Ayne Writes Daily

2018.

JANUARY

1: New Year // 2: A Busy Start // 3: Hazel // 4: Face paint // 5: Of tea // 6: The End // 7: Of Books //
8: Empathy to the Sick // 9: Wisdom teeth // 10: Wisdom teeth (ii) // 11: Majorca //
12: Unfamiliar surroundings // 13: Chapped lips // 14: The Elderly // 15: The Uber Driver //
16: The surprise // 17: As she left // 18: My name // 19: The home we built //
20: The home we built (ii) // 21: Love in a cupcake // 22: Four wheels // 23: Her ring //
24: Your company // 25: Anger // 26: Hazel's twin // 27: Stepping in it // 28: Money //
29: A thousand stars // 30: The wooden T // 31: Writing

FEBRUARY

1: Two // 2: Control and lack thereof  // 3: Standing up // 4: Hours // 5: An Unlikable Acquaintance //
6: Fire // 7: Lines and Squiggles // 8: Home cooked food // 9: His Ring // 10: Fangirling //
11: Furry black hats // 12: You, Me & Crime Dramas // 13: Focus (and lack thereof) //
14: PDA // 15: His Plans // 16: Receiving gratitude // 17: His Plans (ii) // 18: Princess! //
19: A series of unfortunate events // 20: Acknowledging Death // 21: Twenty Eight //
22: A cat // 23: Charging One's Battery // 24: Guns // 25: The Spotlight // 26: Intensive Care //
27: Being female // 28: Snow

MARCH

1: Public transport and Cars // 2: Risk Averse // 3: Colours in her Hair // 4: How do you Measure? //
5: Seeing God // 6: Death by Tea // 7: Hello, Goodbye // 8: Bleeps // 9: Apologies //
10: Perfume // 11: Perfume (ii) // 12: Babies // 13: Slowing Down // 14: Training Wheels Off //
15: Snow (ii) // 16: Stuck // 17: Stuck (ii) // 18: A Little Ripple // 19: Mortuary // 20: Reminders of My Gender // 21: London by Night // 22: Stress and its Manifestations // 23: Serendipity // 24: Bleep PTSD // 25: Nomading // 26: Upgrades // 27: Bahmak's birthday // 28: Home? //
30: Home (ii) // 31.3: Green

APRIL

1: Food // 2: The White House // 3: Fake (medical) News // 4: Memory Lane // 5: Starry Sky //
6: Roots // 7: Sweat // 8: Family Reunions // 9: A Hard Day // 10: Potating // 11: Feeling Pampered //
12: Friends // 13: Blackout // 14: Rays // 15: 11 Years // 16: Going Home? //
17: Photographs // 18: Spring

MAY

8: Tomorrow // 9: Rays // 10: Tick!


JULY

11: Intentions // 12: Coming Home // 13: Ramadan // 19: A Milestone

AUGUST

8: Athens // 14: Why I Love Him

OCTOBER

8: Uncertainty // 10: Night Shifts // 18: Of Conviction: Why God? Why Islam?

129: 31.1 Writing

Maybe I inherited my love of writing from my late Grandfather. He was a man of few vocal words but he loved to write. He would write old school style - only by putting ink to paper or even cooler, by spending hours on end at his black typewriter. I still remember the loud and peculiar clicks and whirls the machine made when he would type frantically in the corner of the library. The same floor lamp would shine from above him, aiding his passionate literary exercise.

He would also send us typed letters when we were abroad. I still keep them safe to this day. On days when his absence is particularly palpable, I take them out and read them. The texture of the imprinted words on paper feel soft in between my fingers. Back then, he would often be with his yellow writing pad, like those lawyers like to use, drafting speeches, letters or even passages for his memoir. In his writing, he was descriptive but precise. Somehow, he knew just what to say, especially when it came to cheering me up. Like when I didn't get into the medical school I dreamt of, he sent me a letter (together with a parcel of treats) that urged me not to give up hope. He reminded me that he himself was not deemed "Malay enough" to be accepted to a prestigious boarding school, but he persevered and in the end, thrived. At that moment in time, his words was just what I needed to hear. And there was never a doubt that he had the most magical play on words.

It is no surprise that I find so much solace in words in general. Since I was a child, my thoughts were clearer in writing than it was in speech. In primary school, I would describe myself as very shy and quiet. So to entertain myself, I had countless unfinished diaries documenting my day to day life. And as I became older, my writing style manifested itself through writing to other people and writing on by old blog. In high school, A and I used to have a notebook that we shared. It was like a book of letters we sent one another. I would write in it one day and leave it in his locker to read, then it was his turn to write in it, and he would leave it in my locker. That was our routine for many months. So much so, our original notebook ran out of paper and we had to get a new book!

Then there was also the time when I was actually paid to write. For 5 months during my gap year, I landed my first ever job to write articles for several magazines under a publishing house. The initial interview consisted of writing 2 articles on the spot. I didn't think that I was in anyway good enough to be a paid writer - I had no degree or experience, or to my mind, any special talent. But I loved writing so somehow rather I guess that showed in my 2 articles because I was called to work the next day. The company itself was awful, overbearing bosses and office politics just overshadowed the team's creative energy, but writing there was a dream. As a mere wide-eyed college graduate, I was given the opportunity to interview CEOs, celebrities, designers and ambassadors, and even review dishes at different restaurants. And on top of all that adrenaline, people were actually positively responding to the articles that I wrote, and the salary wasn't too shabby either. Slowly, I managed to build enough of my editors' trust for them to allow me to take charge of cover stories. Some articles spanned almost a quarter of the whole magazine. Overall, it was a really fun and humbling experience. I am really thankful for my job there, because through it I gained more confidence putting my thoughts into words.

Then quickly came medical school and working life. I started this new blog, and updated it whenever I felt like it. Unfortunately, in 2017, that meant barely ever. I wrote about 5 entries last year because I spent my time experimenting with writing on paper. Maybe I thought that the privacy of writing in the non-virtual world would allow me to be more candid and honest. But that energy fizzled out. I needed structure and accountability. Writing is like a muscle, if its not put under constant practice and strain, it will not get any better. In fact, it might get worse to the point that you can no longer find words naturally to express your thoughts.

So when 2018 came, I challenged myself to write one blog entry every day for at least a month. I was hopeful but cynical. I knew a lot of my past resolutions ended up being buried deep into soil. But as I approached the 2-week mark, I found my groove and I was actually looking forward to these little entries every day. And here I am on the last day of January, having penned 31 entries, I can officially say that I did it!

