"Compliments of the Season!"

Frankly speaking, I'd never even heard of the phrase before. And even after I recovered from the bewilderment of the statement, I couldn't bring myself to say it either, for fear that I'd turn into a freakin' walking Hallmark card. I feel quite bad for the nice lady who tooted forth the words half a room away, only to receive a too-quick "Merry Christmas!" from me. A faint look of confusion fluttered across her face, revealing my social faux pas. Oops.

But honestly, why couldn't plain ol' "Merry Christmas" do? I wouldn't even mind "Seasons' greetings", actually. But going "Compliments of the Season!" seems to me too businesslike and formal. Or maybe this is what the working world entails. Have you heard any other odd ways of greeting someone that threw you off a bit the first time you heard it?

But anyways, I'm seizing the fact that today's New Year's Eve(and hence not yet too late) to post up some pictures - and also to celebrate the fact that I did actually do something vaguely party-ish this festive season.

One-eyed Zorro shows us the way to partay.

At St James Power Station
Looking slightly double-chinny @ The Gallery Bar
Oh hey! I changed my hair. (In case you haven't noticed.)

Poetry in Motion

A damn good fart
While not acceptable in public,
Is necessary
And can be enjoyed in private
With others.

Dear Friends,

I know I have been tardy in updating this blog o' mine.
But know this!
I have not left it for dead.

Tokyo, baby! (The Third and Final Installment)

...Where I dump all the dumb miscellaneous things I didn't know where else to slot in, but simply have to share anyhow.

In the middle of the dry market, where the likes of vegetables and houshold items were being sold, we came by this curio of a store which sold and displayed a musky menagerie of stuffed animals.

The Old...

I remember the owners of the little provision shop downstairs used to make deliveries on such bicycles. I used to get on the tri-wheeled version while it was parked and made-believe I was out on adventures.

A little bookshop, seemingly being held together by not much else than the mesh commonly seen at construction sites.

The New...

Mounted on a pillar at the back of an opulent-looking Buddhist temple, for the benefit of those seated there during prayer sessions.

And The Rest...

Our South Asian cousins indulging in a bit of fortune-telling, Nippon-style. (From what I'd observed, instead of presenting your stick of bamboo, shaken out of a canister, to a reader/interpreter, you help yourself from a wall of drawers (see: picture below) according to the number on the bamboo. Then you read it - your fortune is available in a variety of languages - and tied it on the rack pictured above. Mum asks me how to differentiate between what you are inquiring about eg. wealth, health, love, and I she got me stumped. I didn't spend the requisite 100 Yen to find out. But still, I'm sure the Japanese thought up something as ingenious as the rest of this system to get past that little detail. Perhaps it's all on the one same slip of paper, telling your future.)

Neh Neh puddings, which were available at one of the many souvenir shops outside the temple with the novel fortune-telling system (imagine the calls of blasphemy that would invite if this were done anywhere else in the world). I almost bought one to bring home as a gift to Barry, but then came to the realisation that they weren't packaged with the kooky, and frankly, all-important, illustrations.

In Shibuya, I wandered into a street where all there was were shops with pachinko machines in them. Those playing were so engrossed I had no trouble snapping pictures, at all.

Japan has a fascination with machines and technology in more ways than one. First, the famed toilets:

This little contraption produces flushing noises to cover up whatever embarrassing ones you make on your own - I didn't have to operate it, though; it kinda worked on its own.

This one is quite self-explanatory: click to read.

Vending Machines

Language barrier? No problem. Just place your order on this machine, pay (it accepted my 10,000 bill when I slotted it in, thinking it was a 1,000 one), and hand the receipt over to the ladies over the counter. Easy, no need for pointing at pictures and making wild gesticulations trying to get them to understand you. The only shortcoming? It still eliminate the fact that I couldn't read/understand Japanese (read on to find out what woes this caused me).

