Celebrations

Christmas Eve, some classmates of mine who were still in the country got together and we had a big feast of French cuisine, with duck, seafood and all. It was nice, getting to know eat other better, through gossip, sharing, complaining, but most of all, through being together on the evening that a lot of people are with loved ones. I guess we either had no loved ones, or had loved ones who were simply too far away, and being together meant that even friends abroad can be like family too.

Starters got to dinner, dinner got to desert, and desert got to tea and more little sweets made from dates and walnuts. Before we realised it, it was already past 1, and much too late to catch my metro home. So I slept over. There were three people, one big bed, but I insisted sleeping on the floor. It felt kind of akward sleeping with two other girls on one bed… whereas probably most other guys would have relished at the opportunity. But, we all agreed, I’m an exception to most other guys.

My bed was a rabbit fur coat, and my blanket my winter jacket, and another long white winter jacket belonging to my friend. I fell asleep, and apparently starting snoring too. Embarrassing, but I guess given that I had just got back from a long trip abroad, the exhaustion and snoring is excusable. Sort of.

Woke up, groggy and tired, and longed for my own bed, and within the hour I was back home, putting on eye shades and went back to bed.

But I only had an hour or so to sleep, for I had to get up and prepare for my second Christmas dinner. A friend I had gotten to know recently invited me to his family’s place as a “friend and/or date”. An interesting way to put it, even more so, as I wasn’t really sure whether I was a friend, or a friend and a date, or a date. Regardless I gladly accepted the invitation, and was soon in the midst of his family. I knew no one, except my friend, and felt a little out of place and awkward at first. Especially as they all spoke French.

That soon changed. There’s something about Christmas and children that makes it so magical. That, and also being surrounded by friendly people, good food and fine wine.

There was a cute little boy who was one and a half, and a four year old girl. Their playfulness, laughter and curiosity lightened my mood. The soft music in the background broke the awkwardness, and soon I was mingling with the people, who were welcoming and pleasant to talk to. We joked I was the token Asian guy, bringing multi-ethnicity into the Christmas celebrations. But they were genuinely interested in my background, and invited me into their language and culture. Not to mention, it was my first time eating turkey, with cranberry sauce and jus for Christmas, as people would do on those cosy (read: cheesy) family Christmas movies. In a rare moment, I felt I belonged. This, only a short three months or so living in Canada.

Close to the time the last metro of the night was about to depart, I said goodbye. It was a hurried kind of goodbye, and kind of awkward too. Perhaps neither of us knew how to say goodbye. I had thought of previously what I wanted. So I took a chance, and leaned over. And he reciprocated, with kisses on the cheeks.

I left, and caught my train home.

Code Orange

I left the United States in Security Code Orange. It’s the second highest alert level on a tiered system of (in)security instated after the events of 911. An ironically cheery-sounding computer generated voice echoed in the terminal building: “…the Department of Homeland security is here to ensure your security and safety.” Uniformed, and perhaps even un-uniformed, and armed policemen wandering the corridors and hallways was evidence of that.

I was seventeen when the Twin Towers fell, just days from my high school graduation. But I knew that the world would be forever changed. And it was. The triumphant emergence of liberal-democracies and capitalist forces from the rubble of the Berlin Wall was cut short. Unveiled was that the much celebrated and supposedly inevitable pressures of the liberalisation of markets and politics, and globalisation cultures and ways of living were seen, felt and lived by many as imperialistic. Tradition had no place, if any, in the age of modernisation. Fundamentalism was shunned aside as backward and dangerous. In their places, the material values of becoming bigger, better, newer and richer became guiding principles. And the United States—its way of life, its foreign dominance, military hegemony, and economic clout over much of the world— was (and still is) very much perceived as the heart of this all-encompassing empire rooted in liberal values and market economics. All the while, the vast majority of the world is left behind, as hungry, deprived, exploited agricultural and manufacturing bases to fuel the greed of economies in the northern hemisphere. It was a situation, combined with years of covert operations in support of one dictatorial regime after another and trigger-happy proxy wars to push back the Communist threats that culminated in civil unrest on a global scale. Against the hi-tech armies and soft-power subjugation of the modern empire, the simplest and most deadly and indestructible weapon is terrorism.

