The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind

Ah, it's so good to be home. Nothing beats being back with your loved ones, being back in your room (no matter that it's so messy getting in an out of it is practically an exercise in navigational travel).

That's what I was thinking to myself early yesterday morning, as the coach my colleagues and I were on drove over the Tsing Ma Bridge (which bears a striking and, I suspect, deliberate resemblance to the Golden Gate Bridge). It was perfect, watching the ships below us pass by, the post-dawn morning revealing the fauna on the hillsides, the dog and his master walking up the then-deserted road leading up to Disneyland, my trainee buddy nodding off next to me. Absolutely ordinary, plebeian, routine even, but the beauty of it was: I was there.

Better still, I was going home, home to The Boyfriend (who hopefully would be waiting for me at the airport) and everything that I so love. And having nothing to do, I decided to go through the things in my standard-issue handbag, just to make sure everything was there.

The first thing I pulled out was my passport - funny, my bag feels a lil empty... maybe because I left the wretched hairspray in my cabin bag. Hmn, wait a sec.

Oh.

No.

The moment I grasped the reality of it (ie getting past the oh-no-this-can't-be-happening-to-me phase, which thankfully took all of 2 seconds, because time was of the essence), I grabbed the wrist of my buddy, waking her with a start. And, point-blank:

"We left our passports in the safe."

I looked as the horror of realisation sank in onto her face. Consequences were dire if we didn't get those back. We wouldn't be able to board the flight, we'd be stranded, when we finally get our sorry selves back to Singapore we'd be called back to the office where there'd be certain death waiting for us in the form of Office Investigations with the Management. Oh god.

Quickly, we informed our supervisor (and praise be to everything that is good and pure on this earth, because we got a nice one), called the hotel - which was a stroke of luck in itself, because my buddy, whom I shared the room with, hadn't surrenderred the card key which came with the hotel's number because she had been busy settliing a bill - and got the hotel staff to rush the passports down to us, who were by then about 20-30 minutes away.

The price (literally) we had to pay? A freaking HKD$500 (or roughly S$100). Them opportunistic Hongkongers. But it was worth it, because what mattered is that we made it in time, despite the embarrassment of having to trouble the counter staff to escort us to the aircraft, where an off-duty captain stood waiting for us at the door. Most of all - there would be no office enquiry. Alibaba thankyoumama.

And that's not the only stupid mistake I made. On the way up, I chose only to bring a garment bag, besides my check-in luggage (for all the shopping I was to do there) , only to be told, sternly, that hand luggage was mandatory, and that I could be written in for the lapse. Once again, I was lucky to get a kind supervisor who decided close off the proverbial eye and let me off - once. And, as penance, blew S$100 buying a new cabin bag.

Well then, that's that. Enough drama for the day. Pictures, people! More exciting are the HK ones, mainly because we had more time there, and also because in Auckland (so yes, that's where the tower stands) shops close at 6pm and we were pretty much in the outskirts anyway, so I was told. But because I am idiocyncratic, I will present the pictures in chronological order - with regards to which city I visited first, not the date/time that the pictures were taken. Thank you.

A King-sized bed, all to myself!

I wonder if this'll sell well in Asia.

A very sago-ey warm sago dessert. Nothing like those we have in Sing!

One of the beautiful buildings in Auckland. This one was particularly well-lit. Many older buildings were sandwiched between more modern, nondescript ones, making an interesting juxtaposition. I wonder how much more kooky and wonderful it would be like in Barcelona, hmn.

For some weird reason, the words on the side of the building say, on the top and bottom respectively, "Crashing from 125km/h is like falling from here" and "Crashing from 90km/h is like falling from here". Maybe its got something to do with the elevators.

Outside a bank. The girl on my left is my training buddy. Sorry guys, she's taken.

What happens when you need to pee and the only loo for 20 miles around is closed and locked up for the night.

I know I look really wrapped up, but in reality it wasn't that cold. I just didn't know how low the temperatures would really get at night, and so brought the only winter jacket I had along with me. A thick jacket would've sufficed, actually. Still, it was fun walking around like that for the first time in my life, even if it elicited sarcastic comments like "It's freezing, huh?" from the locals we passed by.