Underaged? No need for any ID when you purchase your smokes at your friendly neighbourhood vending machine! Comes in a myriad of varieties except the one that you actually inhale.

Forgot it was your anniversary? All shops closed? Fret not, just sprint down to any "Flower Gift" vending machine, and buy a bouquet of roses with ease. Freshness not guaranteed.

Tikam machines!! This time, I managed to get Barry a 'lil something.

Language

In a little lingerie shop in Shibuya.

In a convenience store in Narita.

And finally, this takes the cake, Fear Factor-style. My colleague introduced us to this sushi shop. At 105 yen (about S$1.50), Sakae Sushi-style, we had to commit to eating at least 7 plates in order to be allowed a seat. Once seated, they time you: 20 minutes if you eat 7 plates, 30 if you eat 10 or more. The coolest thing was, our server was also the sushi chef, kneading the sushi at lightning speed right before your eyes.

Meet Sushi Man san.

Some way into our promised 20 minutes, my companions and myself found ourselves having stacked up only 3 to 4 plates, with nothing to eat, some of the sushi looking like it had been alive only seconds before. Sushi Man san, sensing our hesitation (and maybe trying to take advantage of the situation and get rid of some stock), pushed a few plates of sushi towards us, uttering forth a mouthful of Japanese, the only word of which we understood was "oiishi".

My companions gingerly take a few of the choicer offerings. Unsure, and not wanting to seem rude, I picked another one out. I almost fainted when I took a closer look:

The photo does it no justice. White, mushy-looking and very, very raw, the vile-looking concoction sat there, daring me not to eat it. I had no choice - I couldn't put it back on the conveyour belt because I'd stupidly used it as a dish for my excess soya sauce, and I felt Sushi Man san's eyes on me, waiting to scowl in scorn if I left my seat without touching it.

Bravely, one of my companions picked up her chopsticks and picked up a bit of the mushiness. She put it in her mouth. A few agonising seconds passed as she chewed thoughtfully.

"Okayyyy," she ventures finally. "It's tasteless and melts in your mouth. Totally gross."

I wanted to cry.

"Okay la, I help you eat one. We eat together, ok?"

Salvation! I'd only have to hurl once.

We commemorate my stupidity she so graciously decided to share with me with a snapshot.

I take the plunge.

Immediately, I gag. All the negative anticipation didn't help one bit. I gesticulate wildly, indicating that I wanted to spit the monster out, but no one came to my rescue with a waste-basket or barf bag. In my desperation not to regurgitate whatever it was I'd already downed earlier, I decided to block out all emotions and chew. And chew, and chew.

With my nose pinched.

Sushi Man san laughs and points at me.

My eyes are watering.

I chew for dear life.

And finally, I swallow. In goes a mouthful of green tea, a chopstick of wasabi, to drown out the rawness of the sea on my tongue. Ughhhhh.

Tokyo, baby! (Part Two)

Finally, a day with the time and inclination to blog. Unfortunately, inspiration's still missing from the formula. (Maybe if I just inundate the post with lots of pictures, no one will be the wiser.)

Two young women wake up at the crack of dawn in a bid to catch a fish auction.

the normally crowded trains are empty, save for a few sleepy passengers.

the notice the ladies should have paid heed to before entering the market.

At the designated stop, they trail a bunch of camera-wielding ang mos, into the delivery stations of the market, and already find themselves in the midst of a hive of activity. The auction was over, but the day had just begun.

a scooter swerves past them, its rider determined to deliver as many goods as he can within his stipulated timeframe.

Stepping into the narrow aisles of the wet market, they realise they have to compete with produce-laden delivery vehicles, the widths of which fit snugly within the aisles - hence leaving little space for manouevrability, especially if you get caught at the crossroads with three or four of these machines coming at you, one after another.

one of said machines, its driver catching a breather outdoors & reading his latest sms

But from what greeted their eyes after the dust from the wake of the machines settled, the two knew that having less than 5 hours' rest the night before, splashing around in murky water, getting lost and eventually missing the auction, was all worth it:

the fishmonger at this stall pinched the crabs' load & offered it to the two ladies, who declined politely. they then watched in amazement as next, he popped the fresh roe into his mouth, chewed, and thereafter declared (with much relish): Oiishi.

more roe, but this time without the drama.