I have purposely kept this mini project a secret from practically everyone except for close family members because for me, these entries are for me. I am happy even if the only one who reads them is my husband (who actually wakes up in another city across the ocean and reads them religiously everyday). Through this, I just hope to find my voice. Not for likes nor followers nor fame. Just like Embahyah did a long time ago, I write just for the love of writing. And I can't tell you how liberating it feels.

128: 30.1 The wooden t

There is a multi faith prayer room in my hospital. It is a small-ish room with two rows of chairs, a small stage, a wardrobe and an open bookcase. The book case houses Qurans, Bibles, the Jewish Taurats and also information leaflets about Buddhism and Hinduism. On the stage, there is a picture of a person, maybe its an angel or maybe its Jesus, I am not really sure - but it has hints of Christian influence. Curtains can be pulled to cover the paintings, but most of the time, it remains open. Also on the stage is a table with a wooden cross stood on it.

On my first visit, I never took any notice of the wooden cross. I was just overwhelmed with absolute relief that there was an exclusive room for prayer, at least I didn't have to find an empty cubicle or store room 5 times a day at work. But when I invited a Muslim colleague to visit the room, he said something peculiar.

"Here it is!" I said as we walked through the door.
His eyes were darting quickly to different corners of the room. There were women and men praying, mats on the floor. He looked anxious.
"This is it? But what is that?" he said, pointing at the cross, "They are praying towards that."
"That is just a cross. We can pray here."
He shakes his head, backs himself closer to the door and said, "It is ok. I can pray in my room at the accommodation."

I stared at the door as it opened and closed as he walked out, and wondered whether I am missing a trick? Objects are just objects unless we give it significance. For instance, my favourite shirt is not just any shirt, it is one that I inherited from my grandmother - that is why it is special. Similarly, that cross on the table is significant to members of staff of the Christian faith, but it shouldn't mean anything to us particularly, so why the odd reaction to it?

On another occasion, there were three brothers waiting to pray Maghrib. I walked in and noticed that a woman was seating on a chair in the back row reading a Bible. She walked out momentarily, and I overheard the conversation the brothers were having.

"Shall we put the cross down? Or at least cover it?"
"No, brother. You see, that woman is a colleague of mine and she is a Christian. She would be very upset if you did that."
"But..."
"Imagine if they put the Quran on the floor or even the most bottom shelf because they felt uncomfortable, wouldn't that anger you? This is not a masjid, we need to share this room with others."

The woman returned none the wiser. But I for one was still very confused on why the cross was such an issue. When Muslims pray, we pray to Allah swt, and not to an object. So even if the object was right in front of us, why would or should it matter? If it did matter, should the lower case letter "T" also bring about an awkward reaction every time it is typed, written or read? I might not be able to show enough empathy to those who do have a real problem with religious symbols of other faiths, but I do believe that we have to respect the things that others believe are significant. It may be to me just another cross, hat, book or shirt, but if they are special to someone else, who am I to disrespect those objects of worship just because it doesn't align with my own belief system. Its just not right.

Maybe the solution is not to correct the surrounding environment, but to introspectively ask oneself why this particular item caused so much anxiety. Is it that the item is the source of my grief or is it just plainly, myself? Is it me who is truly lacking in something? Maybe its the lack of peace and confidence? Or maybe its conviction? Allahualam. I still haven't worked it out fully, still generating more questions than answers. But I take solace in knowing that these are worthwhile points to ponder on. Let me get back to you when my thoughts are fully formed.

127: 29.1 A thousand stars

The teenage self who had an adventure in Kenya feels so far removed from my present self. That girl was courageous, naive and spontaneous. The current self in comparison feels a little more timid and safe. It is hard to imagine that there was a time where I braved a 9 hour bus ride in scorching heat with others who had live chicken wrapped under their armpits. The bus itself was guarded by armed policemen because if the bus were to have broken down, we were vulnerable to a Somali pirate invasion. But of course, our bus did break down in the middle of the desert. But thankfully, our vehicle remained un-invaded.

Katie and I were enroute to Lamu, a small island off the coast of Kenya way up north near the Somalian border. After a very testing land journey, we hopped on a boat and were pretty much isolated on that tiny island for the few days we were there. There were no cars, the only four wheels was a dingy ambulance. It was like I had stepped back through time. The old walls were sun kissed and everywhere had a stunning sea view. The small pathways lead to more small pathways where donkeys roamed freely. It was a magical place.

There are lots of stories from this island, for instance befriending the British historian/ author who lived below us in our hotel and attending a dinner in a local family's house where we were introduced to all the members of his family and where we danced and sang till late night. I could go on forever about Lamu, but now, I am just going to write about the stars.

Living in cities, stars in the sky are more of an exception and less the rule. Seeing a star over the thick smog is akin to witnessing a miracle sometimes. That was what made my starry experience in Lamu that much more special. You see, our hotel had a unique characteristic. It lacked walls. Our room was made up of two floors. Downstairs, there were two beds and two walls. The breeze from the sea would just flow through the room, leaving you feeling like you are sleeping on the beach but in the comfort of our beds. Upstairs, there was an open balcony with a single bed (as seen in the picture above). The bed was only sheltered by a small roof. Useless when it rained, but when the sky was clear, it was the perfect place to just be.

On one of the nights, I decided to climb up to the balcony bed. It was pitch black so I brought my phone with me to light the way. When I reached the top, that was when I saw it. The sky completely filled with stars. Every inch of dark sky was lit up with small pockets of light. It was absolutely stunning. It mirrored the scene in Lion King where Simba was looking up to a sky of bright stars in an African savanna. I never saw true beauty till I saw this, it almost brought tears to my eyes. For some time, I just sat there in silence, in awe of God's creations. Mouth open, eyes wide.

It looked something like this

I phoned A moments later to describe what I was witnessing. As hard as I tried I just couldn't put what I was seeing and feeling into words. "It is just so amazing! You have to see it for yourself," I said. "Maybe one day we'll come here together, just to look at the sky. I want you to see it! I wish you were here." 

Since then, A and I on many occasions spent our dates staring at the sky. Day or night, we observe clouds passing by, aeroplanes taking off and stars glisten. Somehow I feel like these are warm up exercises to prepare us for a day till we are to really see the sky in all its glory. No filter, just unadulterated nature. To a day when we are lucky enough to visit Lamu and see that sky of stars, this time, together.

126: 28.1 Money

Money is a fickle subject. I have wanted to write about it for a while, but the topic took me some time to deconstruct. The subject of money shape shifts according to the day's outlook or temperament. But I think I am ready to approach it with a bit more clarity. About 6 months ago, I finally joined the workforce (thank God!). When all my other peers have 3 to 4 years of salaries under their belts, here I was trying to navigate the world of financial independence. 

