I am on the flight home to Singapore on an A380, and I just finished watching a movie “The Reader”. The credits are now rolling, and the accompanying music is beautiful; French horn, flute, piano, pizzicato viola. It is a good movie. Or perhaps I should watch it again before I conclude so.
A sobriety
But it is good enough to inspire me to write. It is good enough to make my lips tremble. It is good enough to engulf me with a sobriety a good movie, a good book does. I do not even understand all of the movie. But does it matter? It drenches me in a consciousness that allows me to notice every detail around me; my retina changing size as it oscillates between the glow of the screen and the darkness of the cabin, how the person next to me puts his cup into the cup-holder as he continues to read his book under his private light, how my fingernails hit the keyboard like a lady with long nails, how my lips feel as the tissue wipes away grains of salt after the crisps. I can feel the sobriety on the tips of my hairs.
The damp clarity
I do not know what this means, but this dampness of a heightened clarity of mind is so powerful it inspires both my mind and my fingers, allowing words to flow from both entities as if two jazz musicians improvising perfectly despite meeting for the first time.
The double bass and the piano continue to flow into my ears, into my words. I do not know what this all means, where all this is heading.
Uncle T
20 Jul 2009
19 Jul 2009
Learning to "let go" 12:27 am
My familiar grey hat in front of me, double espresso with milk next to me, I await my flight home. No, my flight to Singapore. For now, I am not certain where home is. But I will get there; I will know where home is, and I will get there. Home is where the heart is.
And now I must begin. I am ready to learn to “let go”.
The opening scene of the movie “Love Actually” is of an airport, and has remained a poignant mental mantelpiece for me. Airports are gateways to change, to alphas and omegas, to journeys. I cannot believe how real those Hollywoodish scenes can be, but here is mine right here, right now. Once I leave Heathrow today, I officially end one journey and start a new one upon touching down at Changi. It doesn’t get more Hollywood-harbinger than this.
And to begin this new journey, I must “let go” of the previous.
I never believe when someone says letting go is as easy as “turning the page to a new chapter”. Even if someone did say it, I believe they are euphemistically expressing a painful process, much like swallowing whilst having an awfully sore throat; you get on with it but it sure is sore doing so. Perhaps it is easier for others, but leaving Warwick behind sure has been and is difficult for me.
How can you actually let go of something that has become a part of you, when it has infused itself as part of your eternal entity? It is not like an accessory that can be taken off, it has become an organ; my university life in Warwick has become a part of me, a harmony so tight like a perfect fifth. So letting go will be at best “letting go”. To “let go” is to come to accept that the future holds opportunities and realities that my past cannot hinder. My Warwick experience can augment but can never replace my future.
Just two days earlier, I was so reluctant to throw out my old clothes. Daddy joked in his exaggerated philosophical stature that a new life was ahead of me and I should throw out my old clothes for new ones. But his joking swaddled me in a profound sobriety that I have to be brave enough to throw out the old to make way for the new. And so I did. Two bagful of abandoned clothes later, my heart wept not for the buttons and made-in-china fabrics, but for the breathing memories they held.
I sip my coffee. I check the time; one hour to take-off.
What about the hearts I got to know, the faces I got to recognise, the accents I got accustomed, the stories I shared, the bodies I got acquainted, the souls I intertwined, the experiences I smelled? These can never be let go off; they can only be archived in the shallow depths of my spirit, the key always in my mental-pocket, on hand. “Letting go” is learning what to keep, what to throw.
The speaker above informs me it is soon my turn to board.
I stare at my keyboard which is more British than Singaporean, my ring more French, my red luggage more Londoner, my grey hat and made-in-china shoes fully British.
The speaker above informs me it is even sooner my turn to board.
Faces, smiles, lips, running mascara, late-night messages, hands, cups, chairs, grass, bunnies, ducks, books, winter, Grey’s Anatomy, dresses with strings, suppers, toothbrush, summer, eyes, kisses, books, tears…
Its my turn. I have got to go. Row 45. Seat J. God. It feels like standing at the hatch before the sky-dive I never took. I can almost hear the MRT train announcements in Singapore. Almost. “Let go” nic.
My nostrils flare, I bite my trembling lips.
Uncle T
And now I must begin. I am ready to learn to “let go”.
