The strange thing about friends is that one day, you find you love them.

Whereas yesterday was winter, today it is summer -- clocking in at a whopping 75F. All the oldies are out sunning themselves at the park, including one grand dame sucking on a slender cigarette while feeding pigeons. Sitting outside with my Japanese bento box lunch, I flipped through a Jean-Claude Izzo novel, jotting down notes that occur to me in the process:

- What mood was he in when he met the woman he would one day marry?
- What were his hopes and dreams at the time?
- How did she embody those hopes and dreams?
- How did those hopes and dreams change because of circumstances he couldn't control?

This thing I'm working on with my friend is fascinating, but slow; it is a story that begins in France, and I have never been to France. So much of my time is spent researching the Loire Valley than on actually writing. But he is a good sport, answering all my questions with good humour. I am learning a lot about him through the process, rather endearing things.

In the meantime, three guys walked past the "Premier League Soccer" shop next door to the Japanese restaurant, which has Arsenal's away kit hanging in the window. The two Indians walked in, but the American stood outside enjoying his cigarette. Then, a guy in a black Pontiac Grand Am drove up and executed a beautiful parallel park with such economy of movement, I dropped the Jean-Claude Izzo and clapped. When he got out of the car to feed the meter, he turned in my direction and bowed.

This month is a bit of a jumble, with Malaysia not really cooperating, and me having to -- perhaps -- show my face at the office in a week's time (after I had stamped my foot four months ago and vowed never again to). But it's all good.