And while I over-estimated how cold it would be in Auckland, I under-estimated how cold it would get in Hongkong. The newspapers said 26-29 degrees Centigrade. 26-29! That's like Singapore, I thought. But when I got there, boy. Brrrrrr. My holey cardigan was no match for the wind. Which was a good excuse - erhem, I mean, reason, for me to buy some winter wear at the Esprit Factory Outlet there. Among the many things I got:

The drink du jour in HK: Honey lemon. Way better than the mediocre (now, I know) fare sold at the local S-11.

Picture 1 (on the left) - Left: Wan Ton Noodles (too salty for my taste); Right: Tomato-beef hand-made noodles (very nice)
Picture 2 - Background: Tofu with braised egg; Left: Bamboo shoots (not sure how it was prepared); Right: some kind of dumpling with curry sauce. Nice.

Yummy roasted chicken hanging on the display rack, albeit a lil skinny? Take a closer look. Those are pigeons! The Boyfriend tells me they are a common sight in HK.

Night

Day

Ah... "Hong Kong! Kowloon Hong Kong, I love Hong Kong..."

I'll be back one day. Armed with more cash, I promise. Uh-huh.

Jules' Clues

For those of you who were guessing where I'd disappeared to, here's a hint:

And this provides a nudge regarding where I'm headed next:

By the by, this indirectly answers the question posed on my last entry - the answer is, of course, Changi Airport.

More pictures when I return! For now, I need to figure out what to pack.

Notice of Absence

For the next week or so, you won't hear from me.

If you know which public toilet in Singapore stocks up on one of these things (a godsend):

Then you will know why.



Answers when I return!

Question: Why are we all wrapped up like mummies?

Think the concussion did some damage to my brain.

(A lil haphazardly put-together but...) More great poses from the rest of my 'mates (love you guys!):

Have you guessed the answer yet?

First-aid class.

And finally, because I can:

The One-Two-Five Manoeuvre (impossible-to-spell word)

Four Beauties

On my way to "school", munching on breakfast on the bus as usual.

On the Cusp of Shopaholism

Well enough about people who irritate you needlessly. Since my dad's in the bathroom, I might as well do more than stick up my side of the room and blog a bit more. I spent a hellava lot of money this month! In fact, ever since I realised my bank account would be receiving lumps of cash in a pattern regular enough to become predictable, I have let all my inhibitions loose. Too loose, in fact. In-excess-of-monthly-salary loose.

And there's no better indicator of how loose than by seeing my personal efforts at boosting the nation's economy, in a span of no more than 30 days:

Tops

Jackets

Bottoms

(Braveheart there isn't one of my purchases, by the way.

I've had him for almost two years lor.)

Footwear

Miscellaneous material guilty pleasures

Please someone tell me how to stop. Especially when I don't even want to!

Something Tells Me She'll Be Out of a Job Very Soon

NB: The following is true to the best of my memory.

I really ought to be more careful about giving out my phone number on street surveys that I do from now on.

On my way home, I received a phone call on my cell. Thinking it could be The Boyfriend (always important) or my mum (also pertinent that I answer the call), I fished for my phone while trying my best not to get tangled in the wires of my NEW! Creative Zen Neeon. (I couldn't resist.)

The number displayed on my cellphone was unfamiliar. Was it from the office? But at this hour? Couldn't be.

"Hello?" said I.

"Hello, good evening," came the muffly reply on the other side. Then, expectant silence.

"... Hello?" again, said I.

"Good evening."

Oh, okay lady, I get it. "Good evening."

"Yes, my name is Angel, I'm calling from Lifestyle Shopping. Do you remember completing any lucky draw form?"

And truthfully, I told, "No."

Her indignant reply: "No? What do you mean no? That you don't remember filling one up or that you didn't?"

"Well yes I do, but I'm always filling up lucky draw coupons." And I started putting up my defenses. Still, I was curious, and decided to play along.

"Well I am calling to inform you that you are one of 20 people to win our consolation prizes." Continuing in a highly scripted voice, and without waiting for me to respond (or maybe she sensed that I wasn't going to), she said, getting even more muffled like she was doing this in a place and/or time she wasn't supposed to, "You have won three items. (The first I forgot,) a luxury European timepiece worth $150, and a *muffly-muffled* trip to Thailand *muffly* eight to nine days worth *muffly* thousand dollars." A triumphant pause.

Ohhhhh, now I see where we're going. I decided to help her cut to the chase. "So I'm supposed to come down, but before I get my prizes I must listen to some seminar, right?"

This was right about when the lady started getting huffy. "We are not a timeshare or holiday chalet company, ma'am, nothing like that," the impatience in her voice getting obvious. Boy, this woman must've had a lot of rejected calls today. But so was I, so I told her that I thought she had a lousy attitude.