A and I have been living off his single salary for the entirety of our married lives up until very recently. And because of the semi-robust system I have designed to track of expenditures, we were living quite comfortably, Alhamdulillah, even with a little pot of savings to spare. But now, with a second salary finally in the mix, we are able to breathe a little bit easier. There is more room to manoeuvre. And if something were to happen, we would have a bigger cushion to fall back on. Back when it was only A who was working, I can become very anxious when we spend too much, for instance on holidays or eating out.

I would say, "We are spending way too much, we should save more."

"But I'm not a student anymore - I can afford it, don't worry."

"But I still am. Maybe we should just eat at home."

Having too small a pot of savings has long been a fear of mine. And now that I am too earning, we can park that source of worry aside temporarily. However, earning, I have discovered, does come with its own unique tribulations. You see, when I was a student, I was disciplined in spending like one. Opting for low cost options in the supermarket, eating out in affordable restaurants and shopping maybe once or twice a month. But now that money somewhat magically appears in my account at the end of every month, the voices that are convincing me to spend has noticeably become louder.

Innocently browsing for things on Oxford Street or online, there would now be a more aggressive temptation to buy things just because I can afford it. "Why not? It is only xx pounds. You can totally afford it. Just buy it, you have worked so hard." The thing is, most of the time, I don't really need that specific item or even want it. The voice just feeds into my impulsive tendencies. Thus, with this, another fear had replaced the previous - the fear of making my lifestyle more expensive with increasing income.

Watching a YouTube video the other day about daily finances, I discovered that there is actually a term coined for this - it is called lifestyle inflation. It is very normal to spend on more expensive things when one is more able, even without the intent to do so. And once a person steps up on the ladder of increasingly expensive lifestyles, it is very hard to take one step down from where you end up. For example, when one is so used to flying business class, would one be comfortable suddenly stepping down to economy? Or if one is accustomed to taking an uber everywhere, taking the tube might suddenly become an inconvenience. A person's perception alters with money. And once it does, it is a slippery slope towards financial extravagance.

Thankfully, we are somewhat protected from peer pressure when living abroad. Peers our age at home are purchasing designer goods, cars and houses. Sometimes with huge monthly payments that eat up more than half of their salaries. In contrast, my peers here in hospital are mostly in scrubs and no one decks out in designer items unless you are willing to take the risk of puke/blood or both tarnishing its good make. Yes, people own cars here but they are mostly old and second hand. And because of the sky high prices of real estate, people don't take mortgages until they have a full proof plan (or big enough income) to pay it off.

For now, I am just trying (and sometimes failing) to be smart about money. We have an excel sheet  updated every month to see where our money ends up. And we understand that the smartest thing to do in our child-free 20s is to save and invest. And not to commit to buying things that we can't afford. I am still attempting to keep my spendings student-like with the occasional mini-spend treats. But at the end of the day, it is about finding the right balance between being stingy and being a spend-thrift. 

A and I are still navigating these murky waters, slowly and cautiously, with our eyes wide open for potential shark attacks. Wish us luck!

125: 27.1 Stepping in it

Clumsiness and day dreaming have been embedded traits of mine since I was young. The former characteristic got me out of lots of dance recitals because the choreographers would have quickly come to the realisation that I had little hand-eye-feet coordination. It has also been the reason that I have many bruises on my body, particularly my knees, elbows and hands. I once fell almost head first whilst running because I tripped on my own foot. Till this day, I have no explanation on how that happened.

The latter trait, day dreaming, has been a great source of escape for me especially in times of loneliness. But it has also landed me into trouble, especially when it coincided with my tendency to be clumsy. For instance, when I was in primary school, I was walking in the canteen on my own. My mind was probably occupied with thoughts of food and what I should watch on TV when I got home. So much so that as I slowly strutting away, I accidentally stepped on to a plate of rice. It was nasi lemak, and it was all over the floor. In a panic, I hurried my pace to escape. As I guiltily looked back, I saw my friend standing where the plate of rice was. Her hands on her hips, shaking her head disappointedly. She knew it was me who did it. So we avoided each other for a while after.

But why was a good plate of rice on the floor you might ask? Kids back then would sit in a circle on the floor as they ate their food bought from the canteen. We were too young to care about this act's dubious lack of hygiene. And this was the norm back then. What was not normal was leaving one's food on the floor unattended. That was just an invitation for trouble.

Unfortunately, nothing really changed when I got older. A few years ago, a similar thing happened. I was on my way to Notting Hill to visit my aunt. I decided to go on foot from Bayswater rather than taking the bus or tube. It was a nice sunny day outside. The clouds were beautiful, the sun rays felt hot on my skin and birds were chirping above the sound of busses hurrying past. I was taking the quiet route to my destination through a residential area. I was walking on the pavement, chin up whilst admiring the clouds in the sky when I suddenly stepped into something. Something squishy and far from pleasant.

I looked down and nearly was sick when I found out what it was. It was a soiled diaper. A bloody soiled diaper, on the pavement, in the middle of London. What the heck was it doing there?! My nice shoe was covered in this unknown baby's loose faeces. I ran to the edge of the pavement to scrape it off. But despite my best efforts, the smell of it lingered. It was lucky that I wore covered shoes that day, what if it had gotten on my own foot?! Honestly. I had to throw away a pair of perfectly good shoes that day because someone thought a concrete ground was an appropriate place to dispose of a used diaper.

These events really show that day dreaming whilst walking is actually a dangerous business. One cannot predict what one's foot can get stuck into. Always keep your eyes on the ground, if not you might be covered in poo. And if you are parents of infants or babies, please familiarise yourselves with the use of trash cans.

124: 26.1 Hazel's twin

My commute to work normally involves a bike ride to the local station, followed by a train ride then another bike ride. In the early months of this, I was still new to the idea of owning and riding a bike. Should I fold my bike when in the train? Or shall I just lean it against the unopened doors? How shall I carry it down the flight of stairs so that I don't loose balance? I was in a way lucky that there was a fellow cycler who did the same commute I did, also on the same schedule. It was serendipitous that she had the exact same bicycle as I did, even in the same colour! The only differentiator was that hers was a little bit older and scruffier. After a few encounters with her on the lift, and a few "Hi, how are you?", we finally established small talk.

"Your bike looks so new! Not like my old thing."
"That is because I only picked it up a few days ago. I still have the receipt," I laughed. "I am still very much struggling to cycle uphill though."
"Ah, you will get the hang of things. It takes practice."
"How do you cycle in a long skirt?"
"I just hike it up, it is so easy!"

Thus started our mini-conversations on our morning commute. It starts whilst waiting for the elevator on the platform and ends as we ride off to our separate destinations. She gave me tips on gears, and how to cycle in the rain. To this day though, I still don't know her name.

