Leaving Early, Arriving Late

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThe haze has stopped being polite about it. This morning it sat over the city like a damp tea towel, and I left the house already squinting at the horizon as though that would help. It didn’t. It rarely does.

It was an all-day clinic, which is a phrase that sounds manageable on paper and rather less so by mid-afternoon. The morning was long, not in the dramatic sense, just in the way some mornings stretch out like a queue you can’t see the end of. One person, then the next, then the next. I kept the timer going and it kept me honest, though I suspect even a very good gadget has its limits against a full list.

After the ward round there was a meeting, the kind that begins with everyone agreeing it’ll be quick. I’ve sat through enough of these to know that the word “quick” is purely decorative. Halfway through, I had to excuse myself. Not out of boredom, I should add, though I’d be lying if I said leaving early didn’t carry a small, guilty thrill. There’s something about standing up mid-meeting with a genuine reason that makes you feel briefly like a man in a film with somewhere better to be.

The somewhere better was Le Méridien, for a talk. The drive over was the usual Kuala Lumpur negotiation between optimism and traffic, and the haze gave the whole city a sepia filter nobody asked for.

The speaker had come from Kraków, and the talk was very good. I say that without the usual qualifications. Plenty of talks are fine, informative, competent, the sort you remember for the coffee break. This wasn’t one of those. It was clear, well-paced, and delivered by someone who knew the material well enough not to hide behind the slides. I find that rarer than it should be. Anyone can fill forty minutes. Making them feel like twenty is a craft.

It ran late, as good evenings tend to. By the time I was heading home the day had folded itself into night without my noticing, which is either the sign of a good day or a badly managed one. Possibly both.

The haze had worsened by evening. From the balcony I could see it properly, a thick grey wash across the city, the usual skyline softened into suggestion. Buildings I know are there simply weren’t, or were only half there, like a photograph left too long in the sun. I’ll admit it has a certain eerie beauty, which feels like an inappropriate thing to say about air you’re not meant to breathe. But I stood and looked anyway, for longer than was strictly sensible.

Then I came inside and shut the door. Some views are better appreciated through glass.

It was a long day, though not an unhappy one. Full at both ends, interrupted in the middle, and finished with something worth the effort. I’ll take that, haze and all.

Buffets, Bazaars and Brakes

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThe day began, as so many do, with a round of the usual duties followed by paperwork. The two have a way of travelling together, like a man and his shadow, except the shadow tends to grow longer as the morning goes on. I made decent progress on both and felt reasonably virtuous by late morning, which is about as virtuous as I generally aim to feel before lunch.

After lunch came a talk, and before the talk came lunch itself: a buffet at Vasco’s in the KL Hilton. I’ll say this plainly. A good buffet is the most honest way to bribe an audience into a seminar, and it works on me every time. The spread was genuinely nice, broad without being exhausting, and I exercised what I’d describe as selective restraint. That is, I didn’t try everything. Merely most things.

The talk ran until four. It was worthwhile, and I’ll leave it at that, partly because nobody wants a blow-by-blow of a seminar and partly because the post-buffet hour is never anyone’s sharpest. There’s an unspoken contract in these afternoon sessions: the speaker agrees to be interesting, and the audience agrees not to visibly digest. Both sides held up their end, mostly.

I was excused a little early, which was just as well, because I had made a promise to Anita about the pasar malam. In my experience, promises about pasar malam are the binding kind. You can postpone a meeting. You cannot postpone a night market that someone has been quietly looking forward to all day.

So off we went. There’s something about a pasar malam that I’ve never quite been able to explain to anyone who didn’t grow up with them. It’s crowded, it’s warm, it smells of six different kinds of frying at once, and it is completely wonderful. I wandered, Anita navigated with considerably more purpose, and we came away with more than we needed and exactly what we wanted. Having eaten a buffet at lunch, I really had no business buying anything edible. I bought several things edible.

Home again, and the Singapore Grand Prix on the television. I’ll admit to a soft spot for that race. Formula One under floodlights feels faintly theatrical, which suits it. There’s a certain pleasure in watching cars cost more than houses navigate a city street, while I sit on the sofa having spent the evening debating the merits of one kuih stall over another.

Before bed, I went in an entirely different direction and watched a few videos on electric vehicle care. With the car still fresh from its touch-ups, I’ve decided it’s time I knew more than which end the plug goes in. Battery health, charging habits, the small routines that keep things running well. It’s not thrilling viewing, but it’s oddly reassuring, rather like reading the instructions after you’ve already assembled the furniture.

Strange, really. An evening that started with racing cars ended with learning how to drive more gently. I suspect there’s a lesson in that somewhere, but I was too tired to look for it.

From the Chair

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoAn early start, the sort that requires you to be decisive with yourself before you've had any real evidence that the day is worth attending. A quick round to get through first, and then straight on to the Hilton at Sentral, arriving in that slightly breathless state where you've already done half a day's work and everyone else is still queuing for coffee.

I was chairing the session before lunch. Chairing is a peculiar job. You're the least interesting person in the room by design, and your entire purpose is to make sure the interesting people run to time and don't talk over one another. Done well, nobody notices you at all. I've come to quite enjoy it — there's a craftsmanship in keeping a session moving without ever appearing to push.

And the speakers were superb. Colleagues over from Germany, France and Italy, all of them presenting work at a level that genuinely makes you sit up. World-class, and I don't reach for that phrase often — it gets thrown at anything that's merely competent. This wasn't that. It was the real article, delivered with the particular confidence of people who have lived inside a problem long enough to explain it simply.

