- Man who run in front of car get tired, Man who run behind car get exhausted -

It's been one of those days. One of those long, agonising days, the kind you wish away, the kind you do so much to avoid, the kind that tells you you're in a rut.
It was rather apparent in the way I dictated to Merisa. I droned on half-heartedly and in a reverie of a semi-surreal quality, as if I'd spent the last 5 years doing that same exercise.

The incidence of me staring transfixed at the screen in my lectures, sailing on a meandering path like a streamlined eel through the sea of words from that plump, prolix and perplexing pansy at the front, is becoming increasingly common these days, it seems, to my extreme distress.

Installation of NAV 05 on the ol' computer and a perfunctory scan on the system produced a mere 387 files detected. The irony that the electronic brain is as cluttered as its human counterpart is not lost on me.

They say that at the end of the day, the king and the pawn go in the same box.

But Do you really wanna to be like them / Do you really wanna be another trend / do you wanna be a part of that crowd?

Is there anyone out there, cos it's getting harder and harder to breathe

- My Calling -

A sleeping giant (in some cultures like the pygmies, pixies and hazels, 1.86 m is considered gigantic) was roused from deep slumber yesterday by a call from another dimension, as old wounds were reopened.

Histrionics aside, an international call from a most unexpected source was received two days ago, and a short 7-minute talk to two people was just the tonic to get me in the right mood for the rest of the day. Small comfort that I was in too much of a stupor to indulge in a spot of hysteria.

Thanks again, Liwen and Brendan, for your impromptu call from Wisma; I'll see you in July when we shall make like Napoleon and conquer Europe. 'cept none of us is a short frenchy with a knack for sticking a hand between the buttons of our shirts. I can take you to Waterloo though.

- 'snow place like London -

The agony of what was perhaps the coldest day in London this academic year was alleviated in no small part by the sweet glory of snowfall - 3 times, no less.

Amid the cacophony in the streets, it was impossible to distinguish the lewd curses of disgruntled drivers and incoherent rants of the dishevelled pavement-warmers (read: those chaps with shaggy beards who could do us all a favour by reacquainting themselves with a showerhead. or a hose.) from the whoops of unbridled joy by embarrassingly ignorant yet endearingly enthusiastic Asian masses.

And while the locals were running for cover or whipping out the brollies, I was running head-on into those glorious white sheets, and settling tremulously in the open, giddy with (albeit puerile) excitement. Something tells me that to my discomfiture I'll find myself in the papers tomorrow above the caption "Mad Chinaman in mid-pirouette", but there isn't much I could care less about.

I know, I know, I almost sound as if I didn't see snow for the first time when I was 8, or again 4, 8, 9 and 11 years later. But I appreciate the little things these days. It comes with being in London. The harshness of the elements was further ameliorated first with the news that the relative Davids of Newcastle slew Goliathian Chelsea, and later when my food was retrieved from Victor's. Hopefully enough the food isn't as overdue as this action was.

And so before you judge me, O Pagans, you were young once.

- JB creates history -

LSE 6th team player Jonny 'Robot' Baby made his mark in the record books Saturday as the only bespectacled player to take to the field in an LSE jersey.
In a bizarre sequence of events, the Singaporean had been on his way to Waterloo to watch his team play Imperial College 6s, having ruled himself out of the match with long-term injuries. While on the bus, however, he received a call informing him that as only 10 players had shown up for the match, he would have to do his duty to the team and play, injured or otherwise.
That notwithstanding, the Right-Back lasted all 90 minutes and performed admirably, as the 6s put up their best performance all season.
Unlucky to go a goal down against the run of play in the first half, they recovered strongly and blitzed past the hapless Imperial schoolboys to win 3-1 and take all 3 points to rise to 6th in the league standings with 2 matches left to play.
Snow began to fall mid-match, and the 20-year-old was visibly displeased that his constant requests to stop the match and play in the snow fell on deaf ears.

Later that day, JB graced the LSE modern dance show with his exalted presence despite nursing yet more injuries, before being dragged to an associate's house party, where his rather diabloical shenanigans will be left unrevealed.

- All memories are traces of tears -

A week characterised by frenetic activity is due to come to an end over the next 2 days - and yet there's no letting up, with more ball-chasing at Berrylands Saturday, where hard knocks and flying tackles are expected to come in from all angles. So then I'll be knackered and badly beaten up, and as every knackered-and-badly-beaten-up individual in his right mind would do, I'll be playing again Sunday. Perfectly normal behaviour.

