Tuesday With the Blues

My life, so far, this past week consists of the following routine:

my window to the outside world

my window to the outside world

  • wake up to the growls of puppies tearing each other apart over some piece of garbage they’ve rootled from my neighbors’ trash;
  • boil water in my heating pot, then drink hot ginger tea while still in bed;
  • boil another potful of water, this time for my bestest buddy, the packet of instant pancit canton/noodles (we get along nicely these past few days);
  • scald the noodles, discard the water, dig up some crackers and cheese, and then eat breakfast (again, still in bed);
  • curly breakfast in bed

  • go to the bathroom, check the bathwater supply and then refill the empty pails. a trip to the water pump is unavoidable. on the way there, i face overfriendly dogs who try to clamber up to be hugged, thereby muddying my clothes, and a murderous overprotective mother hen, with a single scraggly chick, who always snaps at me when I am within her 3-meter-radius perimeter;
  • after surviving the ordeal of fetching water for the bath, take a trip to the market (this, as mentioned before, happens every two days or so) to get drinking water from the coin-op machine;
  • back to the boarding house to numb brain and fan the seditious flame growing in the heart with the final chapters of my other buddy Rizal’s El Filibusterismo;
  • take a bath;
  • sleep until the alarm clock says it’s time to get up again;
  • dress;
  • drive to work;
  • be amazed at the number of employees pouring in from the highway and rushing to the log-in building;
  • slave away for eight hours in the production line of The Shoe Factory;
  • return to the boarding house;
  • dress down;
  • sleep;
  • see above.

Oh… I took a pic of a sign pasted on the wall of the common kitchen in the b.house. It might not be much, but I find the first request a bit “disturbing”:


I am still floating. It may still be weeks before I could accept that this is how things shall be for the rest of my working life in The Shoe Factory.




  1. What a lovely window to the outside world! What lovely writing, too! You make the commonplace beautiful, Michal. It’s a gift.

    One thing, though. Why do you call it the shoe factory? I call the think-tank I work in the chocolate factory but that’s for lack of any other name.

    Moved, by the way. This is the last time, I promise.

  2. Hello, Chin. Thank you for the kind words. 🙂 I shall update the link to your new site.

    It’s the Shoe Factory not in honor of a new spanking pair of patent leathers but because things there are as dreary as an old pair of boots sitting numb and neglected in a dusty dark corner. Lots of potential for the boots to revamp a wardrobe but the owner does not care to use it. (A bit of a propaganda, sorry.)

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