"When did I ever say we are a timeshare company, ma'am?" Blah. Blah blah blah blah blah.

Okay, fine. "So can you tell me where I filled in this form?"

Highly rehearsed voice: "Ma'am, I told you, it could be from any shopping centre, petrol kiosk, movie theatre, there are thousands and thousands of them, how can I tell you which? You are one of 20 people picked out from a thousand, how can we keep track of where you filled up your form?"

"So where did you say your office was?"

"Delfi Orchard."

"And what's your company called?"

"Lifestyle (something something, I can't remember)."

"I can forfeit my gifts, right?"

"Yes you can ma'am."

"Okay."

Silence.

More silence.

"Is there anything else?" I queried.

"So ma'am, do you want to come and pick up your prizes?"

"No, I'm going to forfeit them."

Too quickly, and in a fake-happy voice, "Okay, thank you, bye!"

Bitch, did you really think I was going to fall for that sorry excuse of a dupe? Dream on.

Geylang 101

As tempted as I am to bitch about the bee-yoh-ches at my training school, I won't, because I'm a scaredy-cat, and also because the culture of this particular company is such that gossip travels faster than wildfire, i.e. faster than anywhere else. Bloody hell.

But the same cannot be said of my batch mates, who are the probably the most fun-loving, unassuming bunch that could congregate in a little room by virtue of little other fact than that called "Chance" (or some might term it "Fate").

In the two months or so we've been together as a class, we've taken a truck-load of photos already, but these shall be the first time some of these faces grace this here Ms Coddle's blog.

Yesterday, at the behest of Ms Kho, we traipsed down to:

(please allow me this vanity shot.)

for some gastronomical delights.

And on a sidenote, went on a little educational tour.

But as I was informed that they were many watching them, the only picture I took of the ladies working the street was this:

In any case, it wasn't the Night Safari I was at. It was a real eye-opener, though, honestly. Previously, I'd only gone down these streets behind the safety of four doors, which is a completely different experience from physically walking down the roads and past the hourly-rated hotels. And it was a good thing that we went in a large group, because the boys were variously teased and groped at (in the balls no less), while men kept giving me and Jac especially the once-over.

At one point, because we were standing too long at the end of a street waiting for some of the boys to withdraw cash (there was a long queue caused by the uncles who were buying services that came on a cash-only basis), an old bespectacled peh peh even came up to me. Despite wearing a white polo tee and bank pants, funeral-style, and in the midst of tying my hair auntie-style, I was approached. I didn't hear very much of what he had to say however - I simply dived straight into the semi-circular safety zone formed by two of my batch boys who were standing nearby.

Don't get me wrong though, people. I wasn't there to pass judgements at the people who drive the trade, whether on the demand or supply side. I was just there to sample a sociological phenomenon that I would not otherwise get to see in my daily life. As sleazy the feelings you get from being there, I can't help but feel that such deviation from our otherwise squeaky-clean image just makes things more real. It is easy to go home to our comfy lives and think that that is all there is to life, period. But we are not a homogeneous society. These people have their reasons for being there and doing what they do, and whatever those reasons are, it is not for me to put a value on.

I was just there to get an education.

Why Wooden Is Golden

I just threw an ant out of the window. While sticking to my principle not to kill any living thing if I could help it, I don't think my actions are going to be appreciated very much by the little critter. Sigh, the problem with absolute power.

Faced with the annoyance that was the little ant crawling around on my table, I was faced with three options:

1) Snub out its life by rubbing it into a little ball;

2) Pick it up, still alive, and release it outside your window, letting the wind carry it wherever its whim decides; and

3) Ignore it.

I ruled out choice No. 1 because of the afore-mentioned principle not to kill living creatures, and decided against No. 3, which I had considered but rejected because of the possibility of having to deal with dozens more of its kind in the near future (experience tells me that if I let it go this time, it will run back to its nest and inform all its pals that there is a weak ruler out there, and they will wreak havoc on my table). And so, by elimination, I picked No. 2.

What would you have done? Of course, this is a mere ant we are talking about, but superimposing such a situation into something more realistic for eg. what if this were a human, and you were the absolute ruler of a small island, and whatever you did to this person would have absolutely no impact on you, at least not in this realm, but would completely devastate the person's life?

