It would be a lazy weekend mid noon.

I would be dragged out of my comfortable bed, out of my sweet little Sunday dream. The next thing you know, I would be sitting beside wood planks of my size at the back of the old Saga. The sweet scent of the planks, blending with the dried sweaty odor in the car, I would breath in. I would be laying on the hard cushion facing the fierce Malaysian sun shining down through the windscreen on my youthful pimpled face. On the both sides of ears, Sunday Cantonese hits would blast through the speakers. And yes, their (most of the time) melancholic songs singing and babbling on the past and withering love would send me back to sleep. While dad swiftly changing the worn out gear, roaring the aging car onto driveway, heading into the city center, meeting god-knows-why-they-are-so-filthy-rich customers.

Drown in the saddening pop Cantos, I would, at the back, be respiring the sweat stink mixed with woody aroma, enjoying the sunbathing under the uncoated windshield while KL hot air blowing my hair, waiting for my lazy Sunday to be over.

Two years away from home, those nostalgic Sundays with emotional Eason Chan's never came. Not anymore I guess.