After a while, I stopped seeing her and her twin bicycle on my way to work. I didn't think much of it because I thought maybe she was on holiday or maybe she just changed workplaces. It was only when I was on my way home one night that I discovered what actually happened. As I pushed my bicycle along the bridge hanging over the rail tracks in our local station, a voice said, "Hi!" I looked over and spotted her. She wasn't accompanied by her companion bicycle this time. Instead she had a few red bruises on her face and her left arm was in a sling. Surprised, I said, "Oh gosh, what happened?"

"I got into an accident. A car hit me when I was cycling. Apparently I didn't see the car coming out of the junction. Or he didn't see me. But anyway, my bicycle is gone, destroyed too badly to repair. And I am in all accounts, lucky to leave only with a few bruises and a broken arm."

She told me this whilst we were walking amongst a large, hurried crowd during peak rush hour, so it was a less than an ideal place for us to have this intimate conversation. I told her how sorry I am that this happened to her, and wished her a speedy recovery.

"Its just, when I spotted your bike just now, it reminded of my own bike. The one I lost."

Thinking about it now, my bicycle must seem like a ghost of hers then. A shadow of what was once something so essential, akin to an extension of her physical being. But from where I was standing, she also appeared like a ghost to me. Maybe even a glimpse of a future self. To be completely honest, I have not been the safest of cyclists at the time. It was getting dark quite early on in the day, and I wouldn't wear my high-vis vest or sometimes my lights needed charging. Looking at her in her broken state, it shook me. It faced me with the reality that that could have easily been me. Cycling on roads is in parts risky, and I should be more careful. God has protected me thus far, but it doesn't give me permission to be reckless.

Funnily enough, I didn't see her again after that. Although her presence was fleeting, I do want to remember this in years to come. So this entry is part evidentiary documentation (that yes, this strange encounter actually happened and is not a figment of my imagination) and part reminder to always strive to be safe. There are times to take risks, but never should it be whilst on the road. God gives you warnings or messages in mysterious ways sometimes, and I definitely felt a divine presence in this meeting with her. I hope she gained something from me, as I did from her. And I hope that despite this setback, she will find the confidence and strength to get back on the two wheels once more.

123: 25.1 Anger

In all dimensions and meanings to the word, anger encapsulated my being today. I am not one that expresses this type of emotion regularly. Annoyance, sure. Sadness, sometimes. But pure anger is a relatively rare occurrence. It starts with a burning sensation in my chest. My throat will close up as it feels like a huge stone has been lodged through it. The heat rises from my chest into my head so much so I can feel my arteries throbbing. The same heat shoots through my eyes as my brows furrow to the centre. It becomes hot, steaming hot everywhere. My muscles begin to tense up and I physically become still and quiet. I will look down and not keep eye contact with anyone.

Inside my head, thoughts are swirling at a thousand times its normal speed. These angry ideas move swiftly, and swirls into a centre, moving even faster as it collides with one another. Everything around me blurs out of focus. My hearing slowly deafens out and I feel like a bull charging towards a red target. Angry, focused and ready to destroy.

However, this is all contained in my mind. I do not have the bravery to make a scene where I hypothetically yell and swear when people are watching. As I was in a public place today, I had to suppress the internal volcano which was very ready to erupt at any second. But as my efforts to hold back didn't suffice, tears of rage started to pool in my eyes and stream down my face. I was shaking. I felt the pressure building inside of me and I couldn't hold it any longer. Cracks were forming.

But as I approached work, I managed to put on a different act. I smiled, I laughed and went on normally. It was like I adopted a temporary persona. But the minute I was on my own, the mask went off and the burning sensation came back. In the past, when in isolation, my anger would sometimes manifest physically where I would throw stuff around the room and rip things up whilst swearing under my breath. Today was no different. The source of all my grief did give me a book a few weeks ago. I took it and threw it on the floor, ripped all its pages out and tore it into small bits of paper. It part fed the flame as it was part therapeutic. But seeing it all in bits on the floor gave me temporary relief. And although I am trying to be good by recycling more, I threw the book in the trash. In with all the smelly rotten food, where it genuinely belonged.

I cant tell you how long this state of being will last. But looking back historically, I can be pretty destructive when I am here. I would splurge on expensive things, or eat extravagantly or just plainly hurt people who I trust will forgive. But for now, I am comfortable simmering in the corner. There will come a time when the fire will run out of fuel, but I doubt that time will be soon.

122: 24.1 Your Company

Today, like many days was a long day. Started the day tending to patients who came into hospital the previous night and finished by firefighting emergencies on the wards. All things considered, I should be absolutely shattered right now. But surprisingly I feel the opposite, I feel energised, Alhamdulillah. Euphoric even. Ward cover isn't the easiest of jobs. Most times, you will be called to an acutely ill patient and have no idea what to do. But as I've gone through almost 6 months of work and training, I feel more confident handling these emergencies. Although the sound of bleeps going off does give me palpitations.

And today, the ward cover trio consisted of two great and really helpful seniors and myself. We went around the hospital as a team, distributing the work load equally amongst ourselves. And there was even time (between bleeps of course) to tick off some of those pesky compulsory procedures under their observation. I got to learn from them, and their diagnostic methods, and overall, it was great fun and time just flew by.

Goes to show that even the most mundane of jobs could be a source of potential joy when amongst colleagues who one clicks with. The social company really does maketh the job. I could do the worst on-call shifts but if I had really lively colleagues with me, it wouldn't seem so bad. I am on-call again tomorrow, inshaAllah, I would be blessed with a similar fate like I was blessed with today.

121: 23.1 Her ring

The story of my engagement ring is not one that is straight forward. The engagement process all happened when I was in London. A's family came over to my house, and formally asked my parents for my hand in marriage. Even A himself wasn't there for this occasion. Both sides talked, got to know one another and set dates for the wedding. Gifts were exchanged and my mother-in-law to be at the time gifted my mother with my engagement ring as a sign of our families uniting.

A went to the jewellers several days before to pick out a ring. He would send me photos of potential rings but my brief was not complicated - the ring just had to be simple. No over the top embellishments and the rock itself shouldn't be too big or too sparkly. In the end, he picked a beautiful ring, the band splits into two, intertwining into each other as it approached and held up the little sparkly diamond. Needless to say, it was stunning and very much suited our taste. 

After the engagement ceremony, my mom had the ring in Malaysia. The problem was, I wanted to wear the ring, I impatiently wanted to wear the ring on my finger so badly. Thus, the convoluted "get Ayne's ring to London" plan was hatched. My housemate had a friend who was due to fly over to London in several days time. My housemate and the potential courier were close friends. So I asked her to ask him if he could transport my ring through international borders, to which he surprisingly agreed!

