disgruntled, not dismissed.

i'm typing this from the comforts of the indian media centre. everyone's gone out to dinner. it's more or less half past 10 at night. i've been here since 9:30 in the morning.

i've been told to stay put with two other guys while the girls have gone home. i suppose it's for the better, but i'm not really sure what it is we're meant to do. frustration screams, but on the brightside, the boys might actually be paid more (renumeration depends on the hours you put in, apparently). excellent. the experience? it hasn't been much. my first ever full-paying part time job is just...a part time job. i haven't made new indian friends, but on the brightside, i have felt some ironic indian humour.

a british journalist had walked in to ask about a particular indian senior official. the journalists present had a brief explanation of who he was, and then she thanked them and left.

indie #1: "that was short-lived".
indie #2: "what was?"
indie #1: "the joy was short-lived".
indie #2: "oh, fuck".

ah. indians. not malaysian indians, mind you...true blue national indians. they're quite a great bunch.

there's the stereotypical drunk, old, unkempt, unshaven, gruff journalist who looks like he just came off a freight train.

and then you've got the #2 media glog who could've been a faggot. "tiger, tiger, burning bright". william blake. excellent.

and then you've got the dude who looks like he just came out of a matinee. with the moustache and panache and looks and accent to boot.

and the one with the british accent; concise and to the point.

indians. you gotta love them.

tomorrow's their last day here. i hope i can wake up in time. and have a good shirt to wear.

on a bright note: i've learnt how to properly tie...a tie.

tai.