Sea urchins (as supposed)

big huge fish. below is a (badly-taken) video of the fishmonger slicing it up.

the first time Ms Coddle's seen red prawns this fresh. the first time she'd seen fresh red prawns, period.

meet the fish with the big sad eyes.

I used to be a people-person

On my first day of kindergarten, my grandma stayed outside the classroom and peeped in from the louvres of the windows while lessons went on, worried that I would turn from boisterous to meek in a room-full of strangers and burst into tears once the doors closed. But she worried needlessly - I ended up tearing through the classroom like a mini blizzard, making friends and feeling right at home, totally un-self conscious.

Today, I went down to the office, where I'd be posted in less than a month. My colleague and namesake, who entered the company a few months earlier than I under the same scheme, brought me around to say hello to the people I'd be working with in the very near future. I was awed by how bubbly and chummy she was with everyone - peers, uncles, aunties and superiors alike. I thought to myself: I couldn't do that.

What happened between kindergarten and 2006?

Actually, I think the transformation truly engendered sometime between JC, my ex (I'm kidding. I think.) and Uni. Those were my angstiest years and I think they have truly made their mark. But that's not the point. The thing is I've been briefed that there'll be a lot more networking and relationship-building in the days to come. As I was told that, I felt a discernable "sinking feeling" in my tummy. Ugh. Am I up to it?

It's not that I don't like people. It's just that, over the years, I've turned increasingly inwards, clamming up instead of reaching out to people. (Some people term it "self-centredness". Others call it "social reticence". How it happened is the real mystery.) The thing is, I like myself the way I am! I don't want to be made to feel bad for who I am, but on the other hand, I know some amount of socialising has to be done to survive in the corporate world. Once again, it's not that I don't like people. I just am, well, for lack of a better term, selectively sociable - and I think many of us are too. The two-fold factor here is also that I just don't like to be told, hey, you need to hob-nob. Whatever happened to doing things because you liked them? Oh yeah, I forgot, that got thrown out of the window once childhood swung past the corner.

Ohhh, all this existential angst.

My Errant Neighbour AKA Stupid Bitch

For years, my mum and I have been contending with our twelveth floor neighbour (we live three floors down). She, and her mum, love to leave their wet, dripping laundry out to dry at the worst possible time - while everyone else eleven floor below are also having theirs out in the sun.

In the beginning, my mum and I separately went upstairs to implore them to take their clothes in, not knowing the other was doing it too. I for my part thought that these occasions were one-off, or rare - but one day the dreaded dripping started when we were both in the kitchen together.

"Mum!" I yelled. "Look what our neighbour is doing!"

"Yah, I know," she replied with unexpected zen. "They always do this."

"We should go up and tell them to stop!"

"No use la, I went many times already, still liddat. The daughter, especially, loves to wash many many bras at one time and let them just drip outside her window."

I never saw those bras though. Never, til today, that is.

I had just woken, and stumbled into the kitchen to wash up, when - plip! plop! ploop! - I thought it had started raining. Turning my attention to what was going on outside the window, I then realised: the stupid bitch had hung her soaking, wet laundry again, taking advantage of the good sun (like everyone else, eleven floors below hers).

Putting down my toothbrush and cursing under my breath, I took in the clothes that were in the firing range of her pelts. I looked up, and there they were - all ten bras and three panties.

Who the hell keeps one and a half weeks' worth of bras to wash at one go? Boy, besides being obnoxiously inconsiderate, my neighbour must be disgustingly unhygienic as well!

Tokyo, baby!