The opening scene of the movie “Love Actually” is of an airport, and has remained a poignant mental mantelpiece for me. Airports are gateways to change, to alphas and omegas, to journeys. I cannot believe how real those Hollywoodish scenes can be, but here is mine right here, right now. Once I leave Heathrow today, I officially end one journey and start a new one upon touching down at Changi. It doesn’t get more Hollywood-harbinger than this.
And to begin this new journey, I must “let go” of the previous.
I never believe when someone says letting go is as easy as “turning the page to a new chapter”. Even if someone did say it, I believe they are euphemistically expressing a painful process, much like swallowing whilst having an awfully sore throat; you get on with it but it sure is sore doing so. Perhaps it is easier for others, but leaving Warwick behind sure has been and is difficult for me.
How can you actually let go of something that has become a part of you, when it has infused itself as part of your eternal entity? It is not like an accessory that can be taken off, it has become an organ; my university life in Warwick has become a part of me, a harmony so tight like a perfect fifth. So letting go will be at best “letting go”. To “let go” is to come to accept that the future holds opportunities and realities that my past cannot hinder. My Warwick experience can augment but can never replace my future.
Just two days earlier, I was so reluctant to throw out my old clothes. Daddy joked in his exaggerated philosophical stature that a new life was ahead of me and I should throw out my old clothes for new ones. But his joking swaddled me in a profound sobriety that I have to be brave enough to throw out the old to make way for the new. And so I did. Two bagful of abandoned clothes later, my heart wept not for the buttons and made-in-china fabrics, but for the breathing memories they held.
I sip my coffee. I check the time; one hour to take-off.
What about the hearts I got to know, the faces I got to recognise, the accents I got accustomed, the stories I shared, the bodies I got acquainted, the souls I intertwined, the experiences I smelled? These can never be let go off; they can only be archived in the shallow depths of my spirit, the key always in my mental-pocket, on hand. “Letting go” is learning what to keep, what to throw.
The speaker above informs me it is soon my turn to board.
I stare at my keyboard which is more British than Singaporean, my ring more French, my red luggage more Londoner, my grey hat and made-in-china shoes fully British.
The speaker above informs me it is even sooner my turn to board.
Faces, smiles, lips, running mascara, late-night messages, hands, cups, chairs, grass, bunnies, ducks, books, winter, Grey’s Anatomy, dresses with strings, suppers, toothbrush, summer, eyes, kisses, books, tears…
Its my turn. I have got to go. Row 45. Seat J. God. It feels like standing at the hatch before the sky-dive I never took. I can almost hear the MRT train announcements in Singapore. Almost. “Let go” nic.
My nostrils flare, I bite my trembling lips.
Uncle T
8 Jul 2009
The Room of Unfamiliar Memories 7:46 am
He walks into the room of unfamiliar memories. Yet, there was something familiar that lingered; a theatre ticket, a postcard, a face, a lingering presence. Yes. The room of unfamiliar memories also had a keen familiarity. He feels the room glowering bright and dark, bright and dark; oscillating between the familiar and foreign, familiar and foreign. He sits down to catch his breathe. He tries to forget the queasy feeling and closes his eyes.
In this realm of closed-eyes darkness, his mental projector sputters to life. Just like in the movies, scenes flash by; just pictures, no sound. He can almost hear the projector’s drone as it plays moving pictures of a smiling face, a roller coaster ride, a long stroll along the pier… He almost reaches out to hold the images. He jerks back to the reality of the room. It still smells of a person.
The vacant room of unfamiliar memories.
Sitting on the bed’s white covers, his eyes scan the photographs on the wall. Some recognisable faces but mostly alien faces grinning madly, hoping the photograph captures a moment in time of pure happiness, pure elation that will never be lost. We all hope that don’t we, when taking photographs? There. Amidst all the photographs, he sees a recurring face. Yes, it has that familiar smile. He subconsciously smiles as he reminisces that smile but quickly catches himself.
He starts to get fidgety. He gets up and runs his fingers along the edges of the tidied wooden desk. His fingertips contour the tiny unevenness of the wood-top. His eyes aimlessly stroll the room; its walls, its cupboard, the contents of the shelf. Suddenly, he tenses and pauses. He has the desire to open the cupboards, rummage through the books, smell the items on the shelves; he wants to discover the life behind them, their stories.
He wants to discover these faraway unfamiliarities.
Once again he catches himself. He tries to calm his breathing that crescendoed with his thoughts. He tries to push that desire to discover the life beyond these articles. Yet, he cannot seem to forget this desire. It lingers.
