As I sit in Chandler House struggling trying to make sense of Q-implicatures and pragmatics as a whole, I look out the glass panels of the solarium and stare at the melancholic winter sight. There is nothing here to admire but buildings of bare red brick walls, even if they are worthy of admiration, which is less than likely. No blue skies, no flocks of pretty birds, no vivid colourful blooms and no lush green leaves - just grey clouds, nasty sky rat pigeons, drab buds (if any) and lame dead brown compost-ish excuses for leaves. Snow, at least, would make winter seem nicer, but there is none of that in London - at least not much. I laugh at how people think highly of the British. They are no less than Malaysians. They litter everywhere, spit anywhere, let their dogs shit all over the place. I laugh. London isn't pretty. It's not Huddersfield, where I grew up, where there are meadows with beautiful wild flowers in summer and blankets of pure white snow in winter. Then I come to think of the villages in Malaysia: dirty, daft, disgusting. Ok, bye.