on not waiting.

i somehow sat in my chair today, and was something like a camera. i sat there.

and time passes.

i mean, fuck. time passes. the sun went down!


what'm i doing sitting here, doing finger exercise before the monitor?

all for the sake of marnee? aiya i don't earn much lah but i work from home which means i eat home and i drink home and i don't need purty clothes every day and i even save on transport.

so.. i suppose earning little isn't a biggie for me, thankfully.

but that's besides the issue. read an article on the newspapers earlier on - here's how it goes.

-----
no time for regrets.

the thick cables strained, a low whine filled the air, and out elevator car lurched. holding my son in my arms, i widened my stance to keep from falling.

unthinkingly, we looked up. we were climbing the Eiffel Tower, as the giant winch hauled us up above the clouds of paris.

across from me, an old woman scowled. her expensive trenchcoat was buttoned up to her sagging throat and a glorious shawl was pinned over one shoulder.

in her manicured hands she held a designer purse, and she shifted herself wearily against the open frid of the elevator car, adjusting her weight against the carved head of a mahogany walking cane.

i had first noticed her in Jules Verne restaurant, where we had eaten lunch. how out of place we seemed.

the legengary cuisine of Jules Verne had attracted my husband and me, and since we were traevlling en famille, we came with our two-year-old son.

we savoured each dish while juggling our busy tyke, in a dining room filled with international business people and elegant travellers from all over the globe.

a phalanx of waiters, looking curiously like penguins in their tuxedos, retrieved flying spoon and sullied napkinds as we struggled with our child at our table.

alas! my fantasy had been to dine with my husband alone, here on the mezzanine ofthe Eiffel Tower, in my best black dress, sipping champagne, and end the evening with a romantic toast to the sleeping City of Light.

finances and childcare, however, had not cooperated and i released my fantasy and stood there, holding a squirming infant and shrinking under the glare of an irritated matron.

i could imagine that our frivolity had ruined her lunch.

bringing out child to this elegant environment must have been deemed totally inappropriate. undoubtedly, as she had judgements about "those ugly Americans".

"how old is he?" her gaze centered on my squirming son.

i was taken aback. her voice was low and smouldering with a cultured European accent.

"he is 28 months old."

"oh," she grunted and turned her head to view the plaza below us.

then she turned and lifted her cane to point at my son.

"don't let him forget this day." she paused. "some of us wait too long. my husband and i always said we'd come to Paris. but first it was the children. then it was the business, and now..."

i leaned towards her. "now?"

her sagging eyes locked ionto my son's. hers a faint shade of blue, like blueberry stains in a sink. his were as green and crisp as the grass below us.

"now he is gone and i am here alone."

my husband pulled me close to him. my son giggled in delight.

"it's... hard to enjoy such beauty... alone," she sighed and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes as a small child would. then she looked away.

"seize the moment while you still have it. all too soon it slips through your fingers."

-----