He awkwardly walks over to mirror on the wall. He looks into it as if hoping it would provide some guidance. Realising childish hopes of talking mirrors truly belonged only to fairy-tales, he looks at his own reflection and turns away. He decides to leave the room. Not because he wants to, but because he know he has to. He takes a final breathe of the room with his eyes, and walks out.
He leaves the room of unfamiliar memories, leaving a trail of hope that perhaps it will be all less unfamiliar, someday.
Uncle T
In this realm of closed-eyes darkness, his mental projector sputters to life. Just like in the movies, scenes flash by; just pictures, no sound. He can almost hear the projector’s drone as it plays moving pictures of a smiling face, a roller coaster ride, a long stroll along the pier… He almost reaches out to hold the images. He jerks back to the reality of the room. It still smells of a person.
The vacant room of unfamiliar memories.
Sitting on the bed’s white covers, his eyes scan the photographs on the wall. Some recognisable faces but mostly alien faces grinning madly, hoping the photograph captures a moment in time of pure happiness, pure elation that will never be lost. We all hope that don’t we, when taking photographs? There. Amidst all the photographs, he sees a recurring face. Yes, it has that familiar smile. He subconsciously smiles as he reminisces that smile but quickly catches himself.
He starts to get fidgety. He gets up and runs his fingers along the edges of the tidied wooden desk. His fingertips contour the tiny unevenness of the wood-top. His eyes aimlessly stroll the room; its walls, its cupboard, the contents of the shelf. Suddenly, he tenses and pauses. He has the desire to open the cupboards, rummage through the books, smell the items on the shelves; he wants to discover the life behind them, their stories.
He wants to discover these faraway unfamiliarities.
Once again he catches himself. He tries to calm his breathing that crescendoed with his thoughts. He tries to push that desire to discover the life beyond these articles. Yet, he cannot seem to forget this desire. It lingers.
He awkwardly walks over to mirror on the wall. He looks into it as if hoping it would provide some guidance. Realising childish hopes of talking mirrors truly belonged only to fairy-tales, he looks at his own reflection and turns away. He decides to leave the room. Not because he wants to, but because he know he has to. He takes a final breathe of the room with his eyes, and walks out.
He leaves the room of unfamiliar memories, leaving a trail of hope that perhaps it will be all less unfamiliar, someday.
Uncle T
The Cacophony Orchestra 2:53 am
The swirl of the washing machine. The onions being chopped on the worn chopping board. He reads. Her life unfolds as his dedicated eyes run across the lines of words. A picture paints a thousand words; a word paints only a partial picture. He imagines all the bits that the words do not reveal. He tries to complete her life-story with only his imagination; soft, fluffy cloud-like imagination which dissolves in the hand. The washing machine continues to churn.
So does his desire. No, it has gone beyond curiosity and crossed that narrow border into desire; some unexplainable hunger. More than the words he reads about her, beyond the imagined gaps he fills between the fonts, he wants to know her. Yet, he gets this strange feeling he knows her from somewhere before. The tap drips into the stainless steel basin.
He wants to be part of her story.
As his cornea takes in every sarif of the words on the page, his being is desperately wanting to jump into the well-thought verses and poetic imaginary; he wants to be in the narrative. He wants to be the narrative. He wants it so bad that he cannot bear reading on not finding himself in the story. He wants to throw the pages into the English summer breeze, yet he knows Regret will hound him the minute it is done. The water in the electric kettle starts to boil.
But how? How does he get into the story? Would the story be equally enigmatic and captivating if he forces himself into it? No, if he wants to be in the story, he wants to be invited in, fitting perfectly as a semi-colon fits into a beautiful sentence; how romantic. Well, perhaps such romance is reserved only for day-dreams and Hollywood. "Damn it! Is it wrong to dream, to desire?" he yells silently. All he hears is the click of the electric kettle. The water is boiled.
He waits.
He still does not get an answer. When will he get an answer? Will he ever? Perhaps it is best he learns to let go. Perhaps her story is best the way it is, with him following it off a page. "Drop the darn story and move on. Move on," a undecipherable voice whispers in a shout. No. It just seems all too real, all too certain that this might just be the story to follow from start to end! He wants an answer, an inspiration, a feather of direction. The washing machine spins to its climatic scream.
And still he waits for an answer. The food starts to cook in the boiling water.