The week began with the cardinal sin of class-skipping being committed in favour of dinner. Heck, 'twas but Spanish, and yo no entiendo mucho anyway. The arrival of Wednesday brought me Closer to Natalie Portman and Julia Roberts, before an expedition to Four Seasons of Bayswater saw my wallet and 13 quid being separated -- not particularly reasonable (a shared sentiment), but the pain was quickly relieved with a trip to a friend's place for some mega asshole dai dee.

2 days on and the heavy spending was perpetuated with a 40 quid splurge on clothes, my first purchase in the pursuit of better sartorial sense since my arrival in London. H&M's sales went up by a massive 0.000000001% because of my custom. I oughnt to get a loyalty card or something.
Post-shopping entertainment came in the form of 2046 -- a flick not that unlike Closer in theme, really. A lot of beautiful people, a lot of good music, a lot of screwed up relationships and a fair bit of not understanding what was going on, particularly in the former. Moral of both stories: The ones you like don't like you and the ones who like you you don't like and this whole game is stupid and messed up and we're all going to suffer but not die because that would mean it'd all end.
So 2 intense movies in 3 days to make up for the lack of intensive studying. Fair exchange in my opinion.

- And so it is, just like you said it would be -

Ms Chin: Here's a recommendation, from way over here in cold ol' London, a movie I'm sure you'd simple love.

It's called Closer, and boasts a stellar cast with the likes of Julia Roberts, Clive Owen, Natalie Portman and your Jude Law. It's very lit student, very arthouse, and has a distinct British flair about it. It is a screen adaptation of a play - and it's very telling.

Plus its soundtrack is cracking as well, a fusion of Italiano music and folk like Damien Rice.

And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky

And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial

- This is me milling about -

Too much time and nothing to do? That must be the case, seeing as you're at this blog.
Check out these time-wasters:

http://www.backingblair.co.uk/london_underground/index.htm
http://www.musicfromtheoc.com/oc_mix2_frame.html
http://myweb.hinet.net/home5/willy1982/MTV.htm
http://rinkworks.com/jokes/
http://www.santeonline.co.uk/sante/index.htm - check out the special offers

You could even partake of some semblance of exercise!
http://rebarb.homeip.net:8081/flashgames/curveball.html
http://jp.shockwave.com/games/puzzles/zookeeper/zookeeper.swf

- Moving on very quickly -

People ask me why I write the way I do, all cryptic and mysterious, with all this obfuscating and discombobulating grandiloquence, rather than to-the-point, so that people can actually understand me and know what I'm thinking.

. Because there's no fun in that
. Because I love to write
. Because you're more entertained this way (admit it! nyah)
. Because maybe I don't want people to know what I'm thinking, or don't want to make it too apparent, and want to see who's astute enough to detect that I'm not just throwing together a bunch of crap
. Because if I actually spoke like this it'd make you wonder which planet / cave I came from. So I have to write it
. Because when I fell out of the sky they implanted a chip in my peabrain and I'm actually being controlled by someone up ther--bzzt bzz bzzz bzzzt!

I know, I know. It probably makes me look much less real and a lot more devious. But heck, people form their own opinions, eh?

So I'm going to give a shot at writing like a normal person, though history would reveal my inability to do so. But here goes.

So I wake up as usual, not expecting this Monday 14 February to be any different from any other Monday. Or any February 14, for that matter (here's a spoiler: it wasn't. Stop reading if you get bored easily). And then I trot off to school. Surprise, surprise.
As is customary by now, Thomas Ahrens and Alan Marin get to enjoy my very divided attention (hey, at least I graced their lectures with my presence - most of their own students don't even do that), until the overwhelming urge to speak to an old friend overcomes me. So there I am, exchanging sweet nothings (they were nothings all right, whether they were sweet or not is a different matter altogether) with someone and bestowing what I deemed honest advice upon her, not entirely unlike that which a kindly old sage would find himself doing.
That is, until she comes and drops a slight shocker on me. I jolt a little, but compose myself in time to realise that, in retrospect, the signs were there from the start. Perhaps that should have warranted a shot, but me being the a**wipe that I am, I'd given her the pre-Thanksgiving dinner treatment. Probably better that way.
She's a little sister; let's hope it stays that way.

