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.

On Borrowed Sleep and an Unhurried Day

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThe night before had been thin on rest — the phone seeing to that, as it does, with a series of calls from the hospital that fragmented the dark into useless pieces. There is a particular fatigue that follows a broken night on call, a sort of low static behind everything, and I carried it into the morning like an unwelcome companion.

The round itself was mercifully quiet, which felt like a small mercy granted in compensation. I was nearly out the door, congratulating myself on a clean exit, when a transfer landed — the universe's way of reminding me not to count my chickens. I noted it, made the necessary arrangements, and then, with the practised detachment one develops, simply got on with my own business. The admission would arrive when it arrived. There is no sense standing guard over a thing you cannot hurry.

Lunch was ramen at Lot 10, that reliable warren of food where one can always find a steaming bowl of something restorative. A good ramen asks very little of a tired man — no decisions beyond which broth, no conversation if you'd rather not — and gives back warmth and a brief, soup-induced clarity. It was exactly what the day required.

Afterwards I wandered into Low Yat, where the electronics live, and emerged with an e-ink tablet — the iFLYTEK AiNote Air 2. I have a weakness for these things, the quiet promise that this device, finally, will be the one to organise my scattered notes into something resembling order. I know better, of course. But the screen is easy on tired eyes, and there is a small joy in the unboxing that I refuse to deny myself.

Anita, meanwhile, had a wedding to attend in Shah Alam with her friends — the sort of cheerful afternoon obligation that sends her off in good spirits and leaves me happily to my own devices. So I went home and did the most sensible thing available: nothing in particular. I chilled, half an ear cocked for word of the admission, the e-ink tablet keeping me mildly entertained while I waited.

Dinner was a quick one at Kerinchi, the kind of unfussy meal that suits an evening when ambition has long since clocked off. I had no appetite for anything elaborate, only for something easy and nearby, eaten without ceremony.

And then, at last, rest — the thing the whole day had been quietly building towards. After a night so generously interrupted, an early surrender to sleep was less a choice than a biological necessity. I find I have stopped feeling guilty about these collapses into bed; the body keeps its own accounts, and it had a debt to settle.

So a modest day, all told. A quiet round, a transfer to absorb, ramen and a new gadget, an empty afternoon well spent, and a simple dinner to close it. Not every Sunday needs steak and grandeur. Some just need a soft pillow and a phone that stays silent. Tonight, I'm hoping for both.

A Sunday Without Its Steak

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A sunny start to the Sunday — KL doing that thing again where it remembers it's tropical and turns the brightness up to full. There's a particular quality to Sunday sunshine that weekday sunshine simply doesn't have. Same sun, different posture. Less demanding.

Rounds went smoothly, mercifully brief. Sunday rounds have their own rhythm — quieter corridors, fewer interruptions, everyone moving at a slightly more humane pace. By the time I was done, the day still had most of itself to give.

Which I duly spent at Low Yat, on a mission for a charger and a USB dock. There's a particular pleasure in wandering Low Yat with a specific list — it gives the place a shape it doesn't otherwise have. Without a mission, it's a labyrinth of cables and screens and salesmen pretending not to watch you. With one, it's a treasure hunt. Both items located, prices reasonable, the small satisfaction of crossing things off a list. A good morning's work.

Lunch was ramen at Kagura Tokyo in Lot 10. The kind of meal that suits a sunny solo Sunday — sit at the counter, watch the steam curl up, eat with proper attention. Ramen rewards focus. Eat it distracted and you've missed the point. I gave it the attention it deserved.

A wander through Pavilion afterwards. Relatively quiet for a Sunday, which was a small mercy — none of the usual weekend density, just enough people to make it feel alive without making it feel like a contest. I drifted rather than shopped. Sometimes that's the better way.

Anita was out with her friends, which meant the afternoon belonged to me and a few quiet domestic tasks. Some cleaning, nothing heroic — the sort of tidying that creates the illusion of productivity while requiring almost no thought. The house seemed pleased about it, in its way. There's something restful about an afternoon spent indoors with no particular destination, the windows open, the day moving past at its own speed.

A small departure from the usual: no steak cooking tonight. Sundays have built themselves a tradition around steak in this house, and breaking it once in a while feels almost transgressive. But traditions need the occasional pause to keep their meaning. The cast iron pan gets a night off.

The sunset, though — the sunset earned its keep. One of those proper KL sunsets that takes the sky through every shade of orange and pink before settling into a soft, lingering blue. The balcony was the only sensible place to be. I obliged.

And now, with the evening settling in, attention turns to Old Trafford. United's last home game of the season tonight. More poignantly, Casemiro's last appearance there. There's a particular weight to these farewell matches — the sense of a chapter closing, the crowd preparing for something they'll only fully feel in retrospect. He's given the place a great deal. The least one can do is watch.

A good Sunday, all told. Even without the steak.