A Free Weekend, Technically

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoSaturday, and in theory a free weekend. I say “in theory” because the theory didn’t survive contact with the morning. Colleagues are away, someone has to hold the fort, and this weekend the fort-holder was me. A free weekend with obligations is a bit like a decaf espresso: it looks the part, but you can tell something’s been taken out.

Morning rounds came first, and ran longer than planned. They always do on a Saturday. There’s an unwritten rule that weekend work expands to fill whatever time you’d hoped to save, partly because there are fewer hands and partly because the quiet makes everything feel slower. You walk the corridors with that particular weekend hush around you, and somehow an hour becomes two without anyone being consulted.

Still, there’s a certain virtue to covering. It’s a favour that gets returned eventually, the professional equivalent of lending someone your umbrella. I just wish the umbrella weren’t so often in use.

Once I was finally released, I made a quick stop at Bangsar Village. Quick being the operative word, and for once I stuck to it. Bangsar Village has the slightly polished calm of a place that knows exactly who it’s for, and on a Saturday afternoon that’s a lot of people who look as though they’ve just come from brunch and are considering a second one. I admire their commitment.

Then on to The Gardens for an early dinner. An early dinner is one of the great underrated pleasures of adulthood. You beat the rush, you get a decent table, and you’re home before the evening has a chance to turn ambitious. People mock the early diner, but the early diner is rarely seen queuing.

The weekend crowd was out in force, of course. Mid Valley on a Saturday is less a shopping centre than a migration. Families moving in formation, couples drifting in and out of shops with no apparent purpose, teenagers travelling in clusters like weather systems. I find it oddly reassuring. Whatever else is going on in the world, people still turn up on a Saturday to walk slowly past things they don’t need. There’s something stubbornly human about that.

I didn’t join the stampede. I took things easy, ate without rushing, and let the noise wash past. That was the whole plan for the evening, and it’s the best plan I’ve had all week. Not every evening needs a purpose. Some just need to be got through gently.

There’s a contradiction in all this I’m happy to sit with. Part of me resents a weekend chipped away by work. Another part quite likes being the person people can rely on when they’re away. I suspect most of us carry both, and pick whichever one suits our mood that day.

Tonight I’ve picked contentment. It’s easier to digest after a good dinner.

Tomorrow is Sunday. Technically free. We’ll see.

A Birthday, Borrowed for the Day

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoSunday started the way most of them do — with rounds, the ward apparently having never heard of weekends off, and a public holiday hasn't yet been invented that changes its mind. Brisk enough, though, and out of the way early, which left the rest of the morning free for something rather nicer: it was Mak's birthday, and the day belonged to her from that point on.

Drove out to Bukit Antarabangsa to collect her, the sort of drive that's become familiar enough to do half on autopilot, and from there straight to Rebung for lunch. Packed, predictably — it always is, birthday or not — but the food did what Rebung's food generally does, which is make the wait feel like a formality rather than a complaint. Some restaurants earn their crowds honestly, and this is one of them.

After lunch, a couple of quick stops — BSC first, then Taman Melawati, neither of them requiring much explanation beyond the ordinary business of a birthday outing, a bit of browsing, nothing that needed to be anywhere in particular. The kind of errands that exist mainly to stretch a nice afternoon a little further before it has to end.

Dropped Mak home after that — she had her own plans for the evening, which is exactly as it should be on a birthday, the day not needing to be handed back in full to anyone. From there, on to TWG for tea, Rwanda Express specifically, which felt like a suitably unhurried way to close out the outing. There's something properly civilised about ending a birthday lunch with a pot of tea rather than rushing straight into whatever's next — a bit of a pause built in on purpose.

Home after that, and the evening turned practical rather quickly. Some reading to get through ahead of the BLS course first thing tomorrow, the sort of task that's easy to put off right up until it can't be put off any longer. Did it anyway, without too much resistance, on the grounds that Monday-morning-you rarely thanks Sunday-evening-you for the delay.

The weekend, such as it was, settled itself in from there — nothing left on the list, nothing hanging over into the week uninvited. And somewhere in among it all, the now-familiar routine of checking in on Irfan, a message or two across the time difference, enough to know all's well on that end. It's becoming its own small ritual, that check-in, the sort that'll probably ease off eventually but hasn't yet, and there's no particular hurry for it to.

So: a birthday properly marked, good food fought for and won, tea to close things out, and a bit of homework squeezed in before the week reasserts itself tomorrow. Not a bad way to send a Sunday off.

Catching Up, and Catching Breath

Please click the photo above to play the daily videoThe day began in good faith — a clean stretch of sun through the window, the kind of light that makes you briefly believe you're on top of things. I started with the football, as has become the habit. The World Cup unfolds mostly while we sleep out here, so mornings have turned into a sort of forensic exercise: reading the scores I missed, piecing together what the night got up to without me. It's an odd way to follow a tournament, arriving always after the fact, but I've made my peace with being a step behind the world.

The drive in belonged to Jimbo and the Totally lot, broadcasting their cheerful post-mortems from Los Angeles after every matchday. There's something pleasingly absurd about it — three or four blokes by a Californian pool, dissecting Messi and Mbappé while I sit in Klang Valley traffic with the air-conditioning labouring. They are good company, even at a distance of several thousand miles and a great many time zones. The drive passed quickly, which is rarely a thing I get to say.

And then the day, having lulled me into false confidence, showed its hand. Clinic was packed — properly, relentlessly packed, the sort of session where you look up and an hour has gone missing and the waiting room has somehow refilled itself behind your back. I worked through it with the slightly hunted feeling of a man trying to outrun his own schedule, and lost. By the time I surfaced I was late for the lunch meeting with the pharma people, arriving with apologies already forming and a plate that had clearly been waiting longer than I had.

There was no graceful pause after that. Straight from lunch into rounds, and from rounds into admissions, the afternoon folding in on itself with no obvious seam between one task and the next. It was the kind of day that doesn't so much pass as get survived — busy in a way that leaves you slightly surprised, at the end, to find you've reached it.

But reach it I did, and earlier than I had any right to expect. The admissions settled, the work behind me, I made it home with the evening still mostly intact — a small mercy that felt entirely disproportionate to the effort it took to earn.

We capped it off with a nightcap at the Gardens, the unhurried sort of outing the day had been refusing me all along. Quiet, easy, the lights low and the pace finally my own. And over it, we did the satisfying thing: finalised the August holiday. Dates settled, the shape of it agreed, that pleasant administrative glow of a plan made real. There's a particular contentment in fixing a future good thing in place — a thing to lean towards on the heavier days.

A day that ran ahead of me from the whistle, and somehow still ended kindly. I'll take the catching-up, the catching-breath, and the small promise of August.