhaps over coffee. Perhaps never.

The peace was short-lived. Mid-meal, more or less, came the call back to the hospital — one of those summonses you can't really argue with, only attend to. So back I went, the afternoon now firmly in charge rather than the other way round. These are the days that quietly remind you who's really running the schedule.

Somewhere between obligations, I managed a haircut at Lucky Garden. A small, civilian act in the middle of a day pulling me in several directions. There's something steadying about sitting in a barber's chair when the rest of the day has been frantic — the slow, methodical work of someone doing one thing carefully while the world outside continues its noise. I emerged tidier, marginally more composed, and ready for the evening's main event.

Which was the College of Physicians Gala Dinner at Dorsett Putrajaya. And here, in the spirit of honest journalling, I shall record that it was not the greatest. Gala dinners are a curious genre — formal enough to require effort, social enough to demand attention, but rarely exceptional in any single department. Tonight's outing leaned firmly into that pattern. The room looked the part. The company was fine. The food and the flow were... let us say adequate. Sometimes the highlight of a gala is simply having attended.

By the time we made it home, the day had stretched itself into something almost unrecognisable from the one I'd planned at dawn. Early start, late finish, with a half-dozen small detours in between. The kind of day that doesn't follow a clean narrative arc but instead zigzags through obligation, pleasure, duty, and a decent meal.

Bed will be welcome. Tomorrow, hopefully, will keep its own promises. Tonight, I'll settle for having kept most of mine.