Terrorism, the war of the poor and the oppressed, had revealed once and for all the vulnerabilities of the liberal-democratic system. Fear, security, safety became catch-words and justifications for tightening measures and eroding freedoms. And the liberal-democracies, in their conduct—at times backed by brute force, and at other times via tirades of negative propaganda through the media– against so-called illiberal and rogue States unveiled their ugly faces as being the very antithesis of liberalism and tolerance. And now, seven years on from that defining moment in the world’s history, the security of life, the homeland, and the very democracy moulded from the barrel of the gun, is feeling still feeling the effects.

The homeward bound holiday crowd buzzed around me. Due to weather delays, I walked around the terminal building for some three hours. Perhaps my big backpack and bright red McGill library bag was too eye-catching. Or perhaps it was me walking around and stopping every now and then leaning closely against the windows to take pictures of taxiing and taking-off planes that make me seem like someone suspect. I felt like I was being watched constantly. Or perhaps I was just paranoid, and distrustful of the ‘system’.

In my wanderings in the past week, whether in the heart of the empire, in smalltown New Jersey, or in downtown Manhattan, I was reminded of continuous and pervasive presence of a possible threat, real or imagined. Warning signs, bumper stickers, mechanic computer-generated voices on loudspeakers, the presence of security personnel and police on streets already under the secretive but all-seeing watch of CCTVs. Every move and word and person surveyed, scrutinised, suspect.

This is a nation (perceived to be) under attack. Sure, the terrible attacks in 2001 are every reason to feel fearful and edgy. But the response, militarily and politically, to terrorism is eroding the fundamentals of a nation so proud of its civil liberties and their defence. How much can you give up in the name of security? When is a state ever completely secure? The military and society has been so mobilised and instilled to question and be constantly on guard against the smallest deviation from the ‘norm’ of proper behaviour. TV channels cycle moving messages from the troops based overseas, separated from family and loved ones in their patriotic calls of duty. Ads at metro stations portray how honourable and just it is to be part of the defence of the nation, defence of liberty and justice, not just in America, but the world over. The star-spangled banner is seen everywhere— the very embodiment of that sense of pride, sense of courage in the face of common enemies, and that very sense of purpose in a world dramatically turned against the US in recent years. The red, blue and white is on buses, in shop-windows, and wavers majestically in the wind and braves the cold on countless buildings and houses. The language of being patriotic, being American echoes in the media and hangs on the lips of the common person.

I boarded the plane, and smiled as I sat down in my seat. North of the border, a friendlier and less distrustful country awaited.

That, and the fact I managed to smuggle onboard a roll of toothpaste, contact lens solution, a 1l bottle of water and a big bottle of lotion exceeding the given 100ml limit in my carryon. Undercover, unsuspected, and undetected.

New York, New York

A cloud of dust. A plume of smoke, ascending to the heavens, beckoning a new beginning. Two towering icons, shaken images, muffled fear in the air. It was surreal, and I couldn’t believe it. Was this the latest advertising for another late Summer Hollywood blockbuster?

Then the second plane hit, like a remote controlled toy striking the side of the building, and leaving behind another long trail of smoke, destruction and death. A trail that would last well into the new decade of a new millennium, and the effects of which will linger for a long time to come.

Today, where two towers once stood, and which were once the very symbol of New York’s skyline on postcards, kitsch souvenirs and tacky T-Shirts, Ground Zero is a massive construction site. All around it, the remaining skyscrapers that were unscathed as the towers crumbled and collapsed like a houses of cards. In the reflection of steel and glass all around, it was as if I could still see the image of those thin white towers.

Soon, a memorial will stand where the towers once stood. Two hollow and hallow pits, with water falling into the dark abyss, will mark and commemorate the towers and people in them on that fateful day. Out of the steel salvaged from the rubble of the Twin Towers, a new battleship aptly named the USS New York is now being built, and scheduled to be commissioned as “an enduring tribute to those who lost their lives on 9/11 and […] will carry the spirit of New York wherever she goes in defense of our country”. A sculpture that had stood but not stands a few blocks away in Battery Park as a testament to the “hope and indestructible spirit of this country”.

Indeed, seven years on, New York is still abuzz with life and spirit. Perhaps less so with the economic downturn looming overhead, but when I wandered the city in the bitter cold of a clear winter’s day, the rush of people and glitter of Christmas decorations gave life to the city.