So from my mom, the ring was passed on to A who passed it on to his sister, who then passed it on to her colleague, who also happened to be my housemate's dad. Then, he passed the little box on to my housemate's friend, the said courier. After much anticipation and praying that it wouldn't get lost in transit, the ring arrived intact on British soil. The courier passed it on to my housemate at university, and she finally brought back the coveted prize back to our flat.

I held the box in my hand, and thought, how strange it is that in it lies the evidence of my engagement. I was someone's fiancé, A's fiancé. I slowly opened the box and was in awe at how beautiful the ring was - I was without a doubt, a lucky girl. Although it was tradition for the mother-in-law-to-be to slip the ring on to the bride's finger, in her absence, I asked my other housemate to act in her place. After a little prayer, she knighted me officially engaged after slipping the ring on to my unlady-like finger, and we celebrated joyfully.

One problem though, the ring was a tad tight. Obvious effort was needed to slip the ring on and off. And after sleeping with it that night, numbness around the ring began to become apparent. But I didn't care - I had my very own engagement ring! I did measure my ring size here in London using European measurements. Perhaps after it was converted using Asian parameters, something went amiss. In the short term, the euphoria from being engaged masked my apparent discomfort. But in the long term, several weeks later, I brought the ring to a jewellers lane located in Central London and left it to the experts to resize. Now it fits pretty perfectly on my finger. And there it will stay until a possible day where I get old and my finger, filled with additional fat from age, would no longer fit the ring. And I would need to visit the same jeweller embarrassingly asking for another resize.

Thus is the story of my engagement ring - goes to show that nothing in life is exempt from complications.

120: 22.1 Four wheels

With all my peers acquiring driving proficiency a few months ahead of me, in this field, I was considered a late bloomer. The journey towards getting a driving license has been a bumpy ride. I signed up for driving lessons at 18 - opting for a driving school near my house. Although it had dodgy reviews, it was the most convenient at the time. I can remember sitting through a 1-day long theory class, but I can't remember much else. The lecturer tried and failed to capture the students' attention by offering "cool jokes" in between slides. But it didn't work - it felt like the longest day of my life. After thankfully passing my theory test at first go, it was time for practical lessons. 

My driving instructor was nice but he really didn't want to be there. His apathy was so palpable that it made me uncomfortable. It added to all the other stressors which included driving a car without power steering and one without working air conditioning under the hot rays of Malaysian sun. After every lesson, it felt like I lost half my weight in sweat. However, the independence that driving gifts you felt good. And as I went through more driving lessons, I gained more confidence on the road. Gone were the days where I would stall in the middle of a busy road. I was changing gears like a pro.

My practical exam was fast approaching and I was ready. A little hitch though - a few days before the test, I somehow contracted Hand, Foot and Mouth disease. Painful blisters started appearing on the soles of my feet and on my palms. I couldn't eat because of the mouth ulcers and I was running high temperatures. It was beyond awful - I couldn't even walk! But due to plain stubbornness, after downing a few paracetamol tablets, I managed to get myself out of bed and to the driving school on test day without even thinking of infection control. 

Like most days, it was a hot day. So many people turned up to get tested. And the hill where one is tested on, was open and visible for everyone to see. I hate being tested in front of an audience, so needless to say, the heat, the nervousness and the illness all contributed to me failing the hill element. Even worse, that was the first obstacle! And I had to go on and complete the rest of the driving test despite knowing full well that I wasn't going to walk out with a license. Strangely enough, I successfully passed every other aspect of the test. It was just the bloody hill. Eventually, after the second try, one I attempted without feeling like physically dying, I passed. 

I went home after getting my provisional license, got the keys to the white Volkswagen car parked out front and unlocked it. This was the main reason I went through all the drama anyway. You see, my late grandfather bought me this car as a surprise gift when he found out I earned a place in medical school. I was still in London at the time and didn't have a license. When I talked to him, he would always say, "Ayne, when you come back, you must learn to drive and get your license!" He was so protective of the little beetle. He wouldn't let anyone drive it except for himself. It was to always be under a roof of some sort because it shouldn't be under direct sun, or God forbid, rain. And the plastic covers lining the chairs and the seatbelts were not to be taken off under any circumstances. 

He was saving it just for me.

Unfortunately, he never got the chance to see me driving it. He passed away before I learnt what gears were. So as I sat there alone in the car, my license clutched in my hand, I wished he was there to experience this with me. And for a moment which felt like a long while, I just sat there in silence. There were tears streaming down my face and my limbs were shaking. I tried holding everything in but in reality, I was absolutely broken inside. "I've got my license, Bahyah. Now I can drive it like you always wanted," I said in my head. My hands, clutching the steering wheel, were where his hands were, and I sat where he once sat. I wondered what would he be thinking of when he sat in this car? Did he want to make this special for me? I missed him so much, and still do every single day. 

Eventually, I switched the engine on for the first time. I drove off that day imagining Bahyah in the front seat, smiling as he watched me proudly. I imagined him saying to me, in his raspy, low voice, "Well done, Ayne, you drive well. But be careful in this next turning, don't drive too fast." 

"Will do, Bahyah," I would say. "Thank you. Thank you for everything."

119: 21.1 Love in a cupcake

Sometimes I get fleeting obsessions with a particular type of food. And when I do, I often go on a hunt to find the most delicious offering of its type in the city. For instance, so far the best hummus is in a small family restaurant in White City and the best falafels are served by PilPel in Liverpool Street. I have waffles in Stax in Carnaby Street and chicken wings in any branch of Tinseltown. A and I are hardcore foodies, so we often venture our to try different cuisines. On these adventures, we have tried so many bakeries to find the best cupcakes. Ones that are not too sweet, and offer a good balance of cake and icing. After a lengthy exploration around town, through shops north and south of the river, we found them in a quaint, little store in Soho. They are the Cookies and Cream cupcakes in Crumbs and Doilies. 

The company itself has been established for around a decade now, but the shop itself is fairly new. It was founded by Jemma, a hybrid baker/youtuber. She makes cupcake making so enticing online. And when I found out that she had set up shop near Oxford Street, I knew we had to pay it a visit. Theoretically I could recreate her sugary masterpieces via her videos, but I am not disciplined enough to follow baking recipes to the tee. And one knows that if one doesn't follow each step correctly, one will end up with a gooey mess. I once mistaken a teaspoon for a tablespoon of baking powder and ended up with a volcano instead of a chocolate cake. 