And then comes the whole dinner-no dinner-spanish-no espanol nada, gracias debacle because someone makes up his mind as often as he does his bed (Speaking of make - what can you make that no one can ever see? Simple question, yet so illuminating). The usual Macro class and seemingly interminable 5-hour Brunch Bowl wait make their weekly visit, except this time I get a text containing information regarding plans concerned with the exceedingly near future. And then the age-old debate: the pursuit of intellectual and academic excellence through the attendance of a Spanish recitation leading to the inevitable attainment of a higher level of knowledge, or 1.5 hours of stuffing my face and engaging in discussions that will ultimately affect nothing and no one? The question is an absolute non-starter and I find myself headed for C&R.

A pitstop along the Strand because someone suspects his nipples have frozen and fallen off. So there we walked, 2 rather large Chinese men strolling together and chatting animatedly, headed for a cosy apartment on this most lovely of days. I could have sworn his guard looked at us funny. The usual inane conversation about what a sad, sad world we live in ensues (it's getting boring, all this lamenting. And now I'm lamenting about lamenting - a new low), before we finally head off for the treacherous belly of Chinatown and all that it portends.

En route, I decide that 3 single girls should not be without roses on St Valentine's Day (consumerist, capitalist, bourgeois, megacorporation-driven, gimmicky, social construct that it is, I know. I have sold out, my brothers. But I do what I can to make everyone happy, fleeting as this emotion may prove to be. Shoot me.). Roses for roses, you could say (and which I was tempted to say, until it struck me how cheesy and insincere that would sound - happens to me a lot, especially when I really mean it). With minimal persuasion, he relents. Something tells me he thinks along the same lines. The presentation of said flowers takes a split second, before Mui Fun in all its 6-quid-glory greets me.

And then it's sending a friend home before I return to my own, arriving at 2100h.
So why's it that I'm still awake typing this at the nrather ungodly hour of 1248? Methinks I blog too much, too long.

Maybe this is why....

- Next stop Wonderland -

Onward the slow, steady double-deckered bus trudged, unwaware of the eventful journey it would embark on.

Perhaps its most illustrious passenger was its first, The Runaway Bride. Dressed in many gowns, she clambered aboard, determined not to let the tails of her gowns get caught in the door and yet not willing to let go of all that was behind her. She struggled to board with her many suitcases, all of which appeared empty. She sat alone, morosely staring out the window, wishing she were in the sweet surrounds of more familiar territory, and occasionally commenting on the poor lighting in the bus.

There was also The Teenager, who, taking his first bus trip, enquired if the bus would bring him to the vicinity of the Brawling Bunk. The bus released two puffs of exhaust fumes in agreement, and got on its way.

Passengers boarded and alighted as the bus progressed from zone to zone, and slowly the day wore on and along came peak hour. The bus reached a stop in a busy marketplace, when it seemed like the whole world decided to board simultaneously. At first the bus heaved and creaked under the immense load and it seemed as if it would buckle. But it gritted its windshield wipers (which you could imagine wasn't exactly the wisest thing to do, knowing what grit does to glass. But back to the story) and soldiered on, determined not to disappoint its multitude of passengers who had places to go, deadlines to meet and things to do.

A few hours passed and gradually the sunlight gave way to a veil of darkness. The bus could no longer see very far ahead, but still it went on, despite The Runaway Bride's constant requests for it to slow down or even stop altogether.

Then it came to a stop sheltering a bunch of drunkards, who decided to take it upon themselves to taunt the bus (don't ask why. they're drunkards. no one can explain their actions. just read the damn story.) and fling bottles of Smirnoff Ice, WKD, Jack Daniel's and rather vile Russian vodka at it. The passengers were terrified. They were fully aware that the bus could very well let them off, lightening its load and facilitating its escape from the mad mob to whom Sobriety had not been acquainted. They clung on to railings, seats, umbrellas, the toupees of the people in front of them (The Runaway Bride turned out to be bald!), and did pretty much whatever they could to prevent their ejection from the bus. But their fears were unfounded, for the bus had its engine set on protecting its driver, but more importantly, all the commuters it was carrying.

