Angela's Ashes

Date: 100710
Location: Calais heading to Belgium.

I was on the bus reading Angela's Ashes up till 117 and dutifully ignoring everything else when my eyes watered and my nose clogged needing sniffles.


And I chuckled at the innocence and wisdom of the wee lad of Frank McCourt and dabbed my eyes on my sleeves at the poverty and death claiming his brothers one by one.

In France I missed my family thus sms-ed my father. I thanked God for the blessings I have, the opportunity I was given, the bright blue sky of Calais, the home-made tuna and cucumber sandwiches and the two seats I procured on the bus.

Sigh. It's a nice change from the mind-reeling online fictions and mind-boggling PDF non-ficts I've been reading nowadays.

---

In short, this is a memoir of Frank McCourt growing up in extreme poverty. But the gold in this paperback that got me reading thoroughly was how he told the story with the keen observation of a growing lad, the innocence of a child taking the world at face value, and the wisdom of an eldest brother forced to mature up early.

Story-telling at its best.

---

Moments like this remind me how grateful I am to be handpicked by Allah to further my studies in Egypt. This place toughened you up yet the people and surroundings humbled you.

Though it does make you wonder; is there a possibility to be one tough chick with a humble personality?

Albeit me currently is self-centered; the intensity depends on who you are to me. [Oh ayat ini sungguh berlagak, someone do come here and lempang me.]

---

Date: 090710
Location: Waterstones Piccadilly Circus.

"Hi, good afternoon. I was wondering if you have Ashley's Ashes here?"

"Good afternoon. You mean Angela's Ashes?"

"No, Ashley's." Confidently as usual.

"Please wait, I'll run through the system."

I clicked and hummed while the Waterstones guy scanned through his screen.

"I'm sorry, there's no book by the title Ashley's Ashes. What is it about?"

"It's a memoir of Frank something I forgot."

"Oh yes, Frank McCourt. Angela's Ashes." He smiled and walked around his cubicle and gestured for me to follow him.

"Oh yeah, that's his name," I smiled sheepishly. "Sorry I got the title wrong."

Chuckled. "Irish writer, isn't he?"

"Ah yes, American-Irish."

He took the book from the top shelf that was quite beyond my reach and handed it to me. "Here you go."

"Thanks, sir."