From the top of the Rock I admired the city’s impressive skyline, and indulged in my fetish for towering buildings. The Empire State Building stood before me, so much more magnificent than that 3D puzzle I have at home. Surrounding it, structures of steel, concrete, dark glass and reflecting windows each vied for a peek at the heavens above in the dense undergrowth of the Manhattan’s grid-like streets. In close to 12 hours, I had walked from Central Park, that ‘green’ (actually, white because of the snow) oasis downtown, past the glitzy and animated billboards of Broadway and Time Square down to the river bank where the Intrepid was moored. From there, I trailed the undiscovered side-streets of Greenwich Village and Chelsea all the way down to the old downtown area. The virile charging bull which famously guards one of the streets close to the stock exchange was sadly nowhere to be seen. As I wandered on, I figured that perhaps he had been chased away by a grim-looking bear.

With a hoard of people, probably the majority of whom were tourists, I took the ferry to Staten Island, and back. As the ferry cruised across the Hudson, I looked back at the city, reflecting in the golden hue of dusk, against a dimming sky of blue. Seagulls flew, waves calmly lashed, and in the distance, that French lady of liberty stood, her flame reflecting in the sun. How many millions have sailed across these very waters, been equally surrounded by the song of seagulls, and longed for the land ahead?

I continued my walk, this time going north, past familiar signs and that pagoda-like gate which unmistakably, like every else in the world, marked Chinatown. I continued further, up broad ways and avenues till the bright lights of glamorous stores and shops came to life at night.

On the streets of New York, millions went about their daily lives in, hurrying past this leisurely traveller who saw sights and signs that perhaps many because of their haste to get to places look at daily, but cannot see. With the playful display of changing light of day, I wandered around the city, peeking into alleyways, up at the confined spaces between skyscrapers. I walked over iconic manholes from which dense white clouds escaped, while in the background rang the sirens and horns of speeding busses and cars, as screeching wheels echoed in the labyrinth of rails below. It was like another world, a world of and in its own, with so many sights, smells and surprises.

New York, New York… I had made it there. And now I can make it anywhere.

From the heart of Empire

His eyes were hollow, his mouth contorted in frozen agony. Silver skinned, his helmet sat crooked on his head, as he looked on to the wide field around him. The platoon stood still, rifles at the ready, their military ponchos wavering in mid-air. A breathtaking, awing sight. A sight even more eerie at night, I was told.

I stepped silently around the Korean War Memorial, and saw the reflection of the sculptures of soldiers on the black memorial wall. A reflection of the past, projected so vividly and harshly through to the present. Silhouettes, images, impressions of soldiers, civilians, war planes, hallowed villages, broken men, women and children appeared as I stepped close. A tribute to those who fought and died. How many nobody really knows. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers, a million or more civilians, not to mention the many, many lost in action. “Freedom is not free” reminds a plaque towards which the sculptures of war-forlorn soldiers are marching. And the Land of the Free paid much of the price in conflicts large and small throughout the past century. Not to conquer, but supposedly in the defense of freedom, in the perpetuance of democracy, and in the struggle against tyranny.

Guam, Vietnam, Normandy, Tripoli, Formosa, Iwo Jima, Pearl Harbour, Berlin, Arnhem, Afghanistan, Iraq… “Countries they never knew and peoples they never met”. The heart of Washington D.C. is littered with memorials dedicated to the glorious dead, and spine-shivering quotes from visionaries, generals, and presidents past.

Walking around, you cannot but feel what sense of pride this nation has achieved politically and militarily in its relatively young age. A nation born out of and shaped by revolutions and the barrel of the gun. A nation bound by the bonds of brotherhood, bloodshed, and that common belief in the cause of that much trumped—but often empty-of-meaning— idea(l)s of “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. Its prowess is known, its greatness is felt, at times in desperation and need, and at times in shows of hypocrisy and big power arrogance. A great nation, no doubt. One that as a citizen of this world, and as a witness of (hu)man-made histories and tragedies, you either develop a feelings of hate or love towards.

