3resilience

There are many things that are great about Australia, but the thing that surprised me the most was how cheap their books are. On our first night in Sydney, we found a used-book shop downtown, which was unfortunately closed. Revisiting the next day, we found a great selection of books, used, but proudly displayed in stacks that were sorted by genre and, unlike in Singapore, by author. I could have happily spent half a day in that one store alone, and would have, too, if it were not for our severly limited time in Sydney. As it was, I couldn't resist buying two books: Bernard Shaw's snappy-sounding Three Plays for Puritans, and Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day, effectively taking care of my reading needs all the way till January. And the cost? S$30 total.

And then, up in the Blue Mountains, along Katoomba's main street, you can find three antique bookshops, and you find that every antique store in that town also has a section dedicated to books. One wonders how many tourists must visit that one street in order to sustain so many book boutiques. I and Greg wandered into this one antique shop, and found two 150-year-old tomes, first editions of Ibsen's Peer Gynt and Dickens's Nicholas Nickleby. The asking price was A$60, and though it was a hefty sum, when you think about it, where can you get century-old first editions with hard covers, gold leaf and embossed details in Singapore? Two hardcover books from Kino would already cost about S$60. So we bought the two volumes, and gave the Dickens to Mum for her birthday, which we celebrated on the Mountains over a hotel-room picnic.

And finally, I found this splendid antique bookshop in Katoomba with first-edition collections that outstrip even the National Library's Rare Book section. It was amazing, wandering among the towering shelves with the books, some tattered, some worn, all much-loved and thick with the scent of age. It was like walking in my imagination. And found a handsome hardcover copy of a compilation of Conrad's The Shadow Line and Within the Tides going for A$12. It was a steal, I think: the volume had intricate cover details highlighted in gold, a ribbon bookmark and even includes reproductions of some of his sketches that went along with the stories. I originally bought it with a mind to give it away as a Christmas present, but it's such a beautiful book that I almost can't bear to part with it now, at least not before reading it first.

If only Singapore had bookshops like these, bookshops with editions that will cause you to judge a book by its cover, with editions that are more than literary masterpieces, but also works of craftsmanship that anyone would be proud to be seen holding, reading, or putting on one's bookcase. And it's not that Singapore books are that much pricier, but Australian bookshops have a certain discerning taste in books that means that they're selling you more than just paper with words printed on it. You can ask the shopkeeper to recommend books for you, whereas I can't imagine asking a Borders cashier to choose between a Murakami and a McEwan. And that means that you buy more than just the book - you're buying into a certain literary intellectual mindset. And in Australia, it's their pleasure to nurture that in you for free, which makes book-shopping there so remarkable.

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Finally, finally finished the testimonial vetting, and what a nightmare it has been. I shan't talk any more about it; I'm just glad that it's over, and I can have my mental wellbeing back. I realised yesterday how much time these testimonials were taking up, and how much, actually, I had to do this festive season - and all that even when officially unemployed. I'd like to finish the new gallery for the Australia and Malacca photos, and I want to visit my old sergeant, whose baby just passed his first month. There's Christmas decorating to be done, cooking to be prepared, and I want to toss out whatever I can from my room, the detritus of the passing year. And I have to put away all my army gear in proper storage, seeing that I'm not planning to clap eyes on it for four years.

And, beyond that, the trip to East Malaysia that'll take place after the New Year, and my 21st. Mum raised the question of the latter yesterday after mass, and it occurs to me that I'm the first in my generation to reach 21 years old, and so it's up to me to set the standard, as it were, for birthday bashes. And it seems like such an obligation now, to organise something momentous, because that's just the done thing and everyone would expect you to do something big. And you only turn 21 once, right? Given the occasion, my family's offering to organise practically anything I would like, and, faced with such a range of options, I find myself baffled and at a loss. What do people usually do when they turn 21? I certainly can't see myself doing a drunken-orgy sort of thing.

I get the impression that it'll be the epitome of self-consciousness. That's why I never organised anything to mark my own birthdays before. I mean, why would anyone purposely put themselves in the spotlight, taking other people's expectations and assumptions about oneself along with their presents? I picture inviting all the old friends from CHS and RJ, and having everyone standing around awkwardly, aware that we are supposed to be having the time of our lives, but also equally aware of the contrivance behind the exercise. And yet...there's that nagging suspicion that if we don't mark our 21st with something out of the ordinary, we're missing out on some crucial coming-of-age ritual. Giving up a big 21st birthday bash feels like depriving oneself of a childhood, almost.

What would I like, ideally? Well, I'd like to do what my mum did on the Blue Mountains: go to someplace exotic, have family and friends around, and have a good-natured gathering, with no one feeling pressurised to act in a way that fits in with social conventions. After all, it's only the people that counts. And if we could pull that off, I think I couldn't bring myself to ask for more. And I'd have had something that some other people would, perhaps, not even think to consider as a worthy way to celebrate a birthday.