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.

Our Stories, Interrupted

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoSunday began the way many of mine do, with a morning round — the work that doesn't observe weekends, attended to before the day could properly call itself a day off. But once that was done, I had somewhere I actually wanted to be, and that changes the whole complexion of a morning.

From there it was straight to Bukit Bintang, to Eslite, for a Ricoh GR event I'd been quietly looking forward to. It went by the name "Cerita Kita" — Our Stories — which is the sort of title that could mean very little or quite a lot, and on the day leaned firmly towards the latter. There were talks, and I settled in to listen properly, which is a different thing from merely hearing.

Zaidi Abdullah and Mitsuo Suzuki spoke, and I found myself genuinely absorbed — two photographers talking about the why of the thing rather than the gear, which is rarer and more valuable than it sounds. There's a particular pleasure in being among people who take a small camera seriously, who understand that the point was never the equipment but the looking. I sat with the Ricoh's quiet philosophy made audible, and for a while the rest of the week's noise fell away entirely.

For a while. The ER had other ideas. The call came, as calls do, with no regard for whatever absorption I'd managed to find, and the talks gave way — mid-thought, mid-sentence almost — to the more pressing business of being needed elsewhere. Our stories, interrupted. I'd have stayed for the whole thing in another life; in this one, I gathered myself and went.

It rained as I reached SJMC, the sky opening just as I arrived, which felt like the day adding its own punctuation. There's something almost cinematic about pulling in through the rain to do the necessary thing — though it loses its romance quickly once you're actually in it, damp at the edges and focused on the matter at hand. I saw to what needed seeing to, and in time the urgency eased.

By evening I was home, and dinner there felt all the better for the day's detours. A meal at your own table after an afternoon that pulled you in several directions has a settling quality to it — the day finally agreeing to stand still. Nothing elaborate, just the quiet relief of being back where the day had started, with the rain easing off outside.

And then, the proper full stop: the Spanish Grand Prix from Barcelona, which I settled in to watch with the contentment of a man who has earned his place on the sofa. There's a comfortable rhythm to a race on a Sunday evening — the noise of the cars, the long arc of the thing unfolding, nothing required of you but to watch. After a day that had refused to follow its plan, letting someone else's drama play out on screen was exactly the right note to end on.

A Sunday, then, that gave with one hand and rearranged with the other. Talks I'd looked forward to, cut short. Rain, an ER, a quiet dinner, and motor racing to close. Our stories, indeed — rarely the ones we'd have scripted, but ours all the same.

The Long Thursday

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoNot every day has the decency to start well. Thursday opened with heavy traffic and a sluggishness that seemed to have infected both the roads and my general enthusiasm. One of those mornings where the commute feels like it's making a point. But these things pass, and once I got going the day found its rhythm. Smooth enough from there, which is all you can really ask of a morning that begins with brake lights.

Lunch was a proper affair — a farewell feast for a colleague who's moving on. There's a particular atmosphere to these gatherings, part celebration, part melancholy, the food always slightly more generous than a normal working lunch deserves. You eat too much, say things you probably should have said earlier, and someone inevitably makes a speech that lands somewhere between heartfelt and slightly awkward. It's a ritual, and like most rituals, it matters more than it appears to. The food was good, the company was warm, and the person leaving seemed genuinely touched, which is really the only metric that counts.

The afternoon pushed on, and I stayed later than planned — the kind of day where tasks keep finding you just as you think you're done. By six o'clock I was in a Grab heading to Sunway Sanctuary, which sounds more exotic than it felt after a full day's work. I was chairing a talk there, one of those professional evenings where you put on your best listening face and try to keep proceedings moving at a pace that respects both the speaker and the audience's attention span. Chairing is an odd skill — part traffic management, part diplomacy, part knowing when to let a question run and when to gently steer things back. It went well enough, I think.

Afterwards, a Chinese dinner with the group. There's something restorative about sitting down to a shared table after an evening of formality — the conversation loosens, the dishes arrive in that wonderful communal procession, and you remember that these people are more than just their professional titles. The food was good, the kind of meal where you keep reaching for one more serving even though you know you'll regret it on the drive home.

And then, finally, home. Late and thoroughly spent. The house was quiet in that way it gets when everyone else has already settled into their evening and you're arriving at the tail end of it. Shoes off, bag down, the satisfying collapse into the sofa that only really hits properly when you've earned it. Anita asked how it went. I gave her the abbreviated version — the one that captures the shape of the day without requiring her to relive every hour of it. She nodded. That was enough.

Some days are simply long. Not bad, not brilliant, just full. Thursday was full.

24 Hours in Bangkok

It was a quick stay in Bangkok. I was already back home last night - landing just before midnight. And back to work already today, and would be on call tomorrow.

But the trip was a great one, able to meet up with old contacts although I was late to arrive on Saturday evening, hence not able to join the group for a sumptuous feast prepared by the generous Thai host! I had to make do with bland hotel food instead which was a shame!

On arrival at Bangkok AirportFinal touches on the slidesI woke up early on Sunday, and was able to have my morning walk around the area my hotel while people were still getting into their early Sunday morning routine. Stopped for a coffee before turning back, ready for my part of the symposium.

Talks before and after lunch, followed by some discussion. Then it was already time to pack up and leave. The rest of the group had been there for the past three days and almost had enough. Too much information as it was my part to introduce the concept of Chronic Lymphocytic Leukaemia in a group who advocates for patients with Chronic Myeloid Leukaemia. It could be a tough sell!

It's my turnLet's get out of here!Sunday evening traffic in Bangkok had been kind and I was able to reach the airport early for my flight home. Wished that I could stay longer. I could only pick some gifts for Anita at the airport my schedule was such.