Reflecting in a narrow pool is watery image of the Washington Monument, erected on the 100^th anniversary of the first President’s birth. Surrounding this giant marble candle, the stars and stripes of the United States of America flutter and flap in the wind. Even the most hardened sceptic cannot deny the effect flying flags can evoke deep inside. To one side, the dome of the Capitol glows in the dark in the background. To the other side, beyond the lit National Christmas Tree, past the silhouette of a giant chanuka chandelier, a faint glow illuminated the famous semi-circular archway of the White House. I stood there a few moments, and tried to peer inside, trying to imagine the man who has a proven record of not just being able to dodge difficult questions from probing journalists, but flying shoes too, was up to. No good visitor to the heart of the American empire can skip the very building where many presidents have come and gone, and the face and direction of much of the world’s history has been influenced and written.

A stern-faced Lincoln sits on his high chair and perpetually overlooks the city. The President that brought a once divided nation together and freed oppressed African-American slaves must have listened and watched attentively and proudly as Dr King stood at the steps before him and pronounced his dream. That same dream will soon be realised, and the house behind the rose garden, beautiful lawn, and cordon after cordon of fences, concrete buffers, sniffer dogs and armed policemen and security guards will no longer be as white as its name says it is.

Fourteen years ago, a boy skipped around the steps of these great monuments and posed candidly for pictures wearing an oversized T-shirt bought from a souvenir shop somewhere, He thought it was ‘cool’ to wear something which had the seal of the United States of America on the back and front. Fourteen years later, I wandered through the same streets, paths and alleyways of Washington DC, and had very different feelings to the same surroundings.

Perhaps there is a(n unhealthy?) sense of cynicism and criticism through the lenses which I see things today. A sense heightened by the forms and declarations I have had to fill in even before boarding my plane to the States. One cannot feel a bit apprehensive when the ‘greeting’ at the airport is having yours baggage poked and prodded, checked and scrutinised, not to mention having to take off your shoes and being subject to a body search. All in the name of national security… in the ironic state of insecurity, suspicion and “fight terrorism” which the country finds (or has trapped) itself in today.

The US government may have a permanent record of my finger and thumb prints. But my impressions, good and bad, of this great nation too have been captured, stored and worded.

Floating

I feel my feelings floating around, and feel frustrated I cannot capture them. The last week has been pretty eventful, meeting and getting to 'know' new friends, reuniting with an old one, while the stress and pressure of having to do well in my exams lurks behind. Torn sometimes between having to study, and wanting to make sure that my (renewed) social life maintains that momentum.

In a few hours, the final exam of the term, but I feel so ill prepared. Two huge readers to go through, and I haven't managed to read through half of it. It's space law, something I've studied and read about on and off for the last two years. It's supposed to be my 'forte', but I feel so not confident. Rush, rush, through the readings, marking red all the relevant points, but in the back of my mind I wonder if any of this I will manage to remember at all, in those dreaded three hours of exam time. And I have this terrible back ache and rash that I've never had before... this itch and shooting pain that comes and goes.... only to come back again when I think it's finally gone.

Then, a trip awaits. I had been looking forward to it, working toward it all these weeks, all this time since I booked my flight to Washington. But now, somehow, the enthousiasm has faded and died, and I somehow look to the trip ahead with dread. Maybe it's this pre-exam pressure building that's preventing me from seeing the fun that I can have....

But I think there's something more sinister than that too. It'll be my first trip to the US in over 14 years. So much has changed, and cynicism has somehow enveloped me that I feel like I'm about to step into this very foreign territory, which seems all too familiar, and frightening at the same time. The very heart of Empire...

Once again, I'm thrown into this world where my words and thoughts are incoherent, my feelings confused, and my mind racing from one thought to another. All the while I feel lost, and am hoping I could slow down, take a look around, and catch my breath.

And catch up on sleep too while I'm at it.

Rushed

Have patience.

Good things come to those who wait. Once is too quick, twice too fast. It takes time for results to develop, certainly when two strangers just meet and are slowly getting to know one another. Maybe it's the desperation of not wanting to be alone, not being able to wait. But good things come to those who do. Or so they say.

Snowfall

Slowly, the snow fell.

Drifting, dancing, silent and smooth, free and flighty. Like white blossom petals, falling gracefully from the heavens above. Some flakes were alone, other fell and clumped together. But one sure thing was their downward journey to Earth. The lucky fell on soft layers of accumulated snow. The less fortunate fell into puddles and vanished as soon as they landed, as if they never existed.

