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The round itself was mercifully quiet, which felt like a small mercy granted in compensation. I was nearly out the door, congratulating myself on a clean exit, when a transfer landed — the universe's way of reminding me not to count my chickens. I noted it, made the necessary arrangements, and then, with the practised detachment one develops, simply got on with my own business. The admission would arrive when it arrived. There is no sense standing guard over a thing you cannot hurry.

Lunch was ramen at Lot 10, that reliable warren of food where one can always find a steaming bowl of something restorative. A good ramen asks very little of a tired man — no decisions beyond which broth, no conversation if you'd rather not — and gives back warmth and a brief, soup-induced clarity. It was exactly what the day required.

Afterwards I wandered into Low Yat, where the electronics live, and emerged with an e-ink tablet — the iFLYTEK AiNote Air 2. I have a weakness for these things, the quiet promise that this device, finally, will be the one to organise my scattered notes into something resembling order. I know better, of course. But the screen is easy on tired eyes, and there is a small joy in the unboxing that I refuse to deny myself.

Anita, meanwhile, had a wedding to attend in Shah Alam with her friends — the sort of cheerful afternoon obligation that sends her off in good spirits and leaves me happily to my own devices. So I went home and did the most sensible thing available: nothing in particular. I chilled, half an ear cocked for word of the admission, the e-ink tablet keeping me mildly entertained while I waited.

Dinner was a quick one at Kerinchi, the kind of unfussy meal that suits an evening when ambition has long since clocked off. I had no appetite for anything elaborate, only for something easy and nearby, eaten without ceremony.

And then, at last, rest — the thing the whole day had been quietly building towards. After a night so generously interrupted, an early surrender to sleep was less a choice than a biological necessity. I find I have stopped feeling guilty about these collapses into bed; the body keeps its own accounts, and it had a debt to settle.

So a modest day, all told. A quiet round, a transfer to absorb, ramen and a new gadget, an empty afternoon well spent, and a simple dinner to close it. Not every Sunday needs steak and grandeur. Some just need a soft pillow and a phone that stays silent. Tonight, I'm hoping for both.

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The afternoon was kept deliberately loose, the day's real business reserved for the evening. There is a particular pleasure in a weekend with a dinner pencilled in and nothing much before it — the gentle anticipation of an outing, with hours to spare before it arrives.

Idlan, ever attentive to the finer details, slipped off for a haircut first, then met us at Pavilion looking suitably tidied. We had booked RasaNya, a nyonya-themed steamboat place, which is precisely the sort of inventive idea that could go either way and, happily, went the right one. Idlan committed fully to a mala broth, the kind of decision that announces a young man's confidence in his own heat tolerance. Our own tom yam, ordered with the modest expectation of mild, turned out considerably fiercer than advertised — a reminder that one should never quite trust a broth that looks innocent. We ate well, and warmly, in every sense.

Afterwards we drifted over to Bangunan Sultan Abdul Samad to walk off the meal, the evening air doing its part to cool the lingering tingle of the broth. Idlan, with the unhurried instincts of his generation, steered us to Niko Neko for a matcha, while I opted for ice cream — the sweeter, simpler choice, and one I have no intention of apologising for. There is something companionable about each of us choosing our own indulgence and ambling along with it in hand.

We took our time with the stroll along the River of Life, that stretch where the old city wears its best lighting and the water is made briefly theatrical. By night it has a quiet grandeur, the historic façades softened and the river itself behaving as though it has always been this picturesque, conveniently forgetting its more workaday character by day. The place was still buzzing — couples, families, the usual evening crowd out enjoying the cool of it — and there is an easy contentment in being one small part of that, neither hurrying nor lingering, simply present.

It was the sort of Saturday that asks for nothing in particular and gives back a great deal. A short morning, a meal at home, an evening out with one of the boys, good food, a gentle walk, and a city looking its best. No grand events, no fireworks — only the steady accumulation of small, good things that, taken together, make for a thoroughly satisfying day.

We came home unhurried and well-fed, the broth still faintly making its presence known. Some Saturdays simply get it right. This was one of them.

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The Friday clinic was long, and considerably busier than I had braced for. There is always a certain optimism in glancing at the morning list and thinking it manageable; that optimism rarely survives contact with reality. The patients kept arriving, more of them than the hours strictly allowed, and the list refused to shorten no matter how steadily I worked through it.

The morning, on top of all that, decided to test its mettle with a run of emergencies — several of them, stacked closely enough that there was no real pause between, only the brisk shift from one to the next. There is a particular adrenaline to those stretches, a heightened clarity while they last, followed inevitably by the slump once they pass. By three o'clock that slump had well and truly arrived. I was tired in the bone-deep way that no coffee quite reaches, the kind that announces itself plainly and will not be reasoned with.

