.:So it begins... again:.

Well, I'm back, folks. From my Dublin trip, in case you missed the last entry. Which I hope you didn't. I think.

Ahh... I guess your life would be so much the merrier without my stammering banter eh? The stutteringly apologetic nature of my intellectually numb mutterings must simply be torture to your oh so delicate temperament. Forgive me, dear readers, I simply must go on, in this stymied fashion of mine, if simply to cure this urge to shout at the top of my lungs from the top of Petronas Twin Towers to the rest of the world: "Oi! Aku ni still alive lah!!"

Not that anyone will hear it, not all the way from the top of the tower's spire. I'm more likely to be zapped by lightning on a clear & sunny day there than be heard by the minions thronging below.

Sorry folks... I don't know what got into me today. I didn't sleep much last night. In fact, I don't really know how long I slept. All I know is that I was tossing and turning from about 10 pm till 1 am, got up to take a leak and swallow a sackful of sedatives enough to knock out a really big orangutan, tossed and turned again despite being smaller than said orangutan, decided at 3 am to try the ultimate sedative (reading my CFA study pack lying down on the bed... the Ethics portion, no less), called it quits within ten minutes after the apparently redundant Ethics bit pissed me off to no end, called Farah and chatted for a bit, tossed and turned again till about 4.30, I think, and then it all went blank till about 5.30 am when the alarm buzzed and pulled me, kicking and screaming, from that blissful land called Dreamland.

I wonder how my English teachers would have reacted to that extremely long sentence filled with what seemed to be an endless procession of commas. To Mr Wong, Ms Chan and Mr Fellender, I sincerely apologise for causing you much grief. And to Mr Woods, well, I'm sorry, but causing you grief is just too much fun.

Anyway, forget the ramblings, and let us return to the story at hand, old chap.

My trip to Dublin started off nicely. Took a train to KLIA and arrived in good time to meet up with my parents who had insisted on seeing me off. I was wondering why they wanted to see me off. Little did I realise that in my mother's eyes, I'm still the awkward 13 year old who still needed help packing his bags, instead of the less awkward 25 year old (who still needed help packing his bags now and again); to my horror, she began unzipping my bag, revealing in its full glory my polka dot boxers (to my credit, they were manly dots - "shooting target circles, dude! They can't get any more macho!" said the snivelling salesman) to the gasping (and no doubt horrified - "Mothers, shield your daughters!!") public. She then proceeded to rearrange all the stuff, revealing my facial toner, my heel buff, my hair dryer and the red stiletto I put on during the weekends when I feel in the mood. All traces of the male macho character that I have struggled to portray all this while had vanished by then.

Admittedly, though, her rearrangements were much better than my original "toss-in-all-you-can-grab-with-two-hands-and-then-some" approach. It even made finding that stiletto rather easy. Thanks, Mama! You know I love you!*

More to follow... including my adventures in entering Charles De Gaulle (oh please... Airport, you pervert), and my brilliant encounter/mental debate with an Irish racist. Oh, and pictures. Lots of pictures for you salivating mob.


*For the benefit of those who may not appreciate my perverse (not to mention pervert-ed) sense of humour, I would like to stress that I don't wear stilettos. Not red ones at least.**
**See above, minus the last sentence.