With a little struggle, it managed to shake off the Bourbon Bruisers, but little did it realise that another near-demolition experience lay in wait. As it made a turn at a major junction, a faster bus with gleaming upholstery and all the latest gizmos aboard cut its lane and sped off. This bus was notorious in the transport industry, for its temerity and ostentatiousness. It was fast and one helluva ride, knew how to attract all the passengers and beat our bus hands down on the excitement quotient, but deep in its hydraulic system lay some fundamental flaws: it had no gearing system, and was liable to cause immense distress and pain to whoever it was that decided to hop on and stay on.

Ignoring its little skirmish with an insurance claim, the bus moved on and after a while, it came to a stop where it recognised a member of the mob which had previously been intent on bringing about its systemic dismantling. Pissed off as the bus was with her, it let her on for it could not refuse one in need of help.

Upon reaching the Brawling Bunk, it dropped off The Teenager, who it then witnessed disappearing into a dark alley where he was handed a syringe.

The bus sighed, and realised that it just couldn't save the world. It could try as hard as it wanted to help, but it seemed like the more it helped, the worse things became. And so, with a heavy heart and a new coat of paint at every stop, it ambled on down the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.
~ Cause nice don't make you cool ~ (quote unquote Kelly Rowland)

- Something old, something new, nothing borrowed, almost everything blue -

21 years, but only 2

Dining with Chim and Thierry was a refreshing and amusing experience, as always. The sudden change in discussion from disabled and less fortunate people and Afghanistanis and Africans and Chinese (burgeoning population et al) to a "But there are people who are better off! Aiyah, don't complain also not fun mah!", the taciturn but wise "except you", the weird way he (the former) keeps saying things like he knows exactly what's going on, the tale he regaled me with of his matter-of-fact refusal to let someone take a look at his phone, how he offers to pay even on his birthday.

Sipping hot chocolate with peppermint syrup (it came with strong recommendations - and I could see why) at Starbucks (haven't been there in ages, much as I profess that I get a kick out of lounging at coffee joints) was bliss; the conversation, or more specifically the recounting of our individual histories that came with it, even more uplifting.

Thierry was silent and pensive throughout dinner. Can't blame him, he's so wooden (or rather plastic) and not much of a talker anyway. Constant attempts to obtain some information from him were met with a wide grin, his arms all the while akimbo. We're thinking of voting him off the council. (Heh!)

21 years, but only 2

- Disclaimer: Unoriginal work -

This may be very very very VERY long, but read till the end. It's one of those sweet, heart-warming stories.