Still, the work was not done. A quick set of afternoon rounds, conducted with rather less spring than the morning's, and then the paperwork — that great unglamorous tide that follows every clinical day, indifferent to how spent you are. I dispatched it with the grim efficiency of someone who knows that leaving it only makes tomorrow's pile worse. There is no wit to be found in paperwork, only the small satisfaction of an inbox brought to heel.

By the time I surfaced, the better part of the day had been spent, and so had I. Home felt less like a destination than a reprieve. We had an early dinner — there is no shame in eating at an hour your younger self would have mocked — and I found my appetite for the day's events fully exhausted, replaced entirely by an appetite for the sofa.

The evening's sole ambition was to catch up on Star City, which Anita and I have been working through at our own unhurried pace. There is a particular comfort in a good series at the end of a hard day, the way it asks nothing of you but your attention, and not even all of that. We let an episode or two carry us along, the plot doing the work so we didn't have to.

Then, sensibly and without resistance, an early night. A long Friday earns one, and I was in no mood to argue. The weekend sits just on the other side of sleep now, and after a day like this, the prospect of two slower ones feels less like a luxury and more like a necessity.

For now, lights out. The clinic will keep its tally for Monday. Tonight belongs to rest.

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The centrepiece was a podcast recording with the Max Family, alongside my friend Dr Razak — a man whose company makes most things more bearable, recording sessions included. It went well, by which I mean the conversation found its rhythm early and rolled along without the usual stilted patches. There is a particular pleasure in talking with someone you genuinely like in front of a microphone; the audience rather fades, and you are simply two people enjoying the thread of it.

The trouble was that I had, with characteristic optimism, scheduled another meeting much earlier than the recording could decently accommodate. So we were obliged to stop midstream — that slightly graceless moment where a good flow is paused on the promise of being resumed, like leaving a film at the interval. I made my apologies, made my exit, and went to honour the prior claim on my time. The recording will keep. Conversations of that sort usually pick up where they left off, even after a gap.

By the time the last of it was done, the tank was running low. There is a specific tiredness that comes not from any single exertion but from the sheer accumulation of obligations, each modest on its own, formidable in aggregate. I had earned my fatigue honestly, which is at least some consolation.

I made it home before sunset, which felt like a small triumph after the recent run of late returns. There is something restorative about arriving while the light still holds, the day not yet surrendered to the evening. The flat was warm and unhurried, and I let myself decompress into it.

Idlan was full of his university doings, eager to recount his presentations from the day before. He is, by every sign, thoroughly enjoying his programme — and there is a particular gladness in watching that. The enthusiasm of someone in the thick of their studies, before the world has had a chance to dampen it, is a tonic. He talked, we listened, and I found my own tiredness quietly easing in the face of his momentum. To see him relish the thing he has set out to do is worth more than I could easily put into words.

So the day closed as a good one, if a busy one. Plenty done, a recording half-finished and a friend's company enjoyed, a meeting honoured, home before dark, and a young man's eagerness to round it off. Not every full day leaves you depleted. Some, the better ones, leave you tired in a way that feels rather like contentment.

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The traffic, too, seems to have remembered its old habits. It has been thickening by the day, the roads reclaiming their familiar congestion now that the city is back at its desk. There is a grim sort of reunion in sitting once more in a queue of brake lights, watching the minutes go and the distance not.

The real drama of the day, however, unfolded elsewhere entirely. Mak and Julia had stationed themselves at Zehn, locked in the modern gladiatorial contest known as the BTS ticket scramble — two determined people, several devices between them, refreshing pages and willing the servers not to crumble. I have witnessed military operations planned with less intensity. The queues, by all accounts, were brutal, the kind that test both patience and broadband.

In the end, it was my account, of all things, that came good. Four tickets, secured against the odds, which I learned of via a flurry of messages bordering on the triumphant. So it is settled: we will be at Bukit Jalil on the thirteenth of December, somewhere among the masses, doing whatever it is one does at these things. I make no claims to expertise in the matter. But there is something rather lovely about being swept into someone else's joy, and Julia and Mak's delight was infectious enough that I find myself genuinely looking forward to it, expertise or not.

The rest of the day did what working days do — it filled itself, quietly and completely, until I looked up and found it nearly gone. I reached home late, though mercifully in time for dinner, which is the small daily negotiation between work and the table that I do not always win. To sit down with the household at the end of a long one, the food warm and the conversation undemanding, is a reward out of proportion to its simplicity.

Now, an early night beckons, and I intend to heed it. The first proper week back has only just begun, and there is no sense pretending otherwise. The clinic will be full again tomorrow, the traffic will not improve, and the patients will keep arriving as patients do. But there are also concert tickets sitting somewhere in an inbox, a small promise of December tucked away against the long ordinary stretch between now and then.

For tonight, that is more than enough. Lights off, and a sensible bedtime, earned.