There is a kind of magic in watching the snow fly and fall. A kind of magic that is even more enticing when you are in the midst of it all, feeling the tinkle of flakes on your cheeks, nose, eyebrows. A tinkle that suddenly melts away leaving behind an ever so subtle trace of moisture, like morning dew left behind on leaves.

The covered world seemed to shine like a smooth, soft carpet of white. Trees creeked overhead, their upstretched branches frozen solid. With the coating of ice, the trees glittered in the dim wintry sunlight. Snow crunched beneath my feet, as I shuffled and slid on the road, ever so wary of the treacherous slippery surfaces.

I stuck out my tongue and tasted the snow, like an excited boy seeing snow for the first time. In a way it was. Never before have I seen so much snow, so much white and purity all around me. With each snowfall, a certain tranquility covers the land. When excitement meets and mixes with tranquility, there is an unspoken calm that washes over me that makes me want to go outside and enjoy all that snowfall.

At least for now.

You are powerful

Tribute to 60 years of universal human rights.

Just take my hand

Kijk maar naar de huizen om je heen
ze zouden nooit gebouwd zijn zonder steen.
En zitten er geen vleugels aan 'n vogel
vliegt het toch nooit ergens heen.
Ook al krijg je nog zo vele kansen
er gaat er altijd eentje mis.
En door dat je mijn gezang kunt horen
weet je ook wat stilte is.
Want het een kan niet zonder het ander.

Pak maar mijn hand
Stel niet te veel vragen
Je kunt niet als enige de wereld dragen
Pak nou maar mijn hand
Laat mij de weg wijzen
Het is geen probleem
Als je keer op keer jezelf wilt bewijzen
Maar je kunt het niet alleen

Als je weer 'n wedstrijd hebt verloren
en je voelt je niet zo fijn
Weet dan dat je extra goed moet zaaien
wil de oogst wat beter zijn
Maar je vind de hulp zo overbodig
want je weet het zelf zo goed
Toch heb je je naasten mensen nodig
die vertellen hoe het moet
Want het een kan niet zonder het ander.

Dus pak maar m'n hand
Stel niet te veel vragen
Je kunt niet als enige de wereld dragen
Pak nou maar m'n hand
Laat mij de weg wijzen
Het is geen probleem
Als je keer op keer jezelf wilt bewijzen
Maar je kunt het niet alleen

Ik reik je m'n hand
beschrijf eens je kans
Want ik bied graag m'n hulp aan jou (aan jou)
Ik hoop dat jij mijn handen vertrouwt

Pak maar mijn hand
Stel niet te veel vragen
Je kunt niet als enige de wereld dragen
Pak nou maar mijn hand
Laat mij de weg wijzen
Het is geen probleem
Als je keer op keer jezelf wilt bewijzen
Maar je kunt het niet alleen

(English Translation mine)

Look at all those houses around you

They would have never been built without stone

And if there were no wings on a bird

It would never fly anywhere

Even if you get so many chances

One will always go wrong

And because you can hear my song

You also know what silence is

Because one cannot be without the other.

Just take my hand,

Don’t ask too many questions,

You cannot carry the world on your own.

Just take my hand now,

Let me show the way.

There is no problem

If you want to prove yourself again and again,

But you cannot do it alone.

If you have lost the struggle again

And you don’t feel so well

Know ten that you must sow extra well

For the harvest to be better

But you think help is so redundant 

Because you know it so well

Even so, you need people close to you

Those to tell how it should be done

Because one cannot be without the other

Refrain

I stretch out my hand so seize this chance

Because I gladly offer my help to you, to you
I hope that you trust my hands.

Refrain

pre-Christmas blues

There's something about Christmas that makes it really lonely. Especially when you are alone.
The shoppers rush into the stores, joy and worry on their faces. The decorations, trees, lights. Pretty, but at the same time beauty better shared than enjoyed alone.

Never been a fan of Christmas, and promised myself long ago not to get into the spirit of Christmas, the be-nice-to-people-one-day-in-the-year craze. And again the radio plays soppy Christmas tunes, about lovers and lost love, about the cosiness of home and family life.

Totally oblivious to the feelings of those out there that have little or none of the stereotype of warmth, togetherness and spirit of sharing that Christmas is all about.

So tired of being alone...
Just want someone to be close to, to be affectionate with, to share, to care about, and to be around when I need support and the feel of the warmth of another human body.