The longer I stay away from blogging, the less I feel I have to offer. With n new blogs being set up each day, and many having a unique view of the world, one wonders who would be interested to read one's shit. Indeed, I've found myself holding back many times from divulging some personal nugget, worried that it'll either

1) bore the shit out of you; or
2) give you goosebumps

both leading to the same consequence - that you shall never return to this domain again.

But, once in a while, I come by something that has so much to offer, that I can't help but want to share. In this case, this thing is actually a place. And it is for this reason (and also because I am madly tired) that I am going to deviate from my normal method of blogging, ie diarrhoea-style, and cover what I did in this weird and wonderful city as much as I can, for as long as I am interested.

No prizes for guessing where, duh.

Japan is such a land of contradictions, to say the least. How can someplace so conservative in so many ways, be so completely cuckoo in so many others? People bow and smile when they talk to you. But then there is the obasan manning the roadside ramen and tempura stall dictatorially, unceremoniously, lifting her arm in the universal "get lost" fashion when she finds out your companion isn't having a bowl. This is the place you can find the salariman, hentai, and heck, salariman reading hentai on the public rail system.

Speaking of the rail system, it is a labyrinthine tangle of subway, railway, underground, overground, the old and the new that criss-crosses all over in a way that even the station warden posted at a station had to whip out a whopper of a book comparable to a small Yellow Pages guide just to tell me how to get to a station that was merely one stop away from the particular line I was on. One stop.

At 5 a.m., mercifully empty.

And 12 hours later, on another rail line... well, you can see for yourself.

And thus concludes Part 1 of my story.

How Random

I have the inclination but unfortunately no inspiration to write.

So I show you pictures, lor.

My Favourite Top Model contestant, Elyse Sewell, comes to town!

Nah, it's just the poster of her modelling Giordano's latest collection.

Actually, that's it. One picture. I have new ones (relatively speaking), but my memory card is currently being held hostage, with my colleague.

The Little Things

Being away from home as much as I am, I've come to find my days in Singapore to be very precious. Time to catch up with myself, with friends, with family. Sad to say, "family" seems to end up last on my list invariably. Yes, it's a shame - I take them for granted.

Yet they are undoubtably the unsung heroes in my life.

The other day my mum asked me what time I wanted to take my dinner before stepping out to work. My irritated reply?

"I've to leave at 530. There's no time for dinner," eyebrows furrowed. It all came out so fast, preoccupied as I with packing, but I regretted the throwaway callousness with which I uttered the lines the instant I said them. So hurridly, I added, all this time avoiding eye contact with her, "but if you want you can cook something light."

Five minutes later, I wished I had the courage to tell her I was sorry. Til now I have yet to do so.


And tonight, when I phoned home to ask my sis if she wanted to come watch a movie with me and my friend, she told me of my dad's anxiety, popping in and out of the room we share ever so often to check if I was home yet - thinking I had a flight to catch early tomorrow morning. Turns out he remembered wrong, but that's not the point. The fact that he makes the effort to remember these little details, to pick me up after work - I was so touched.

Here's to all the mums and dads in the world, worrying about their kids long after they've ceased to be kids.

It's funny how the magnitude of a person's presence in your life is illuminated by his absence. Take care, I love ya babe.

The View From My Room Was Great

(NB: I started writing this a damn long time ago, and never continued until now. Part of the entry involved some thinly-veiled remarks at the plight of people taking planes from Heathrow Airport, which have had to be taken down for reasons of relevance. Let's hope I can still remember what I wanted to say)

In London there is what is known, amongst my colleagues, as a hop-on-hop-off bus. For ₤20 (roughly S$60: it used to be ₤10, some say ₤5), you get a ticket which is valid for travel for 24 hours on one of the many open-top buses which peddle the streets, taking you on a pre-determined route to all the places of interests in the city centre. I wouldn't reccommend it highly to anyone though - it takes so bloody long to get from some spots to others - unless what you have in mind is just a quick, condensed tour of the city, a touch-and-go kinda affair. And I went to the Marble Arch (pictured below) no less than three times, because that stop is the start and end point for many of the buses.