Since our first visit to Crumbs and Doilies a few years ago, we have been regular customers. And we are even followers of the shop on Instagram. On one of the visits, after tasting many of her recipes beforehand like the traditional vanilla cupcakes and the more exotic buttered popcorn cupcakes, we purchased the ones they named Cookies and Cream. And since then, we have never looked back. The cake is so moist and sweet, but not too sweet. And the topping is made out of oreos (best invention ever!) and is so luscious, it melts in your mouth instantly. The first time I tried it, it was honestly like fireworks were going off in my mouth - it was that good.

Since then, we only go when C&C is available for purchase. And whenever I am in deep need for a pick me up, A and I would pay a visit to Soho to get our hands on these little pockets of heaven. They normally have a little oreo piece on top of it, but when I visited during Halloween, they decorated them with tombstones (like in the picture above). My obsession has been really palpable that A and even my sister knows that they will instantly earn extra brownie points if they surprise me with C&C cupcakes.

And since this discovery, my exploration of cupcakes in general has stopped in its tracks. I find it safe to consume cupcakes that I know that I will enjoy rather than taking risks elsewhere. I have been less experimental and daring in my food adventures, and have been morphing into a creature of habit. I will find a new cupcake store, peek through its windows to see their displayed cupcakes and think instantly, "They won't be as good. I just know it." But what if there is a better cupcake out there? Am I missing out? How do I know I have found the best cupcake in the city if I stopped trying?

This is akin to when people ask me why I married young. How did I know A was the one? But you haven't really known anyone else? What if there is someone better out there? My simple answer is, I don't know, and probably will never know. But at the same time, even if there was a better A out there, that person is not A and that is a big disadvantage in itself. I am happy and contented with my choices in C&C and A, and they made me stop looking. I have everything that I need.

I did ask a question to A many years ago, "Did you have a list before you met me? Like a list of things you wanted in a spouse?"

"Of course I had a list. But when I met you, you became my list."

118: 20.1 The home we built (ii)

It was time to get rid of the ugly chicken yellow that stained the whole apartment. A and I visited the local DIY store browsing for potential colours. After much browsing on Pinterest, I was pretty much set on something bold and dark. We agreed on a rich, brooding blue but we had to agree on a shade that was just right.

After taking home a few samples and holding it up onto the wall, testing it with both artificial and natural light, we found the perfect colour in Blue Dusk. The next day, we bought 2 large cans of paint together with all the appropriate equipment for the task at hand. Painting rollers, a sanding machine, a tray, tape and lots of plastic covering. We surveyed how much it was to hire someone to do this professionally, and it was too expensive. So we were up for the challenge. How hard could it be anyway, right?

It turned out to be so extremely exhausting. Big appreciation to professional decorators who do this everyday because it was so physically taxing. It wasnt the actual painting itself, it was more the preparation leading up to painting. First, one must clean the wall, then sand it, fill up any holes with putter, followed by taping all the edges and sockets, then making sure the floor is well protected from potential spillage. Prepping the four walls of the living room took the whole day. And by the end of it, we had zero energy to actually paint.

Painting itself was actually therapeutic and fairly quick. I loved watching the yellow fade away under the gorgeous blue. It was very satisfying. We initially thought it would take 3 coats maximum. But after the third coat dried, there were still very visible uneven patches on the walls. In the end, it took a grand total of 5 coats to complete the transformation. FIVE. If I had realised how much bicep work was involved to achieve this depth in colour, I would have invested in more expensive, higher quality paint. Maybe it would have achieved the same sheen in less coats.

But I have to say, that at the end of the day, it was all worth it. I walk in the house everyday and instantly become calm. The shade of the walls just manages to wrap warmth around you and offers a sense of security and stillness. The colour is not bright and in your face. It accompanies you but does not shout at you and its a perfect backdrop for our art pieces. Basically, I love it. The living room is my favourite room in the apartment.

It was also the first room we finished decorating and it was the first room we slept in on our first official moving in day. Coming from a tiny studio, the thought of sleeping in a separate bedroom (a room made just for sleeping) was something we had to slowly get used to. So instead, we transitioned by sleeping on the sofa bed for the first week. At least the kitchen could still be visualised from the where we laid our heads down at night. The familiarity gave us a sense of security.

We have since moved in to our bedroom for rest. But the living room remains the room we spend most of our days in. It was the first room we made with our own unexperienced hands and without a doubt, it is special. Many memories were made there, and inshaAllah many more are still yet to come.

117: 19.1 The home we built

In April 2015, we semi-moved into an apartment in Tottenham, North London. I say semi, because we were still renting our little studio in East London at the time. This was an unfamiliar area for us both. I remember visiting several months earlier when meeting up with a friend, and when I exited the tube station, I instantly felt a pull. Something about this area drew me in. I kept it at the back of my mind, as I wasn't really actively looking for apartments then. But I believe in signs. And this might just be a total coincidence, but I feel like one day sealed the deal for me.

I was in my third year studying philosophy and history of science and medicine, when as a class trip, our class of about 15 students went out to V&A museum to visit an exhibition about the history of photography. My memory about the visit itself is a bit hazy but what happened after remained clear as day. There were many visitors that evening, many more than usual. After our group broke up to go our separate ways, I lingered around for a bit, visiting the other exhibitions in the museum. Whilst exploring the other wing of the building, I realised that there was a special late exhibition on that day. A 1 day exhibition that filled the hallways with pop-up music stalls, hands-on experiences and art. I grabbed a flyer, not knowing what all the commotion and energy was about only to find out that the whole night was an ode to and a celebration of Tottenham. You see, Tottenham has gotten a bad rep for a long time for being where the riots of 2011 started. Since then, the suburb has gone through great efforts to reclaim their identity - as a hub of creativity, culture and diversity. There were light shows, hip hop music, graffiti art installations and fashion pieces that represented Tottenham and its people. And it was great!

After spending what felt like hours roaming the different rooms, I was sold. I thought this was something not to ignore - my serendipitous and unplanned visit to this event was a sure enough divine sign that told me that I am meant for Tottenham, and Tottenham is meant for me. This is it - we are going to look for an apartment there. There, and no where else.

When the time finally came for us to search for a new abode, the responsibility mainly laid on my shoulders. I lined up several house viewings, but what was within our budget didn't really appeal. Until we found the current apartment that is now our home. I first visited this home with my aunt, who has lived in London for almost her whole adult life - so she was the perfect person to advise me on house hunting in this city. When walking towards our viewing, we noticed that the house was located next to a river. One with houseboats! There were swans and ducks lazily swimming in cold winter. "This does not feel like we are in London anymore!" my aunt said. I agreed, this was very far removed from the hustle and bustle of central London.

We arrived at the house to be greeted by a Filipino family. A mom, a dad, a son and a grandmother. They were courteous and kind as they gave us a short tour around the small apartment of two bedrooms. Although small in size, after living in a studio with A for almost a year, the space this little apartment offered felt like a luxury.