Uncle T
So does his desire. No, it has gone beyond curiosity and crossed that narrow border into desire; some unexplainable hunger. More than the words he reads about her, beyond the imagined gaps he fills between the fonts, he wants to know her. Yet, he gets this strange feeling he knows her from somewhere before. The tap drips into the stainless steel basin.
He wants to be part of her story.
As his cornea takes in every sarif of the words on the page, his being is desperately wanting to jump into the well-thought verses and poetic imaginary; he wants to be in the narrative. He wants to be the narrative. He wants it so bad that he cannot bear reading on not finding himself in the story. He wants to throw the pages into the English summer breeze, yet he knows Regret will hound him the minute it is done. The water in the electric kettle starts to boil.
But how? How does he get into the story? Would the story be equally enigmatic and captivating if he forces himself into it? No, if he wants to be in the story, he wants to be invited in, fitting perfectly as a semi-colon fits into a beautiful sentence; how romantic. Well, perhaps such romance is reserved only for day-dreams and Hollywood. "Damn it! Is it wrong to dream, to desire?" he yells silently. All he hears is the click of the electric kettle. The water is boiled.
He waits.
He still does not get an answer. When will he get an answer? Will he ever? Perhaps it is best he learns to let go. Perhaps her story is best the way it is, with him following it off a page. "Drop the darn story and move on. Move on," a undecipherable voice whispers in a shout. No. It just seems all too real, all too certain that this might just be the story to follow from start to end! He wants an answer, an inspiration, a feather of direction. The washing machine spins to its climatic scream.
And still he waits for an answer. The food starts to cook in the boiling water.
Uncle T
1 Jul 2009
right back where i started 7:27 am
I am back in Coventry, as Daddy puts it "my territory". So its right back in the city I set out from some 3 weeks ago when I last finished my exams.
I must admit its rather surreal, sitting in another person's room, where it will be the final location of my preparation before heading back to Singapore for good; Dawoon's room shall be the location my mind, body and spirit will prepare for that journey back. It is a journey not just of 13 hours, but from the head to the heart as well; the journey of acceptance of a chapter that has just gone by.
As Dawoon's photos stare down on me, sharing snippets of memories, so too does my mind string out polaroids of memories that Warwick has brought me.
It is all rather surreal; having Mummy and Mei being here with me in Coventry, at Warwick, and as graduation beckons in 14 days.
Oh boy. As Mei says "ZOMG". Amen.
Uncle T
I must admit its rather surreal, sitting in another person's room, where it will be the final location of my preparation before heading back to Singapore for good; Dawoon's room shall be the location my mind, body and spirit will prepare for that journey back. It is a journey not just of 13 hours, but from the head to the heart as well; the journey of acceptance of a chapter that has just gone by.
As Dawoon's photos stare down on me, sharing snippets of memories, so too does my mind string out polaroids of memories that Warwick has brought me.
It is all rather surreal; having Mummy and Mei being here with me in Coventry, at Warwick, and as graduation beckons in 14 days.
Oh boy. As Mei says "ZOMG". Amen.
Uncle T
28 Jun 2009
from london, with ambivalence. 6:38 am
I cannot wait to get back in front of my Mac; contemplate and type. It has been more than 3 days since I officially left independence behind after meeting up with the family in Paris. Do not get me wrong; its not exactly a bad thing, being with the beloved family.
Yet, there is still that part of me that yearns for the quietness when I desire, and the doing when I desire, where everything was to my schedule, my preferences. I find myself exhausted at the end of the day after all that interaction with the family. Again, its not a bad thing. But perhaps I just already miss that totality of independence and choice of solitude whenever I pleased.
But yet the sand keeps tipping into the space below and Time runs its course. Soon, I will be back in Coventry without me realising that my solo graduation has become a long-gone living memory which I can only relive through my pictures; I'm not even certain any other living soul would be interested in my trip.
And so it is. These are memories for me to keep and savour. Would always be nice to share it to persons willing to share in it. But till then, its learning how to be alone without being alone.
Graduation is coming up. Work and responsibilities beckon. Fingers crossed. From London, with ambivalence.
Uncle T
Yet, there is still that part of me that yearns for the quietness when I desire, and the doing when I desire, where everything was to my schedule, my preferences. I find myself exhausted at the end of the day after all that interaction with the family. Again, its not a bad thing. But perhaps I just already miss that totality of independence and choice of solitude whenever I pleased.