There's also the pleasure of watching three European speakers approach the same material in unmistakably different registers. Precision, elegance, and enthusiasm respectively, and I'll leave it to the reader to assign the nationalities. Between sessions I caught up with old acquaintances — the ones you see twice a year in hotel foyers and never anywhere else, and yet somehow pick up mid-sentence from wherever you left off. These conference friendships are odd, shallow in frequency and surprisingly deep in substance.

Lunch was excellent, which matters more than organisers sometimes appreciate. A good lunch buys you a room full of people who are still awake at two o'clock. And the afternoon sessions carried on properly, which suggests somebody understood this.

By the end of it, though, I was thoroughly spent. There's a specific flavour of tiredness that comes from a full day of concentrated listening — not physical, exactly, just a sense that the part of you that processes things has quietly clocked off without telling anyone. I still had bits to finish, and I couldn't face them at any reasonable hour. They got done late, badly, and mostly by force of habit.

So I'm heading into the new week with a small deficit, and no great illusions about it. A weekend spent talking, however good the talking, is not a weekend spent resting. The mind is full and the tank isn't.

Still — better this than the alternative. A day among people doing excellent work leaves you slightly restored even as it exhausts you. You come away with things to think about, which is a decent trade for an early start and a late finish.

Rest first, though. Everything else can queue behind that.

Scrambled Eggs, Scrambled Lunch

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoSome days announce their intentions early, and this was one of them. Barely through the door and already behind, the sort of hectic that doesn't build so much as arrive fully formed, like weather. There wasn't much to do but fall in step with it and hope the pace eased somewhere before evening.

It didn't, particularly — not straight away. Rounds ran long enough that they practically introduced themselves to the double clinic waiting on the other side, the two sessions stacking up back to back with none of the usual breathing room in between. By the time there was a gap to speak of, lunch had gone from "at some point" to "immediately or not at all," and it landed somewhere closer to the latter — a scramble in the truest sense, eaten standing up, remembered more than tasted. The kind of meal that counts purely on a technicality.

And yet, for all that early sprint, the day had no intention of wrapping up early to compensate. It simply kept going, stretching out well past where a day that starts that briskly has any right to. There's a particular tiredness that comes from a day like that — not the dragging kind, but the kind that sneaks up once you finally sit still, as though your body had been too busy to notice how long it had been on its feet.

The evening, at least, came with proper reward. Dinner next door at Dorsett turned into one of those conversations that outlasts the meal itself — unhurried, the kind where the plates get cleared and nobody quite notices because the talking's still going. A welcome contrast to a day that had spent most of its hours refusing to slow down for anyone.

Threaded through it all was an update from Timothy William on antibiotics — the sort of exchange that's easy to underrate in the moment but useful precisely because someone bothered to walk it through properly rather than leaving it for later. Colleagues who take the time to actually explain something, rather than simply flag it and move on, are worth more than they're usually given credit for, and today was a reminder of that.

So: hectic in, contemplative out, with a scrambled lunch somewhere in the middle standing in for the whole day's rhythm — start fast, catch up when you can, and let the evening do the smoothing over. Not every day balances itself out quite so neatly, but this one, eventually, did.

The Reward for Resting Well

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoBack to work, then — but I returned to it the way you return to anything after a proper rest: a little reluctant, a little restored, and quietly grateful that yesterday happened at all. There's a particular contentment in having spent a day off well. It pays out the next morning like interest.

The first business of the day was, admittedly, conducted at four in the morning. England played Croatia at that ungodly hour, and against my better judgement I was awake for it. They won, which made the lost sleep feel like a sound investment rather than a foolish one — though I'll confess the line between the two is dangerously thin at that time of night. By the second half I was less a supporter than a man simply too far in to turn back. It paid off. It doesn't always.

The ward round came and went with the usual rhythm, and then it was off to Sentul for teaching — that part of the work I genuinely look forward to, the chance to hand something on, to watch a concept land behind someone else's eyes. There's a quiet pleasure in it that the rest of the day rarely matches. You spend so much of your time solving problems that the act of simply explaining one feels almost restful by comparison.

Back to Subang for lunch, and then another meeting with the pharma people — the kind of appointment that arranges itself into your afternoon whether you've made room for it or not. These meetings have their own choreography by now, familiar enough that I could probably conduct one in my sleep, which after the four a.m. start was nearly a literal possibility.

But the day, kindly, was a short one. Done early, home by half five — an hour so civilised I scarcely knew what to do with it. There's something faintly disorienting about arriving home while the light is still generous, the evening still ahead of you and entirely unspent. We had an early dinner, the unhurried sort, and the whole thing felt like a small act of rebellion against the usual order of things.

Anita, meanwhile, had spent her day at the KL International Motor Show with Razak, returning full of it. The new Prelude had caught her eye — Honda's old coupe, back after the better part of two decades away, reborn as something sleeker and quieter and electrified. I find there's a particular pleasure in watching a name you'd half forgotten reappear, dusted off and reimagined for a different age. She described it with the enthusiasm of someone who has decided, without quite saying so, that she'd rather like to sit in one.

So the week resumed without protest. A short day, an early dinner, a head still half-full of football and lecture notes and Anita's revived motoring ambitions. Not every working day needs to be a long campaign. Some, mercifully, just let you home in time to enjoy the evening — and you take those gladly, without asking why.