The suicidal feeling after you've come back from a really nice holiday

Today I met up with a friend who's just returned from an almost-all expense paid diving holiday in Sabah, and she seemed a little down because things aren't the same as they are in Sabah, because in Sabah, she met many nice and hospitable people. Simple folk with simple lives but big hearts, kids without Nintendos, but with expressions of kindness, compassion et cetera. It was easy to understand why she was upset about coming home to cold (no lor!), heartless, concrete Singapore. My heart went out to her. Then my heart came back. Because she spent the next half hour talking about the diving. I know I'd like diving if I tried, but I do not like diving stories told by occasional divers. They are full of fish. And underwater group photos. And of this huge garoupa that was very scary and this huge clam that had no pearl. How the clownfish behaved like clownfish in Finding Nemo, and how the turtles behaved like turtles in Finding Nemo, and how the Dory, was it a Dory, behaved like Dory in Finding Nemo. I know when I finally dive (and survive), I will also tell stories in this manner to non-divers. But in the meantime, yes I am envious of these underwater divers and their words which speak a thousand words with the help of some pictures. ...then we saw the elusive manta-hippo and it kept blowing bubbles at us through its arse!

Surf stop: HOTEL

iTunes' party shuffle is playing a copy of: The Ballad of John and Yoko - The Beatles - 1967-1970 Disc 2, of which I have the original CD and therefore didn't steal music.