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I have no complaints. The rounds were smooth, almost suspiciously so, the kind of morning where everything is where it should be and nobody springs any surprises. There is a quiet satisfaction in that, the professional equivalent of finding the milk hasn't turned. By the time I left, the day still had most of itself ahead, which is the chief reward of an early start one didn't ask for.

Lunch was the day's small adventure. We went to Banglo 289, tucked within Bangunan Sultan Abdul Samad — a building I have admired from the outside for the better part of my life without ever expecting to eat inside it. I arrived with the modest expectations one brings to any restaurant trading partly on its address, and was promptly proven wrong. The ambience was genuinely lovely, the sort of room that makes you sit a little straighter, and the food more than held its end of the bargain. Better than expected is faint praise on paper, but in practice it is one of life's more pleasant verdicts.

The afternoon was given over to a nap, which I will defend to anyone. There is no finer use of a holiday than the deliberate, unhurried sleep that comes after a good lunch, the kind where you wake unsure of the hour and entirely at peace about it. I surfaced slowly, the light gone amber, the day having quietly carried on without me.

Dinner was Irfan's call, and Irfan wanted Thai, which meant Busaba at Bangsar Shopping Centre. There is something reassuring about a young person who knows precisely what he wants and is not shy about saying so, particularly when the answer involves tom yum. The food did its job, the conversation drifted pleasantly, and we let the evening take its own pace, in no hurry to be anywhere.

Then home, and rest. Two holidays bookended by morning rounds is a peculiar rhythm, but there is a logic to it — the work anchoring the days that might otherwise float off entirely. Tomorrow the calendar reasserts itself and the ordinary week resumes. I find I don't mind. There is comfort in the return of structure, in knowing that the rounds will go on, the colleagues will fly back, and the small machinery of normal life will pick up where it left off.

For now, though, an early night. A good meal, a better nap, and Thai food chosen by someone with strong opinions. As holidays go, it asked for very little and gave back rather a lot.

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Two of the team had vanished eastward — off to a meeting in China, leaving the rest of us to redistribute the workload with the cheerful resignation of people who know complaining changes nothing. The round went smoothly enough, and by noon I was free, which on a holiday feels less like an achievement and more like an unexpected refund.

Anita and I pointed the car towards Wangsa Maju, drawn back to Alpha Angle for lunch. There is something pleasantly unhurried about returning to a place that once formed the backdrop to ordinary life. When we lived in Gombak, this was where we drifted on idle afternoons, before either of us had the sense to wonder where the years were going. The mall has changed in the small ways malls do — a shopfront here, a new signboard there — but the bones of it remain familiar, and familiarity, on a day off, is its own kind of comfort.

Lunch slid easily into groceries, as these things tend to. One does not set out to buy a trolley's worth of provisions, and yet there I was, examining the relative virtues of one cut of something against another, while Anita made the more decisive calls. We left heavier than we arrived, which is the unspoken contract of any visit to a supermarket.

From there to Mid Valley, on a mission for bedding — a phrase that sounds far grander than the reality, which was the two of us standing before a wall of identical white linen, trying to detect meaningful differences in thread counts neither of us fully understood. We chose something, eventually. We always do.

The final stop was the Apple Store at TRX, where the day's true purpose quietly revealed itself. Anita had her eye on the new MacBook Neo, and after the requisite admiring of the thing in its box, she walked out with the citrus model — a colour that manages to be cheerful without being loud, much like its new owner. There is a small ceremony to collecting a new machine: the heft of it, the promise of a clean slate, the faint suspicion that one's old habits will migrate across regardless.

We came home as the light softened, the boot full, the day quietly accounted for. Not every holiday needs to be remarkable. Some are simply for retracing old steps, buying sensible things, and watching someone you love choose a laptop the colour of marmalade. That, I think, is holiday enough.

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Breakfast was at Al Baik, which set us up nicely for the miles ahead. But then came the gut punch. Light Capture Cafe — closed. Gone since January, apparently. I stood there processing this with the particular devastation reserved for discovering a beloved spot has vanished while you weren't paying attention. You always assume these places will just be there. They aren't obliged to wait for you, of course, but it stings nonetheless.

Medan Pasar remains under renovation, still wrapped in its scaffolding and promises. KL is a city perpetually in the process of becoming something — whether that something is better or simply different remains to be seen. We stopped instead at Makan.BUZZ, which was living up to its name with an energy that bordered on infectious. Full tables, good noise, the clatter and hum of a place that knows it's doing something right.

From there, we cut through Central Market and threaded our way through Chinatown towards Merdeka 118, the tower making its presence felt long before you're anywhere near it. The real destination, though, was the lobby — Azul has his work displayed there, which is no small thing. It's a grand space, all height and light and polished surfaces, and seeing someone you walk with on Sunday mornings represented in a building of that scale gives you a quiet thrill. We admired it properly, because that's what friends do.