Sleeplessness

Why can't I sleep? It's been going on for a number of weeks already, and it's very annoying.
I can't sleep when it's time to sleep. I lie down in bed, and these thoughts, memories, ideas, flashbacks run inside my head, constantly proliferating and multiplying, from one idea to another thought, from one memory to another flashback. Images, sounds, people, faces, places. All playing like an endless roll of film. All the while, I feel frustrated and defeated, especially as the time ticks on and on, and the morning draws close....

It's terrible not being able to sleep when you want to, when you're supposed to, and then to have to fall asleep when day comes, and sleep all the way late into the afternoon. The day is turned upside down, the night inside out, and I feel myself growing more and more frustrated and down everyday....

Because I can;t sleep...!

One down, three more to go

I did my exam in eight hours, not twenty four. After that amount of time, I just put a stop to it, and packed away all my books. Enough was enough.

There's only so much you can take of reading about airplane crashes, horrible accidents and emotional traumas from near-death experiences of falling out of an airplane. Even if they are fictional. I broke out in laughter more than once at the bizarre fact-case we were given to write about.... at least my professor has a sense of humour, which made the exam somewhat light-
hearted, and dare I say, easy (or at least, easier). I guess I'll find out when the grades are out.

So I got a response from the photo competition I entered a few days about, and I won! Not sure if it were the quality of the pictures, or maybe the lack of competition (ironically, in a competition), but the school office liked my pictures and will soon post them on the website. They called me to go sign a waiver form, basically giving them rights to use the pictures I'd taken.

I walked into the office, and there was a secretary at the door. She looked at me, a puzzled look on her face. I greeted her, and said my name, and who I was there to see. She looked into some kind of day planner on her computer, and tried to find my name, frowning when she couldn't. "What time was your appointment?"

"Well, I was told to come around ten, so there was no real appointment", I answered. The answer seemed to frustrate her. It was as if my answer was a stumbling block in the bureaucratic machinery that caused an unpredicted and unwelcome obstacle, delay, or worse, which prevented things from taking place according to rules, regulations, formalities and conventions. "No real appointment" seemed to be looked down upon. She picked up the phone, dialling.

A phone rang, the sound coming from behind her. No more than metre away, obscured by a small cupboard. After a ring, or two, I heard the other phone being picked up. I heard the other person speak, as the secretary spoke. They were so close, and I wondered whether they heard one another's echoes in the phone. They were so close, yet communicating over the phone. All it would have taken was to get up from the chair, take two steps, peak around the cupboard to talk to her colleague. But no, it seemed everything had to be so official, so formal, so proper.

The secretary hung up the phone, and I heard the other phone hang up too. Then I heard footsteps, not more than two, at most four. A lady with a friendly smile appear from behind the cupboard. The one I was meant to meet, even though we had "no real appointment".

I smiled, greeted her and shook her hand politely. But inside I thought about the queer episode that had just taken place before me. And I laughed. On the inside of course.

24 hours

Until now I've never done an exam that lasts 24hours. But I will be doing one this time tomorrow.

Not that the exam takes 24hours to complete, but we're given 24hours to complete it. And from what I heard, some people do take close to that whole time to do the exam. Perfectionists perhaps.

I just hope I can complete it in a few hours, and move on to the rest of my studying and maybe even start on the one assignment that I have pending. It's been almost over a year since I last did an exam, and I'm feeling the pre-exam stress / excitement / mix of indescribable feelings that swing between anxiety and euphoria flow all over me. Two weeks, three exams. It should be doable, since I've experienced much worse before.

But then again, this will be the first time for me to do an exam here in Canada. I'm not even sure what the professors are expecting... and I must do well, since each exam is 100% of my grade!
There's another reason why I feel under pressure. I must do well to prove that I'm worth the money the university is giving me to study here... how embarrasing it would be to be given a scholarship based on academic merit, when it turns out I'm no better (or worse...) than an average student....

There is also another reason, one that's been bothering me, or perhaps lingering around ever since I set foot in this new environment, ever since I started my studies... Dad would have wanted to see me do well, and he would have been so proud of me to be going abroad to study, and to do so with such a generous scholarship. He never lived to hear the news, or share the joy... and I feel I owe this much to him.

And much, much more.

Beautiful...

This piece always cheers me up when I'm a bit down... or when I'm drowning in books and papers and pre-exam stress and sleeplessness.