We had the annual birthday celebration yesterday in the city. What struck me was how unassuming it all was. There was no fuss and no need to impress. We enjoyed ourselves simply, eating together, singing bad eighties songs at karaoke and getting soaked in the rain. We were at ease, like friends who have known each other a long time (this is true) and know exactly what to expect. When you're this age you no longer have an angry point to prove to the world.

So I found out someone significant from my past has moved on. I would have preferred not to know, and told this to the friend who informed me. 'Guys are all the same,' she remarks, condescendingly. 'Always regretting, but then it's too late.'
I despise such generalisations. The whole oh yeah all guys are like that kind of thing. It's so offensive. Is only one gender guilty of such faults? If I were to judge people on the sins of others from my past... But I digress. Do I regret? No. I am a little sad though, only because certain memories remain dear to me, and remain so, unsullied by anger, jealousy, and hurt pride. I am one easily haunted by the past.

Tonight there was Chinese New Year dinner at my grandparents. There were plates and plates of food - roast meats, seafood, tofus and vegetables. Por Por continually putting food into everyone's bowls; cousins yelling and shouting excitedly. A bottle of champagne was opened - Mum got a little rowdy after half a glass, while Dad turned a tomato shade of red (I definitely have my dad's genes). It's been a long time since we've all been gathered like this for dinner, and it's in brief moments like these that I realise how fortunate I am.

They say that whatever you're doing on New Years day you will do for the rest of the year. I'm about to start some work for what I know will be a very stressful night. Well, then...

I woke up on Friday morning in a state of despair. I felt isolated, separated from the world. There was this overwhelming feeling I was to spend the rest of my years in misery and obscurity. I did all the usual morning things - brushed my teeth, ate my breakfast - quietly diestressed. Was it some already forgotten dream I had? Or something else unmentionable? By the time I got to work and did the usual work things my panic had subsided and was placated. Nevertheless it was a bad omen, I surmised, for the weekend to begin like this. And I was right.

'I had a friend who studied three years of physio; in fourth year she decided physio wasn't for her and changed to physics instead,' she says, eyes wide and sparkling. 'I think that is a big waste of three years.'
'Not really,' I reply. 'If she hadn't done those three years, she wouldn't have known physio wasn't for her. Sometimes it takes people that long to realise.'
I don't regret this weekend. At least I'm no longer left wondering. In your old age, one day, you will remember the things you did, and regret the paths never travelled. As the train takes us to the coast, she plays the piano. In a reflection I see her falter. Not long after I'm on the bus home, invisible strings lightly tugging me back.

'Congratulations on your promotion!'
Promotion? Hardly. I don't feel like it's a big step. Or a step in the right direction. Or any step at all. Is this what I really want? I'm reminded of the story of the frog who will jump out of a pot of hot water, but sits in a pot of cold water and boils to death when the temperature is gradually raised.

A random event - the other day, walking home from the station in the drizzling rain, I was followed by a small black dog. I thought she would turn back as I walked further but no, she stayed with me all the way home. It was nice, having this anonymous companion trotting next to me through the rain. Sometimes that's all we really need on our journeys - some companionship.

And so it has come to this. I hold a lit match in my hand, ready to destroy the last remnants. But I can't. These memories are too precious. You'll remember me again one day, when I am ashes.

'There is freedom within, there is freedom without, tryin' to catch the deluge in a paper cup' - Don't Dream It's Over, Crowded House