Being transferred to Bayview Glen in grade five was my first private school experience. The change from Catholic school was subtle; aside from the better funded facilities and passionate teachers, the only discernable difference was the manditory uniform. It was there that I met John in my classes, but back then he was the bully who threw me against a wall at first recess. My parents intervened in the form of an angry phonecall to the teacher, and I learned never to tell them about my problems at school again, out of fear that I would be emasculate me.

John maintained a reputation as one of the kings of the playground. At that age, he was a precocious pre-teen, matching machismo with Daniel Cappon for the attention of Pamela Arstikitis, the acerbic, metal-mouthed, blonde beauty. I remained blissfully young and ignorant, and we never really got along.

In grade seven, he changed schools to Upper Canada College, as his grandfather had done over fifty years ago, while I went through both the test and interview, and didn’t make the cut. Our parents knew of the school’s prestigious reputation and yearned desperately for their respective sons to be alumnus. Two years later I made a successful second attempt, and moved there too.

I was by myself, in a school full of jocks, academics, and artistic esoterics. John’s reputation didn’t follow him to this institution, where he was the odd, alienated, aloof, young man, while I remained the small, dysfunctional boy who never fit in anywhere. We were seperate loners, and our individuality is what brought us together. We never had any classes together, so lunches were spent philosophizing on the bleachers when the weather permitted, or misbehaving in Mr. Lorne’s classroom, throwing textbooks at each other in the winter. Eventually we went our seperate ways in university, and John was the only person I kept in touch with.

In the summer between grade seven and eight, as part of the children’s choir of Bayview Glen, we auditioned for a part in the Canadian premier of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. This consisted of a demo tape, a semi-final competition between 25 schools, and finals of 10, with only four school choirs being selected. The judges told us to hold our celebration until all the finalists were announced, but by the time we were called, we couldn’t hold it in, and let out with a thunderous roar. It was the only time in my life that I was so happy I cried.

The picture of our choir, roughly 25 students between the ages of 10 and 14, ended up in the performance booklets that were handed out to the audience as they walked from the lobby to their seats in the Elgin Theatre. We were far from friends back then, but we stood next to each other. I still don’t understand why.

John’s haircut hasn’t deviated from a hastily brushed mop. Mine, on the other hand, has gone through various stages of shaggyness, poofiness, and occasional what-was-I-thinking. It’s just like the two of us. John did all his growing up before he was 12, and at his core he’s essentially the same person now as he was back then, while I continue the never-ending cycle of learning and growing.

And this will probably be true in another 15 years.

This is what I wake up to every day.

What I enclose in arm and leg at night, or press my back against when I roll over.

They say it takes weeks to get used to sleeping with someone (or without someone, when the relationship is over), but for me, the transition is seamless. All it took was an extra pillow, and some space accommodation for two stuffed animals, and a braided shred of old blankie.

Every day, I wake up between two and five in the morning. It’s an affliction I’ve had for years, something that wouldn’t be so bad if I could fall asleep again, but my mind always races, keeping me up for another hour or two. When she’s next to me though, my thoughts remains calm.

So what will I do when she’s gone?

Walking in, the first thing to notice is the aromatic smell of freshly brewed tea that permeates the air.

They wait on us using Cantonese with various accents, an assortment of dialects from minor provinces. They rudely throw the dishes on the table, and tell me that I can’t take pictures of the menu. My parents complain to me about the service, about their mainland manners, and say that they’ll never come here again.

I slowly sip my tea, and leave before it’s half finished. Even on a full stomach, I can feel myself getting uneasy.

It’s been six months since I’ve had a glass of authentic Hong Kong style milk tea. No more, I’ve decided.

Saturday mornings won’t be the same.

So I’ve deviated from my previous plan to wait until the new Canon 17–55mm f/2.8 IS came out before making any lens purchases. Aside from the fact that I would have had to wait until the summer for reviews that may be less than favourable anyway, the main reason is that my two dream lenses, the Canon EF 24–70mm f/2.8 L and the Canon EF 16–35mm f/2.8 L were being sold refurbished and used respectively. I make it a habit to check one particular popular online retailer every morning in case of any such deals, since they update their stock some time around five in the morning and most lenses are gone by nine, L glass especially. Although I had no plan on buying either lens (I had yet to see either up for sale until this month), I couldn’t pass up the opportunity. It saved me close to $2000 in total.

Now I have my ideal focal range covered with a lens that goes as wide as 16mm for my environmental and landscape shots, and another one that goes as long as 70mm for portraits. Both have ring ultrasonic motor focusing systems, which makes autofocusing beautifully slick, smooth, and quiet, with support for full-time manual focusing as well. They also go as wide f/2.8, which is perfect since I do a lot of low-light, indoor shooting, and the extra aperture blades provide buttery smooth background blur.

The trade-off is that both lenses are heavy, one heavier than the camera body itself. This comes from the fact that the construction is rock-solid and weather-sealed, being made from metal and ground glass. There are stories of people dropping their L lenses onto asphalt or rocks and surviving with only cosmetic scratches.

After all the money I just spent (more than twice as much than on the camera itself), not including the extra hand-strap/bag/filters that went along with it, I’m trying not to think of my next purchase. In the back of my mind I know that I want a macro lens or a full frame body, but I think I’ll be satisfied for the next little while.

And she’s alllllllllllll mine.

After four months, I finally have the perfect picture for my frame. Ordered a 12×18 print that should be in next week.