"There are good schools in this area. And there is a bus stop just there and the tube station is only 7 minutes away by foot," sold the owner. "If we could live here, we would. But we need more space. Our son is growing."

The walls were painted in a tacky yellow and the kitchen and bathroom needed a cosmetic upheaval. But it was cosy, it was in a great location and I could see its huge potential. After so many disappointing house viewings, I was relieved. Here, I was able to picture my family living in this space, happy, comfortable and above all, safe. I knew that this was home.

Several weeks after the viewing, we were given the keys to the house, Alhamdulillah. As we took our first steps into the empty apartment, we saw a clean slate. This space could be whatever we want it to be and that felt exciting. And thus began the journey of making this apartment our home.

Story to be continued.

116: 18.1 My name

Ein. Aini. Anne. Ayain. Ai-ne.

I have had so many mis-pronounciations of my name that I have programmed myself to respond to anything that sounds remotely similar to my name. But I have to say, the worst butchering of it must have to be when a physics teacher in college called me Anya. How did you even get that from the spelling?!

I admit that it is confusingly spelt. Anything with silent letters are dangerous - and I have a silent E. The normal spelling of A-yin, would have been the simple Ain. But my parents, particular my mother, would not stand for anything common. Thus, ever since the registration guy signed my birth certificate, I have been destined for a life of correcting peoples' pronunciation. 

After much fatigue with this though, my common approach is to give in and accept that my name will be fraught with plurality. In high school for instance, everyone knew me as Ai-ne or simply, Ne, because there were multiple A-yins in school. Even after many years after graduation, if they were to call me rightly by A-yin, it would be like the whole memory of my teenage self would have been wiped out or altered. So, I relent. 

In university, most people called me Ein. In pure honesty, I didn't even notice the subtlety of Ein vs A-yin, so I just answered to both. But I get friends who come up to me after probably 3 years of acquaintance and intimate chats and say, "How do I really pronounce your name? Is it Ein or A-yin?"

I would reply, "I really can't tell the difference anymore. They sound the same to me."

"But what does your family call you by?"

"A-yin"

"OMG! I have been saying it wrong all this while?! Why didn't you correct me?"

"Because I didn't even notice. Lol."

Now at work, I go by Nur Zaharoff. The Ayne in the name has been totally wiped out due to convenience. Colleagues who do not know me personally call me Nur. And those who do, call me Ayne. Interestingly, many of my colleagues know how to speak arabic or at least, are familiar with the language. It doesn't click straight away that Ayne is just a roman version of the arabic letter ع which means eye. An Egyptian colleague of mine who had been confused with my name for a long time finally asked me how to rightly pronounce it.

"Its like the arabic letter ع," I say, whilst drawing the letter in mid-air with my finger.

"Ohhhh, I get it now! You mean like 'Ain," he says, with the emphasis on the A, drawing a slight "ng" sound form the back of his throat. Now that we have clarified that, every time he calls me there is a slight "ng" at the front. Again, I relent. You do you.

Despite being called Nur alot. I have not gotten used to it. This reminds me of a funny story of when I was younger. I was about 11, and I was in art class. I was the only Malay in the class and I sat on the stool at the back of the class. I was diligent in colouring my painting, so I paid attention to little else. The teacher was talking to another student and she was shouting, "No! No! No! No! No!" I didn't look up because I thought probably there is a confrontation brewing ahead and being non-confrontational, I looked down even further at my painting. But when the shouting didn't stop, I eventually looked up. And there was my teacher staring straight at me, along with the whole class.

"Why didn't you reply me when I called your name?!" she said, looking frustrated.

I looked at her confused, but before I could explain myself saying that no one calls me Nur, she continued talking. And that was that. I never returned to that class out of utter humiliation.

Moral of the story is, although I love my name and wouldn't change it now, if I were to have children in the future, I would probably spare them the heartache by gifting them simpler, shorter names. 

Youre welcome.

115: 17.1 As she left

*Details in this post are partly fictitious*

She was a patient on the wards. What began with a simple chest infection, ended up to be aspiration pneumonia, when her stomach contents got into her lungs, compromising her breathing. Her body already riddled with dementia was weak and frail. And the acidity of the gastric juices had eroded, infected and inflamed her lung tissue. She was in a precarious state to say the least. Her partner was by her side almost all of the time, hoping for good news every time a doctor walked past her bed. It was clear very on that this was a difficult condition to beat. The nurses, the physiotherapists and I were all aware that this might be a battle that would end in defeat. It is not that we abandoned hope, but we knew what a dying person looks like. And she was one.

Despite the obvious warning signs, the consultant in charge of the wards that week was optimistic. He opted for active and aggressive treatment. "I am not like other doctors," he said to the patient's husband. "I will fight till the very end, and I am optimistic." 

This statement did not sit well with me because it was a well known fact that this particular consultant was not a fan of palliative care. He believed in treating the patient all the way through to the last moments of life, because "giving up" (ie comfort care) wasn't an option. Despite concerns expressed by myself and other team members, this patient was to have regular suction, IV antibiotics, IV fluids, regular bloods on top of all his other medications. At this point, the patient was barely responding to pain, her oxygen requirements were creeping up and her blood pressure was in her boots. We actively treated her for two days, with little signs of any improvement.

Thankfully, on day 3, another consultant covered the ward. I made it a point to beg, "Please review this patient - I think she is deteriorating fast. I think it is time to keep her comfortable to maintain her dignity." This consultant did see the patient and agreed with my stance - but as he was only covering, he wanted a second opinion for a possible trial of assisted ventilation from the ITU team. I called ITU and after seeing the patient, the registrar came to me and said, "Your patient is dying. She has one foot already in the grave."

After getting the confirmation we needed from a secondary team, I insisted that we make this patient for comfort care. With an ok from the covering consultant, I stopped all her medications, wrote up anticipatory medications to keep her comfortable and together with the consultant, we informed her husband. Her husband was calm, but I could see it in his eyes that he was broken inside. I had a brief chat with him that morning and I did tell him that things were not looking good in efforts to forewarn him. But after this conversation that confirmed his greatest fears, as I turned to walk away, he said, "You knew this morning, didn't you?" I paused, and nodded slowly. 

"I am so sorry," I said, "I wished circumstances were different." 

"Thank you," he replied, "For telling me the truth."

My patient passed away peacefully the next day. She left this world with dignity - in her last few hours, she wasn't prodded with needles, she wasn't disturbed by nurses recording her observations. As far as we knew, she wasn't in pain. And that was so important for her and her family. 