The return leg took us to Dayabumi via the MRT, legs pleasantly tired, the morning's mileage sitting well in the bones.

At home, I caught the first episode of Star City over lunch — the new For All Mankind spin-off. Early days, but it has the feel of something that knows where it's going. Enough to warrant a second episode, certainly.

The afternoon turned domestic. A drive out to WMart and Bangsar Village for groceries, which is the kind of errand that passes for leisure when you're in the right mood. There's a meditative quality to choosing ingredients when you already know what you're cooking.

And what I was cooking was wagyu. Sunday steak night remains non-negotiable in this household, and wagyu elevates the ritual to something approaching reverence. Seared simply, rested properly, served without fuss. Some traditions don't need improving, only honouring.

A full day, but the right kind of full. The kind where your feet ache and your kitchen smells wonderful and you've seen a friend's art on the wall of the tallest building in the country.

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There was a bittersweet errand first. Nala, the outlet in Kasturi Walk, is doing a closing down sale. It's always a shame when a place you've browsed happily over the years decides to fold. You don't realise how much a shop has become part of your mental map of a place until someone announces it's leaving. We paid our respects in the way one does — by buying things at a discount and feeling vaguely guilty about it.

Lunch was at Pak Jen, quick and unfussy, the kind of meal that exists to refuel rather than linger. It did its job admirably.

Afterwards, we wandered across to Bangunan Sultan Abdul Samad, mostly on a whim, and found ourselves genuinely surprised. The new wing was open — something I hadn't expected — and it's been fitted out with a cluster of restaurants and cafés that give the whole building a completely different energy. Heritage architecture with modern tenants. It works rather well.

We tried Tannin Hill, a tea house that offered a tasting menu. The concept was lovely, the execution generous — perhaps too generous, if we're being honest. By the fourth or fifth steep, we'd crossed the line from pleasantly caffeinated to faintly overwhelmed. There is, it turns out, such a thing as too much tea. A sentence I never expected to write.

We walked it off, exploring the rest of the new spaces, and somewhere during the stroll the idea formed: we'd come back this evening with Irfan. The place deserved a second visit, preferably with a different stomach.

So that's exactly what we did. Dinner at Jibby Chow, because Irfan had his heart set on dim sum, and Jibby Chow delivers on that front without argument. Idlan was too tired to tag along, which is the quiet prerogative of anyone who's had enough socialising for one day. No judgement. Some evenings you simply don't have a second outing in you.

After dinner, we returned to Bangunan Sultan Abdul Samad as planned. The building looks different at night — the lighting picks out details you miss in daylight, and the whole precinct takes on a more relaxed, almost European quality. We stopped at Niko Neko for matcha, which I'll describe diplomatically as an acquired taste. Irfan seemed more convinced than I was. I suspect matcha is one of those things you either feel strongly about or simply endure politely while waiting for someone else to finish theirs.

The walk back was the best part, really. The city at night, properly strolled rather than rushed through. KL rewards you when you slow down, and tonight it was in a generous mood.

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Clinic was busier than expected, which is often the way after a break. The appointments stack up while you're away, patients accumulate like unread emails, and the whole thing spills well past lunchtime. There's no easing back in gently. The day simply starts at full pace and expects you to keep up.

By two o'clock, I was in a virtual meeting with the Asia Pacific Leukaemia Consortium, which on any other afternoon might have commanded my full attention. Today, though, the tank was running on fumes. I sat through it with the particular brand of tired concentration where you're technically following the discussion but couldn't reliably summarise it five minutes later. The spirit was willing. The eyelids had other ideas.

The rest of the afternoon was given over to paperwork — the administrative backlog that builds quietly during any absence, waiting patiently for your return like a loyal but deeply tedious pet. I worked through it steadily enough, but the clock seemed to move with deliberate slowness, each completed form immediately replaced by another.

Home after six, which felt late for a Friday. An early dinner, nothing elaborate, just fuel. The kind of meal where function wins comfortably over form.

The evening, though — the evening delivered. We sat down for the season finale of For All Mankind, and it did not disappoint. There's something bittersweet about reaching the end of a season you've been genuinely invested in. You want the resolution, but you don't want the watching to stop. The finale landed well — satisfying without being neat, conclusive without closing every door. And the good news is there's another season coming, which softens the blow considerably. Even better, a new spin-off series has been announced — Star City — which suggests the universe they've built isn't finished expanding. More of that world is hard to argue with.

It's a funny thing, finishing a long day of work that drains you and then finding energy you didn't know you had for a television programme. Perhaps that's what good storytelling does — it borrows from a different reserve entirely. The one that clinic and consortium meetings can't touch.

The weekend starts tomorrow. The holiday may be over, but at least the week had the decency to be short.