Ron let his chin sink deeper into the cradle of his hands, sighed, and blinked wearily. The words of his English teacher were starved of attention; all he could think about was Allison, sitting two rows up and one aisle over. He couldn't see her face, of course, but her beautiful brown hair held him captive. In just another week, they would graduate, part ways, and Ron's chances to overcome his timidity would be gone.
He loved her fiercely, loved her warm smile and fluttery laugh, the elegance of her poise, and the crystal clear dewdrops of her eyes that seared his heart. But he was too shy to tell her about it -- curse that shyness -- and could only sneak sidelong glances at her when her head was turned.
The bell rang, jolting Ron to his senses. The end of another day. As usual, Ron and Allison would wait just outside the school's doors with the others who had to wait for rides. As usual, Ron and Allison would be the last ones to be picked up, and as usual, they would stand apart, wordlessly.
What heartbroken teenager could ask for a better opportunity than a quiet moment alone to strike up a conversation? Time and again, Ron had tried to break the ice, but his voice always caught in his throat. Then the moment would be over, and the opportunity lost. He'd try again tomorrow.
But he was running out of tomorrows.
Ron stood quietly amid the clamor of students just let out of school. He could feel his pulse pounding within him, in every extremity, and his heart felt like it would burst from his chest. He draw up his hand, extended his fingers, and tried to hold them steady. They quivered. He hated that.
What would she say? was always the burning question. He wasn't afraid of a mocking exclamation from her -- she had too much class for that -- but he didn't think he could take a false if polite mask of cordiality from her. The thought was too much to bear.
All this only served to make Ron more nervous. He turned his thoughts to other things and forced himself to calm down inside. The crowd was thinning now, and cars and buses were pulling out of the parking lot. The time was near. After an exasperatingly long time, yet sooner than he wished, they were alone.
He stole a glance. She was leaning against the wall beside the door, book pack at her feet, gazing casually into the parking lot. She was beautiful, Ron noted for the trillionth time, but what attracted him most was the life and enthusiasm in her eyes.
Talk to her, he told himself. Talk to her. But the more he urged himself, the more nervous he got, and with a sudden fear, he knew his failure would last another day.
No, he told himself, and something within him snapped. What could he lose? What could be worse than never approaching her at all? How much of his life would be spent wondering what would have happened if only he hadn't been so scared?
And then he realized something about himself. He wasn't shy. He was scared. It wasn't timidity that held him back but plain old fear.
If the thought of talking to Allison scared him, running with his tail between his legs displeased him more. Before his nerves could stop him, he turned and walked straight toward her.
He had done this before. He had tried to talk to her first by approaching her, to commit himself to his course of action without having to speak. It hadn't worked. He had backed out at the last second, pretended to be walking somewhere else, and passed her. In reality, he had nowhere to go and merely waited on the other side of the school building until her mother picked her up. But he would not do that again.
Allison looked up at him, and in that moment, Ron knew there was no turning back. His stomach was churning, and his fingers were twitching wildly. He thrust his hands into his pockets and hoped it didn't show.
"Hi," he said, and he could scarcely believe he had spoken. Had he, or was he just standing there like a dumb idiot?
"Hi," she returned warmly and smiled.
Oh my gosh.
"Uh," Ron said and realized to his utmost horror he hadn't the faintest clue what he was going to say. "I...just wanted to, uh, see if you were...ok." What the heck? Suddenly he felt foolish, and he knew only too well that this would be one of those moments he would remember for the rest of his life and wish he would forget.
"I'm fine," Allison said with a questioning look.
Ron nodded thoughtfully. "Ok," he said.
Now what? Turn around and walk back? He almost did but realized that would be just as awkward as standing there silently. Besides, the ice was broken. If he left now, he knew he'd never be able to break it again. What an embarrassing conversation this was so far.
"Um," Ron stammered one final time, and then the words just seemed to flow. "You know, I've been watching you for...I mean, not, like, watching you, but I wanted to, I've been trying to ask you for a while, uh...would you like to...go to the movies sometime?" He took a deep breath.
"Of course I would," Allison said, smiling even broader than before.
"Really?"
"You don't know how long I've been waiting for you to ask."
"Really?" Ron exclaimed, too delighted to contain himself.
"I've liked you for a long time, Ron," Allison explained, moving closer. "I used to hope above all hope that you would talk to me and ask me out. I never had the courage to do it myself."
"I -- I had no idea," Ron blurted, soaring in a dreamlike euphoria. "This is wonderful. Allison," he said, pausing at her name and savoring its taste. "Allison, I like you...a lot."
"I like you a lot, too," Allison said solemnly, looking at Ron with those piercingly beautiful eyes. Subconsciously, the two moved closer together. Ron felt the gentle warmth of her breath against his chin. His hands were still quivering in his pockets, but he no longer cared.
"I love you," Ron corrected, his voice low and even in spite of his inward elation.
"I love you, too," Allison breathed, and before Ron could question what he was hearing, their lips were pressed together. She kissed him firmly, wrapping her arms about his neck and pulling him close.
"We've lost so much time," she said when their lips parted.
"I know," he replied, resting his forehead against hers. Somehow, his arms were around her; the realization was too much for him to contain. He hugged her tightly and gloried in her embrace. "I'm so happy!" he exclaimed, tears welling in his eyes.
"You've made my dreams come true!" Allison cried, moisture streaming down her cheeks.
"I love you!" Ron repeated, and Allison repeated it back. "Let's get married!" Ron blurted.
"Right now?" Allison replied in excited surprise.
"Right now. Let's run away together and elope."
"I'll never find anyone as wonderful as you," Allison said. "You're greater than my wildest dreams. Of course I'll marry you."
Ron had never been happier in his life, and he could tell from the look in Allison's eyes that she hadn't, either. Ron didn't know there had been that much happiness in the whole world. It was a miracle.
"Let's go," Ron said, holding her hand and leading her away. Allison jogged after him, their school books forgotten. What did they matter? They were in love, and they would be married and never be apart again!
"I love you so much!" Ron and Allison said together.
With high hopes and romantic dreams, Ron and Allison charged into the road, and a big truck ran them over dead.

