it's a lunch of listening, not talking, for me. i love hearing the old stories. stories of ri at grange road, the way the school was run, people who have come and gone, things said and done by students, and a case of poison pen letters that were mysteriously sent to the straits times. my mother is asked to tell her chicken story again, and mr wijey told me how he came to write his letters to his pupils. "your mother always comes into my office, drops ideas, and then goes off again" i did not know that it was my mother's idea that he began writing letters to the pupils, or that the fact that he wrote them by hand on coloured paper was miiko tan's. he has written over 40 letters, and they are being prepared for publication right now, and i'm eager for them to come out. i have looked up to mr wijeysingha since i was a little girl, and i will always think he was the greatest headmaster ri ever had. a sort of dumbledore figure, wise, unconventional, humanitarian, visionary.
i realise perfectly well that since i came home this has turned into not much more than a daily record of what i've been eating, but the fact is that i have been eating much and well and eating much and well does not encourage profound thoughts on the state of humanity or the future of literary studies. all it encourages is a fatly stupid contentment that doesn't let you stay awake long enough to say more than what you've eaten, so here we go again: christmas lunch with the wijeysinghas at their yio chu kang home - briyani, beef rendang, fish in a delicious coconuty sauce, roast pork, chicken curry, some kind of a-chah with a surprising amount of spice, curried vegetables, turkey, mango chutney, pepper prawns and a christmas pudding which wouldn't flame, and port. 18 to lunch, and we stayed for coffee till 4pm.