But yet the sand keeps tipping into the space below and Time runs its course. Soon, I will be back in Coventry without me realising that my solo graduation has become a long-gone living memory which I can only relive through my pictures; I'm not even certain any other living soul would be interested in my trip.
And so it is. These are memories for me to keep and savour. Would always be nice to share it to persons willing to share in it. But till then, its learning how to be alone without being alone.
Graduation is coming up. Work and responsibilities beckon. Fingers crossed. From London, with ambivalence.
Uncle T
19 Jun 2009
I waited.
At the foot of Piazzale Michelangelo, Florence, Italy, I waited for the right moment to capture the sunset over Firenze. The sun was already colouring the entire city in yellow; the trees, the houses, the river. I was awaiting that magical moment when it was not all about the sun, but the harmony of all the elements for the perfect Tuscan sunset. I waited.
And then it came. The sun gave off its majestic red as it slowly descended behind the Tuscan hills. The sky harmonised with the red with its subtle bluish tinge at the top, the Tuscan hills provided the timeless bass, the dome of the imposing cathedral and the rest of the city skyline provided the alton tones, the River the tenor and the birds in flocks the soprano.
It was a symphonic sight. It honestly felt as He added the final touch to a landscape masterpiece. Unlike our attempts of masterpieces, Nature's takes place daily, years before and years to come.
But no matter how patient I was in attempting to take the perfect photograph, the limits of the frame can never, and will never, capture Nature's boundless beauty.
Uncle T
At the foot of Piazzale Michelangelo, Florence, Italy, I waited for the right moment to capture the sunset over Firenze. The sun was already colouring the entire city in yellow; the trees, the houses, the river. I was awaiting that magical moment when it was not all about the sun, but the harmony of all the elements for the perfect Tuscan sunset. I waited.
And then it came. The sun gave off its majestic red as it slowly descended behind the Tuscan hills. The sky harmonised with the red with its subtle bluish tinge at the top, the Tuscan hills provided the timeless bass, the dome of the imposing cathedral and the rest of the city skyline provided the alton tones, the River the tenor and the birds in flocks the soprano.
It was a symphonic sight. It honestly felt as He added the final touch to a landscape masterpiece. Unlike our attempts of masterpieces, Nature's takes place daily, years before and years to come.
But no matter how patient I was in attempting to take the perfect photograph, the limits of the frame can never, and will never, capture Nature's boundless beauty.
Uncle T
6 Jun 2009
"...that the joke was on me." 8:01 pm
I Started A Joke
I started a joke
which started the whole world crying
But I didn't see
that the joke was on me, oh no
I started to cry
which started the whole world laughing
Oh if I'd only seen
that the joke was on me
I looked at the skies
running my hands over my eyes
And I fell out of bed
hurting my head
from things that I'd said
Till I finally died
which started the whole world living
Oh if I'd only seen
that the joke was on me
I looked at the skies
running my hands over my eyes
And I fell out of bed
hurting my head
from things that I'd said
Till I finally died
which started the whole world living
Oh if I'd only seen
that the joke was on me
Uncle T
I started a joke
which started the whole world crying
But I didn't see
that the joke was on me, oh no
I started to cry
which started the whole world laughing
Oh if I'd only seen
that the joke was on me
I looked at the skies
running my hands over my eyes
And I fell out of bed
hurting my head
from things that I'd said
Till I finally died
which started the whole world living
Oh if I'd only seen
that the joke was on me
I looked at the skies
running my hands over my eyes
And I fell out of bed
hurting my head
from things that I'd said
Till I finally died
which started the whole world living
Oh if I'd only seen
that the joke was on me
Uncle T
Next! 7:28 am
Looking forward to the next chapter. Its time to close the previous. But the next will only makes sense relative to the previous.
No, but its time to close the previous, alone or otherwise.
Uncle T
No, but its time to close the previous, alone or otherwise.
"...and He goes ahead of us to make the crooked path straight"
Uncle T
5 Jun 2009
come come, ask me. 9:26 pm
how does it feel to be forgotten in your room? to feel you are the lousier man? to have your pride washed down the sink? come come, ask me.
for all my hope, passion, enthusiasm, optimism since my boyhood, is there no room for moments otherwise?
how does it feel to be left to fight your own battles when books and quotes tell you friends will be there? how does it feel to be there for others and find no one around when you need? how does it feel to celebrate your happiest moments lacking sleep, friends, and joy? come come, ask me.
