The suicidal feeling after you’ve come back from a really nice holiday

Today I met up with a friend who’s just returned from an almost-all expense paid div­ing hol­i­day in Sabah, and she seemed a lit­tle down because things aren’t the same as they are in Sabah, because in Sabah, she met many nice and hos­pitable peo­ple. Sim­ple folk with sim­ple lives but big hearts, kids with­out Nin­ten­dos, but with expres­sions of kind­ness, com­pas­sion et cetera. It was easy to under­stand why she was upset about com­ing home to cold (no lor!), heart­less, con­crete Singapore.

My heart went out to her.

Then my heart came back. Because she spent the next half hour talk­ing about the diving.

I know I’d like div­ing if I tried, but I do not like div­ing sto­ries told by occa­sional divers. They are full of fish. And under­wa­ter group pho­tos. And of this huge garoupa that was very scary and this huge clam that had no pearl. How the clown­fish behaved like clown­fish in Find­ing Nemo, and how the tur­tles behaved like tur­tles in Find­ing Nemo, and how the Dory, was it a Dory, behaved like Dory in Find­ing Nemo.

I know when I finally dive (and sur­vive), I will also tell sto­ries in this man­ner to non-divers. But in the mean­time, yes I am envi­ous of these under­wa­ter divers and their words which speak a thou­sand words with the help of some pictures.

…then we saw the elu­sive manta-hippo and it kept blow­ing bub­bles at us through its arse!