As doctors, we fix bodies. But sometimes, with the intentions of curing, we are tunnelled vision into believing that doing more is always better than doing less. The recognition of the dying is almost as important as the recognition of patients getting better. Admitting that nothing else could be done takes courage and humility. And as clinicians, we should be constantly aware of our mortal limitations and not make promises that we are in no capacity to make. 

May God grant us all a beautiful end, just as he has graced us with beautiful beginnings. Ameen.

114: 16.1 The surprise

I can be nice sometimes. 

A and I have been talking about getting running watches for some time now. But we never committed to buying them. As they don't come cheap, last year, we did try "earning" it. We vowed that if we ran about 20km per week, we would have earned the right to buy a running watch each for ourselves. Needless to say, we never made it to 20km - not even close. So that purchase never happened.

But when the new Apple Watch 3 came out, it seemed that this watch, with all its nifty features on top of having its own cellular connection would be a better (albeit more expensive) option. A had been contemplating on getting one for a few months. I, however, was on the fence as I honestly didn't feel the need for adding another gadget to my technological repertoire. A few years ago, I purchased an Ipad Mini for my birthday. I used it alot during medical school, swapping my paper notebook for the Notability app, and my colourful pens for a stylus. There was even a time when I was into E-books on my Kindle app, but now I have reverted back to my old ways with traditional paperbacks. But once I graduated, the Ipad is unfortunately collecting dust on the shelf. Thus, I was afraid that owning an Apple Watch will be much like owning my Ipad, a phase of initial high wins followed by a destiny of negligence and a constant state of not being charged.

But A was still enamoured by the Apple Watch. He was in a phase of should I, shouldn't I? To be fair, when he is in Malaysia, he runs on the treadmill practically everyday and he has weekly work out sessions with an office personal trainer. In London though, I think my laziness is unfortunately infective, therefore his fit lifestyle takes a bit of a battering. But overall, I am really proud of his progress, mashaAllah. I, for one, know how hard it is to motivate oneself to exercise. So his consistency is definitely something to be admired. So if it was a question of earning the Apple Watch, he definitely earned it. 

Knowing that he would never commit to buying one for himself, and as a gift to say how proud I am of his hard graft, I secretly got him the new Apple Watch myself. I ordered it online, and picked it up from my local EE store. The night I brought it home, I was so excited that I practically begged A to let me tell him what the surprise was on one of our FaceTime calls. He was coming home in a mere two days, but I couldn't contain myself - knowing the box was in our room unwrapped, and how happy it would potentially make him - I had no self control. "Can I tell you, pretty pleaseeeee?" I begged. Good thing A was adamant for me to be patient. "Don't you want to see my genuine reaction live and in person?" he said. Ugh, yes, yes I do.

The next day, I got special wrapping paper and wrapped the box up as an extra precaution. Even wrote a card. Guys, if this was OTT, I had legitimate reasons. No it wasn't his birthday nor was it our anniversary. But he was away for 5 weeks, and I really missed having him around. Why not make his return a bit more special? 

When he eventually came back home, I asked him to close his eyes. I placed the wrapped present neatly in his hands. He felt the dimensions of the long box and I said, "Ok, now open your eyes." I asked him what he thought it was - he had no idea, none at all. He slowly unwrapped the end of the present and took a peek inside. Mid-unwrapping, he dropped the box on the bed and gave me a big, long hug; his expression in total shock. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he said multiple times. He was over the moon.

In the end, I am so glad I didn't spill the beans earlier because I got him, I got him good. And honestly, he deserves this. He deserves this and everything great in this world and the next. He has been and continues to be the best husband to me and the best addition to my family, that this small present just doesn't do justice. I am so lucky and blessed to be his wife - if I could give him all the happiness in the world, I would. But sorry A, you just get a watch for now! 

I love you.

113: 15.1 The uber driver

Freedom tasted so sweet at 5pm today. Clocked off from the ward, grabbed my bag of weekend clothes and hopped into an Uber to the train station. The driver, a middle aged uncle, was friendly and chatty. Usually I like my quiet space during drives, but today I was in good spirits so we carried an interesting conversation throughout the short journey.

"You work here?" he asked. When I told him that I did, he mentioned that his brother, also a doctor, used to work here too many years ago. The same brother is now in Australia as an ED consultant after a 14 year stint in Royal Free Hospital, a hospital that I have come to be very familiar with during my medical school days.

"Do you have any plans of joining him soon in sunny Australia?" I asked. "No," he answered, "Australia is not a good place to live in, in my opinion. I like it better here in the UK. But I must say, if I had to rank countries, I would put Canada at the very top. Relatively cheap cost of living, great communities and good quality of life." After delving deeper into his travel history, he has lived in America, Canada, UK and Italy. He works as an engineer in an American glass making factory, and his company moves him around alot to set up shop. He grew up in Italy as a child and speaks fluent Italian but is actually Sri Lankan culturally. He is trilingual and manages a rental somewhere in the Italian suburbs whilst training new engineers in the factory that he works at located in Harlow. "If you go to the shopping centre in Harlow, look out for two tall smoke towers - that is where my factory is," he said proudly.

"You seem so busy, working full time, managing rentals on the side, and you drive for Uber? When do you ever rest?" I ask. "When I go home, I get bored. So this is my hobby now, driving people around. But honestly, I am not like the locals. I don't smoke, I don't drink - I have never even been in a pub before! Best to keep myself busy."

This conversation couldn't have been at a more opportune time. I just finished successive long on-call days, and here I am thinking I am tired and overworked. But here is this man, a man with such a good work ethic - who keeps his hands busy. Not like mine - whose hands are often idle, typing away on my phone or laptop on my off days - wasting my life away on social media and TV.

The generations before us had such different mindsets when it came to work. Working was a privilege and not a right, so it was not uncommon to work oneself to the bone. Even working long hours on consecutive days in efforts to find better opportunities for oneself and one's families. One was thankful to have a job back then - and more hours meant more financial reward. Back then, work was seen to be a means to contribute to society, whereas now, work should be a means of fulfilling the self. The table has significantly turned - it is less "what can I bring to this job?" and more "what can this job give me." A philosophy that brainwashes the entitled young to think that the world owes us. I guess that is why papa finds his juniors who are of my generation a puzzle.

To be completely honest, I find it hard to not grumble when it comes to Mondays, wishing that there was one more day in the weekend every week. And I feel that my peers will resonate with this sentiment. This serendipitous conversation was definitely something that I needed. A reminder to be thankful for my job that pays well, that gives me adequate rest after working long hours and that is ultimately a job that fulfils me. One that allows me to make a positive contribution to society. Yes, like every other job, it can be taxing, but having a job at all is true privilege, something that I shouldn't ever ever take for granted.