Uncle T
4 Jun 2009
You in yours, me in mine? 6:08 am
"Am I becoming just another one of them? The latest on the list, the soon-to-be-forgotten as forgetting is easier than remembering. Will I become just a memory pushed aside as suddenly as it was triggered?
Will I be waving frantically outside the window, whilst you busy away in another world? You in yours, me in mine?"
Uncle T
1 Jun 2009
"You love someone, you open yourself up to suffering, that’s the sad truth. Maybe they’ll break your heart, maybe you’ll break their heart and never be able to look at yourself the same way. Those are the risks. That’s the burden.
Like wings, they have weight, we feel that weight on our backs, but they are a burden that lifts us. Burdens which allow us to fly."
Uncle T
Blogging: human race's salvation? 2:02 am
I do not often read your blog. But each time I do, I am amazed; amazed by your thoughts, your ponderations. I am saddened; saddened why I did not notice these thoughts in our conversations, in our interactions. I am proud; proud of who you are, proud that at the very least I know you if I don't know you at all.
The Return of the Written Word
In this way, I am glad for blogosphere. I have for so long lambasted short-messages (SMSes), emails, emotiocons for stealing the written word, or vandalising it. At the very least, now blogs allows for the return of the written word in a legitimate way.
I used to think that blogs were for the pretentious, the extroverted flaunting their lives to the world they think cares for them. There are those still around. Yet, there are also those who simply write to share their thoughts, to write to an unknown known-world, as a form of catharsis, as a means to cement our frivolous thoughts; for it is in writing that we think of how we feel, why we feel, and writing gives ourselves the legitimacy to feel the way we do, don't you think?
Human race clawing its way back
This desire to pen our thoughts, share our inner-most ruminations is not new. Whilst we consider blog-hopping today rather voyeuristic, would it not make the entire human race who reads fictions books voyeurs then? For centuries, the written word through books has been means not just to spread knowledge, but for authors to share their thoughts and worldviews. Blogging today is the same.
There is the writer. There are the words. There is the reader.
"Blogging may just be the salvation of the human race clawing its way back from the depths of the desensitising mechanical urban world."
I'll be awaiting the day that this quote will be attributed to me sometime in the future.
Uncle T
The Return of the Written Word
In this way, I am glad for blogosphere. I have for so long lambasted short-messages (SMSes), emails, emotiocons for stealing the written word, or vandalising it. At the very least, now blogs allows for the return of the written word in a legitimate way.
I used to think that blogs were for the pretentious, the extroverted flaunting their lives to the world they think cares for them. There are those still around. Yet, there are also those who simply write to share their thoughts, to write to an unknown known-world, as a form of catharsis, as a means to cement our frivolous thoughts; for it is in writing that we think of how we feel, why we feel, and writing gives ourselves the legitimacy to feel the way we do, don't you think?
Human race clawing its way back
This desire to pen our thoughts, share our inner-most ruminations is not new. Whilst we consider blog-hopping today rather voyeuristic, would it not make the entire human race who reads fictions books voyeurs then? For centuries, the written word through books has been means not just to spread knowledge, but for authors to share their thoughts and worldviews. Blogging today is the same.
There is the writer. There are the words. There is the reader.
"Blogging may just be the salvation of the human race clawing its way back from the depths of the desensitising mechanical urban world."
I'll be awaiting the day that this quote will be attributed to me sometime in the future.
Uncle T
Shopping in Britain 12:51 am
In marketing, consumers tend to be segmented by various categories. One of which, especially in the consumer goods market, is categorising by "lifestyles". However, these categorisations are not universally applicable.
The British lifestyle classification is rather interesting, and funny. So if you know anything about the UK, here it is, giving examples for clothing shopping:
This may be the only joy of studying, knowing such things.
Uncle T
The British lifestyle classification is rather interesting, and funny. So if you know anything about the UK, here it is, giving examples for clothing shopping:
- Avant-Gardians: interested in change (eg. H&M. Its Swedish)
- Pontificators: traditionalists, typically British (eg. Debenhams, where the only colour other than black is red)
- Chameleons: follow the crowd (eg. those who buy from Primark & Topshop)
- Sleepwalkers: contended underachievers (eg. those who hang around pubs all day with pints in their hands. Probably Oxfam will do)
This may be the only joy of studying, knowing such things.
Uncle T
