Withdrawing from life


Last night we went out for a friend’s birthday, first at a stunningly strange, art-deco inspired building constructed in the late 1990s (complete with a three storey stack of wine attended to by a ‘wine angel’ on a hoist pulled by a straining, possibly clockwork motor) and then on to an Italian restaurant behind a mosque on Kandahar Street, which hardly sounds culturally appropriate in any sense. I didn’t mind – I just vacuumed up the wood-fired pizza (great topping, crust slightly behind Pizza Strada in Tokyo) and then veered drunkenly home, via Club Street (where everything was shut, because it was by now almost Thursday morning and most people should have been in bed). At 6:30 this morning, La Serpiente woke up and reprimanded me. She’s progressed from demanding “big, big cuddles” to “huge cuddles”, for reasons I cannot dream of.

I felt dreadful for most of the day. I’m hungover, tired, I have a cold coming on, I went off to my spinning class and was sluggish and weak there too, then came back home, fell asleep on the sofa for twenty minutes. But I’m more scared of how tomorrow will be; just like delayed onset muscle soreness, now I’m long in the tooth I don’t usually get one-day hangovers any more, and I’ll probably be janky as a result until the weekend. I think I said recently I was having too much fun and needed to stop for a bit.

I had one productive moment this morning when I went to close a bank account we haven’t used for three years. (We went on a spree of opening bank accounts because every different bank has a different set of discounts with restaurants, supermarkets and airlines if you use their card. We signed up with OCBC and then they refused to give us a credit card, but also never stopped sending us promotional material for credit cards, the rotten teases that they are.) In three years, we’d earned the pricely sum of $5.90 in interest, which I resisted spending on doughnuts at the nearby Krispy Kreme.

When you close an account, the teller half speaks, half whispers ‘override’ as a warning, I guess, to those around her that an account is about to be snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Or because she needs a supervisor to come over and authenticate things. I was a little disappointed. She could have at least shouted it at the top of her voice, or rung a bell with a funereal tone. No drama. No excitement. Nothing.

Then again, nobody mugged me as I left the bank with an unreasonable amount of cash in my pocket, so there’s that going for me, I guess.


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