This has been an absolutely delightful day, so glorious that it can flawlessly endorse the Will-the-Huge-Grant-character-before-meeting-Marcus way of living (those who have watched the film ‘about a Boy’ or have read the original novel, you know what I’m talking about; whose who haven’t, you won’t regret checking it out. Come on, at least for the sake of Huge Grant!).
Ok ok, so what’s so special about Will in the film? Basically he leads such a blank life that he divides a day into several units, each filled in with luxuriously laid-back yet essential-to-well-being activities, such as going to the hairdresser, playing pool, shopping for fine clothes and dining alone, a list strictly excludes any possibility of working in any sense or conducting any intentional interpersonal communications . Most importantly, Will is a firm critic of the much-respected philosophy of ‘nobody’s an island’. His island is his posh home which provides alomost-endless sources for his material and spiritual needs. Well, almost. Occassionally Will visits his handful of friends, in a manner that a carefree island-dweller visits the mainland for essential supplies.
Anyway, this is not a film review. My point is, I actually lived Will’s fictional life for a whole day, peacefully and delightedly. And miraculously, I found back the long-lost mellow feeling of fulfilling a series of seemingly-usual tasks that I could cling to for bliss and not getting bored with at all, all by myself. Guards let off, muscles relieved, smiles unhidden, sloppily dressed, but content and poised - It was the best that I can be. A state beyond description- ‘natural high’ maybe?
So it strated like this: I got up at 11 AM on a gloomy Sunday morning, aimless and confused. Nobody else was home, both two flatmates out fulfilling important duties - one went to his Sunday church service as usual and the other went to her boyfriend’s for some TLC (the couple have been permanently inseperable since both injured on the road riding a motorbike). So I refreshed myself up, had some KFC junks with milk for breakfast, stared at the grey over-arching sky, thinking to myself: What now?
Since apprarently nobody else was home, I now had a great chance polishing my rotten domestic skills, running no risk of being stopped or picked on for any apparent stupid practices. Make some soup! Acoording to record, this is the my most acceptable practice of cooking. Opening the jam-packed freezer, I spent approximately 3 minutes trying to pick out a pack of beef amongst its fellow packs of chicken, pork and salmon. Trust me this wasn;t easy when they all looked the same freezed and unattractive. Chucking some carrots, patatoes, onions ( beautiful color combination, trust me )out from the fridge and patiently cutting them into various creative shapes, I couldn’t overcome the idea of starting to develop some domestic genes quietly but effectively, right from this moment.
Now that I had put the soup on the stove, I suddenly realised that the state of the kitchen was so aweful that I couldn’t bear to see my beautiful soup being cooked in such a mess. As you might have guessed, I started to dig out the dust-covered bleach products cleaning my kitchen! A sheer miracle, considering that kitchen wan’t my favourite part of the flat and I only used it when I was on the verge of starvation. Oh no, this probably isn’t true, as I still have an indescribable obsession with dish-washing. But beyond that, I’d rather read in the loo than lingering in the kitchen for any reason. And the disgusting microwave oven! I even devoted whole ten minutes removing its stubborn grease and grime that might have accumulated for seven years.
Soup made, kitchen madeover, I felt like a bit of an outing. Lygon St, which is only a stone’s throw away, is my favourite and most convenient venue for light strtutting, no, I mean light relaxation when I already feel good. Pulling on my baggy jeans and my creased jumper, tucking my recent obsession, Nick Hornby’s How to Be Good underarm, I went on a usual coffee treat. Quite a depressing afternoon, weather-wise. But unfortunately my natural high was so on top that it totally defeated the sky’s greyness and the falling leaves’ sentiments. With a peculiarly gracious mood amid a depressing scene, I could have never been more self-healing.
The good didn’t stop here. Walking past my once-favourite beer bar Birra Bella which used to have a fabulous yet low-key jazz trio playing (I had stopped going there since they disappeared without a trace three months ago), I found my ears eargerly picking up some familiar tunes. I turned around unbelivably, and it was the three familiar piosed faces with their cello and keyboard, with the melody of “Ease of the Sun” playing around with the dim lights. As if the whole picture wasn’t devine enough, a couple of baby-pink ballons carelessly floated in and successully won silent fascination for their unexpected yet timely emergence. This could be a phtographic classic: dark jazz with pink ballons, and silent indulgence.
What a difference a day has made, and I didn’t even try hard but simply lived like an island. Seriously considering handling my island with more care, the only risk being turning into an absolute anti-social self-indulgent loser. Hmm, think, seriously.
