Saturday, July 23, 2005
If life is a piece of artwork, then it surely must be abstract strokes for me at the moment. Ignoring those sinister overtones, my canvas is fast filling with a bewildering multitude of randomly posited colours, so fast that I cannot make sense of the whole menagerie. And I get brushed nonchalantly to a corner of the canvas, my feet stuck unmoving to the bone white fabric, unable to stop nor slow down the incredible pace of the artist's hand.
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I forfeited half a day of my leave yesterday and cha lesson this morning, on a last minute mission to translate CO's interview scripts to Chinese. If my translations had been useful I'd have been rather happy to be of help. But no, he attempted three lines of it in front of the camera, before deciding that English was the way to go. Sure! Way to go! I feel cheated, and slighted. And guilty still, because I flew the aeroplane over Cheryl's head this morning.
On a happier note, Tere and me finally placed an order for suede soles with the friendly old cobbler at Bugis, hers a pair of glittering silver open-toes and mine classic Oxford latins. My, if she can already look good wearing those open-toes with her three-quarts, imagine the aura she'll project in evening or dance wear.
Not that I'm effusive in starstruck awe, but the gentleman should always allow the lady some frame to look good, old-style as it may be. And sometimes, the ways of the old-school should really remain very much in fashion.
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