The Marble Arch, by the way, is significant for once being a part of the Buckingham Palace. The latter of which, being open to the public only 6 weeks out of every year, I had the honour of visiting. More on that later - but unfort I haven't many pictures to show, because photography is prohibited within the state rooms.

Anyway, as I was saying, it isn't really worth it, spending 60 quid on a bus ride that'll only take you a few places in that 24-hour span (which, considering the service is only operational for 10 hours each day, isn't that fantastic to begin with) when you have the impressively-linked Tube for a fraction of the price. The downside to taking the train, of course, is that it is so well-connected that sometimes, to get to someplace relatively nearby, you have to change trains twice, thrice or even four times. That, plus the fact that it was once a target of bombing may be enough to deter you from choosing it. And it certainly is less scenic than taking a bus.

That doesn't mean, however, that it isn't an interesting experience in and of itself - I always delight in taking the public transport of whatever country that I go, because that just gives me the (illusionary) feeling of being more immersed in that particular place than I otherwise would.

For example, we hear so much about how the much-reputed Tube is so interlinked and so easy to travel by, but before taking it myself, I didn't know that it wasn't air-conditioned - for ventilation you have to pull down a window at the ends of every cabin - such that, when standing at the end of each cabin while the train is moving, your hair gets swept backwards like a vacuum was suddely released. (And this, I find out later, is also the case in Paris.) It is also fairly smaller than our own trains, roughly about three-quarters the size. You also have to walk about a fair bit when changing trains, so if you are one of those who complain about the walk from the North-South line to North-East line at Dhoby Ghaut station, thank your lucky stars.

But back to the Bus (this is how it looks like).

And the places I visited:

Trafalgar Square!

When I found this Earthy trio, Goth chick had just been hurling abuse (ie "Fuck off or they'll bite your heads off!!!!" Don't ask me.) at a bunch of immature teenagers getting a kick outta scaring the pigeons into taking off. But when I asked her for permission to take the photo, she was surprisingly obliging. Her male friend was a little less sure, though, whilst the lady in the middle simply couldn't be bothered with my Asian ass.

Self-portrait, taken with a tripod. I invited quite a few stares on this bum-laden staircase. Behind me, the National Gallery. Admission is free! except for certain exhibits, but I didn't have the privilege to explore it, save for visiting the toilet and souvenir shop (oh, how superficial of me), no thanks to the time limit on my Buckingham tour.

Ah, yes, the Buckingham tour. I was so preoccupied trying to make my way there in time for the tour that I forgot to pack food. So I ended up struggling through the hour-plus, two hour tour, vacillating between wanting to make the most out of my ₤14 and wanting for my dear life to get some digestible matter down the oesophagus lest I fainted of hunger.

View of the palace from the gardens at the end of the tour (and the only place we could take a picture of it).

A specially-constructed toilet for the summer weeks the palace was open to public.

A 600-yard walk yet awaits before the entrance-promised ice-cream stand materialises!

I don't know where I gathered the strength.

Finally, I devour my puny S$6 "fine dairy" ice-cream!

Back on the bus.

Another must-see: Topshop, which I tracked down the next day (this picture was taken as I passed by on the bus).

Things were too expensive, even at the discount bins - but boy, did I have a field day exploring the four-storey building! I must've spent at least one and a half hours there despite buying nothing!

One of them's wearing an Alexander McQueen. Do you know who? 'Cause I haven't a clue!

At this point I realise that the musical I was going to catch was about to start soon, and I was still nowhere near the venue. Panic rises.

So naturally, I take the Tube.

So friendly the folks are.

Also; at this lunch I had with my colleagues at this Chinese place, my fortune cookie opened up to reveal this:

Which prompted them to start trading ghost stories, which in turn freaked me out a 'lil (like you were expecting anything else?).

Okay. G'nite, y'all.