Capital!

Mum asks me if I bothered sending the neighbor's third son a Christmas present; I'm the godmother, that is. I shrugged it off since I already gave one to the kid on his christening which, by the way, I was forced to do after my mum caught me and my sister howling in laughter over the kid's face. He looks like a baby tianak.

It's not so much as a social nicety that I'm highly affected by these kinds of appreciation. In the first place, I was asked to be the godmother; I did not offer. Like a good friend had mentioned, the christening gift should be bombastic to conclude the anticipated lifetime supply of yearly presents. I'm no saint, that's for sure. I won't point out that Catholics are half hypocrites that they go beyond what they can to maintain proper social conducts, I'm sure half the world's population also have that kind of mentality.


The mood for applying for another job is still on vacation. The one time I tried when I wanted to update my data on ADB's recruitment site, everything went downhill fast. I can't even blame my bandwidth because I there's only one PC running in the house. So, fuck them. I'll try again along with the other job-searching websites when I'm in the mood to roll out my patience.

I'm finished with the first part of the Valley of Fear. I find this novel to have a better ground than Hound of the Baskervilles because there are more characters involved in the problem and the solution. Inspector MacDonald is a pure twat; he's had less experience thus he's more likely to be the bloodthirsty type to not pay attention to the subtle nuances Holmes is pointing out. He's a good stooge, though. What impressed me about The Tragedy of Birlstone was the continuous conundrum on whose to blame. There's a limitation to the people to be pointed out and seeing Mr. Douglas himself emerge from the corner is a good eye opener. After all, it was only Holmes amongst the characters and the reader that treasured that hidden knowledge.