Today was a day of firsts.
Today I had a little boy hanging onto my index finger as I led him around the store, trying to spot the Bob The Builder kid’s suitcase he was playing with earlier and had somehow misplaced. He was happy in the end, so was I.
Today I have finally come to grips with the fact that getting 34 hours of sleep over a week is neither healthy, desirable not deserving of commendation from my friends. They too, have lapsed into a state of sleep-deprived stupor, in which none of their utterances are to be taken seriously. If they don’t pack some sleep into us soon, there are going to be 23 brain-dead OT Masters students walking around misbehaving, malpracticing and mistreating clients and each other *grins*
Today I have finally come to accept that one cannot study + churn out endless literature reviews and session plans and progress notes + work weekends + dust-bust around the house AND still expect to get through the precious hoard of books so lovingly gleaned from the library collection. Cupid and The King: Royal Paramours, Crome Yellow, The Female of the Species and Danse Macabre, you are just going to have to wait *sigh*
Today, I saw, sat and was driven around in L ’s car (2000 Holden Astra, black, three dings from: her grandmom’s walking frame, backing into her own wheelie bin and her kids’ schoolbags)
Today, I found out L and D ’s preferences in Asian take-away (L: A uber-contradictory, havoc-wreaking order of Hokkien noodles stir-fried in Cantonese-style sauce, D: Mee goreng, Malaysian mamak-style, hold the seafood - not that Malaysian mee goreng ever had any seafood in it that I know of)
Today I found out that swallowing rice makes L ’s throat hurt. This has something to do with the interaction between the abrasive properties of rice grains when swallowed in a bolus and the delicate state of the lining of her throat. But she still ordered a double take-away serving of fried rice for dinner.
Today I ate dinner alone at a restaurant I’d never been to before with a menu I could not read: Vietnamese-style pork chops and self-serve Chinese tea from a thermos flask, check your self-consciousness at dining alone at the door, customer service optional.
Today I found out that the Kim Thanh bakery I’d passed by umpteemth times sells the closest thing to Malaysian-style toast I’ve seen so far. Not those garlic-infused, jaw-breaking imposters lurking insouciantly in the gourmet/ deli section of Woolies/ Coles. Not the flaccid, pale imitations of the real thing I once attempted to make with week-old bread and a mini toaster-oven (I say once because making them made me really, really homesick and I had to cease and desist thereonwith).
But something akin, if not closely related to those crunchy rounds of bread that the ubiquitous Indian roti man always had, packaged in clear cellophane bags, dangling off the back of his motorbike in their dozens. You know the type? Buttered, toasted rounds of bread liberally encrusted with gleaming sugar crystals - thank goodness the roti man never underestimated the compelling drive of a sugar high 
The type that is toasted to the point of aridness, to splinter in your mouth at the slightest hint of pressure, before dissolving into crisp shards of toast?
That kind.
Today my sister attempted to showcase her barbecuing prowess in front of her friends, but only got so far as omitting to separate a packet of bacon and a rapidly melting bag of ice in the esky, creating the new taste sensation known as waterlogged bacon slices.
Today. It was interesting.