- Master of none -

"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects." — Robert A. Heinlein.

- Iridescent sunset -

Brings back memories, doesn't it? This is your song.

And I'd give up forever to touch you
Cause I know that you feel me somehow
You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be
And I don't want to go home right now

And all I can taste is this moment
And all I can breathe is your life
Cause sooner or later it's over
I just don't want to miss you tonight

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming
Or the moment of truth in your lies
When everything seems like the movies
Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive

And I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am

I don't want the world to see me
Cause I don't think that they'd understand
When everything's made to be broken
I just want you to know who I am
I just want you to know who I am

- Xing Nian Kuai Le -

Head editor of SDRR Jonathan Ng would like to wish every one of our readers an extremely happy and prosperous Chinese New Year. May the Year of the Rooster bring you good tidings and success everywhere!

(This sounds so much like one of those greetings you read on a card. Heh.)

- Michaelangelo Buonarroti -

From the old rocker/crooner, the original, the master himself. Classic.

never mind. all your doubts will be cleared up. The meaning of life will be revealed like a thunderclap and all will be well.

there will be peace on earth, the stars will be aligned and we will usher in a halcyon atmosphere. all shall be tranquil and we'd have attained nirvana

no more wailing and gnashing of teeth. The full glory of the principle of finance will create great awe in its splendour. and the full power of my preordined prominence will rain down on the hapless mortals below who shall be dumbstruck by the sheer surfeit of firsts. they will whimper in my presence. And the full and awesome majesty shall slay them. like chaff in the winnow, they shall scatter before the four winds. nevermore to sully the great halls of LSE. not to mention the scuffed and tattered seats of its sorry lecture theatres.

- If you pluck my twanger, I'll hold your maracas -

http://www.keenaschips.co.uk/index.php?page=articles/misc_rainbow&skinselect=default.css

Seriously, 'nuff said.

- Too much time -

In a fit of pique, I sent my macro tutor an email.

Mr Jaiswal,

I hope this email finds you in good health. For its sender is in the state of one shorn of that which defines his very being.
You see, being the assiduous, industrious student that I am, I anticipated the dispatch of a brand new EC210 classwork for our next class on Monday (I'm working on my lying skills). To my extreme consternation, this was not to be. And hence, I have been deprived of a stellar opportunity with which to put to good use the macroeconomic intuition imparted upon me by Dr Yashiv. This affront to my fibre will be met with severe repercussions.

In short, after my insalubriously long introduction, is there any classwork for Monday's class?
If it's on the course website, could you please furnish me with the userid and password, as I've tried to log on but failed.

Sincerely
Jonathan

His rather uninspired reply:


Hi Jon,

The course work for next week is now on the website. I'm afraid I don't have a password/username for it though. But you should be able to access it without one from any LSE computer.

I really enjoyed reading your email!

cheers
AJ

- What's your greatest fear? -

A cursory glance at the people around reveals a rather disturbing and alarming truth: indecisiveness seems to be the trait du jour; has a paradigm shift in attitudes occured to render our lives fraught with increasing amounts of uncertainty?

We seem to seek the acquiescence of someone else, the countenance of a higher power, all the time. Or we contemplate all the possibilities and potential drawbacks rather more than the benefits. We think too much, when perhaps saving the time spent on contingency planning and applying it to active action would yield returns far superior to any plausible disadvantages.

Perhaps, as a race, we are becoming more and more paranoid. Perhaps previous attempts to approach with temerity have left us with burnt fingers. Or perhaps the insidious intellectual atrophy that typified the past decade (was there even one? I think not. The Segway. Financial innovations. The rise of microchip processors. The mushrooming of dotcom firms, the darlings of a seemingly alien civilisation centred at Silicon Valley. The swift and continuous supplantation of gadgets by newer, smaller, faster and ultimately better gizmos. But heck, it fits in well with this commentary. Sue me.) has left us in this state.

Then again, the don't-think-just-do attitude advocated by so many of my counterparts, with its plethora of repercussions, must portend a future bleak beyond imagination. Supercilious, hubristic behaviour would only lead to an abrupt and premature discontinuation of activity.

- Not the Boss -

Yes, no, maybe,
I don't know
Can you repeat the question?

Maybe I will
Maybe I won't
Who knows?
Who cares?