Beethoven House story

And so that was Ed's big Friday virgin porridge. That was also the morning Allen, the owner, left for Singapore to take some vacation and most probably curse the weather over there, the cabs, the service at the hostel and whatever that would dare be different from his own vision of the world. The frozen lump of butter had also disappeared from the freezer, most probably melting and spreading all over his suitcase while he was flyling over Tasman Sea. Nothing could go wrong with the breakfast as we had been instructed over and over for the last few weeks - how to make tea, how to cut the apples, how to pour the hot water over the oats, finally how to diligently sweep the porridge bowl so that we needn't wash it anymore. We only smirked at the offensively strong morning sun and soon after we were all in the kitchen feverishly getting at The Big Cleaning . As I was chopping the iceberg in the freezer I felt the rush, the uneasiness again, the restlesness after being in a state of hibernation. The familiarity that I had been so feverishly seeking finally changed into oppressiveness. Again I feel it! The drive to make my own way down south, the mini-Columbus in me is coming out at last! There is something puryfying and relieving about it, as if I was getting my better side back. Running down the Oriental Parade in the evening, flogged by wet ghastly wind, I couldn't help chuckling (?!?GUFFAW), getting excited by the thought of recharging myself with adventure. Even more was to come later on, as a British cyclist Simon came to stay for the night. My adrenaline rose to a level when I could not sit still anymore being literally ready to set off any minute (I bet I was pedalling in my dream that night!). And so I am leaving.