We're having a good day, today. Just chillin'. Even the weather has decided to cooperate, and after days of hot-hot-hot, it's raining. As I write, I listen to the rain outside. I love that smell - though it's masked by some idiot-neighbour burning something. As usual, in our kampong.
When I get really ill, later-later lah, it might be wise to think about a nursing home, no? I say.
Chuan gives me a funny look - like I'm talking out of my arse, again.
I can look after you, he says, flexing his arm. Ada muscles!
Ok.
We both laugh.
But, if I need to be in hospital, that's where I will go.
I say that I don't have any need to die in my own bed, in my own home, or whatever else it is people are said to say about their dying.
Bring on the oxygen, and the morphine, I say. Maybe a nice mix of both, in a strawberry tequila, even!
34 years.
Yes, I did one thing right: I married the right man.