Of course, the most responsible action to take was not included in the possible options to take: that is, Keep Your Room Clean and Tidy and Never Eat In It Again So As Not To Tempt Ants To Come By Looking For Crumbs, Thereby Irritating The Hell Out of You. But we tend to put the blame on others and then choose the easiest way out, which more often than not has negative repurcussions. Maybe not on you (for the time being anyway), but for other people.

What's the point of all this?

I lost my camera.

Well, actually, the camera my dad bought my sis, which made the whole things worse. It happened two Fridays ago, and I was so upset over it it was the only thing I could blog about, yet I couldn't, because you see I didn't want to tell my family that I freaking lost the $600+++ camera.

So why am I blogging about it now? Because it has been replaced, and, since I have served my penance, I can hence let the world know that I lost it out of sheer carelessness (and fatigue). Shan't go into the story of how it happened because it really doesn't matter anymore, but here's the new baby!:

Look how pretty and shiny it is. Its surface reflected my hands holding the camera that was taking its picture! I call it Dimage X1 No. 2, in memory of its predecessor, Dimage X1 No. 1. May she rest in peace. (And may the person who took it and kept it for himself/herself, if that is indeed what he/she did, never find a charger for the camera.)

If you realise, this is a Konica Minolta, the manufacturer which has only recently announced that it is pulling out from the digicam market. So, despite there being an IT fair going on right now, The Boyfriend and I were unable to get my replacement there, because lo and behold, K-M wasn't even a participant in the event. (We suspect it pulled out last minute because The Boyfriend saw its name in an ad publicizing the fair just the day before its commencement.)

Anyway, all credit goes to The Boyfriend, who kept an eye on online auctions for me for second-hand Dimage X1s (we narrowly missed out on one, which was sold for $400), who checked out the participating companies at the fair as aforementioned, and finally, who went down to Mustafa and bargained unsuccessfully with the sour counter men there. I whinged and I whined, but ultimately, he was the one who did all the dirty work for me.

What's there not to love?

Not Just The Blues

The trouble with being holed up, cosy-cocoon style, with your lover boy over the weekend is that, come Monday, you are plunged into a state of depression brought on by the cold turkey that the start of the work week entails. This, coupled with the whole 257-step grooming routine I have to put myself through, really makes for a killer morning.

And, as if being afflicted with Monday Blues isn't bad enough, my instructor today decided to enforce strictly the the punctuality rule by meting out a punishment he had never mentioned. I was locked out of my classroom, as a punitive measure for being late, and not once - twice.

The first time I had to go poo real bad, and I told everyone within earshot so - even those who did not ask me where I was going. The problem was, the girls who were supposed to be "in charge" of telling my instructor where I had gone were too shy on my behalf (so they said) to tell him, and, not aware that he would react in a such a way - in fact not aware that he'd even so much as instructed one of my course mates to lock the door - did not speak up for me. This I learnt only when I was let back in and sat down, and thus escaped my window of opportunity to explain myself. All I had said when I got back in the room was a rather disgruntled-sheepish "Sorry".

The first time round, it wasn't so bad, because everyone (barring me), the instructor included, thought it quite funny. The second time around however, was a more complicated situation. And much more unpleasant. We were taking our afternoon break like every other afternoon. I had to take that time to sort out a uniform problem caused by an inefficient admin (ie not a problem I caused) that was only rectified that very afternoon itself, before heading down to the canteen to quickly grab a bite - having skipped lunch, that seemed like a very prudent thing to do, even though not normal practice. But a string of events resulted in Lock-Out Number 2:

Upon arriving the table where my female colleagues were seated, I was invited to finish up their leftover french fries, I task I very willingly embarked upon (but not before reminding them that our break time was almost over);

Just as I finished putting the last fry into my mouth, the Uniform Co-ordinator for the guys (who were seated on an adjacent table) came up to me and asked about the status of my uniform indent;

I drew breath to speak, causing bits on semi-chewed potato, powdery and fine, to be sucked into my windpipe;

I choke, turning red and causing the guy to retreat with a hasty "I'll better talk to you later";

I start to recover, though still coughing, and we head for the lift;

At the lift lobby, the elevator was waiting for us but the guys, in their very nice show of Unity, decided to wait for Mr Uniform Coordinator. They suggested that us girls go up first to cover their arses, which we wanted to, but by which time the lift had changed its mind, closed its doors and climbed three storeys up;

By the time we reached the room (we were on the dot), the room door was locked.

As we fretted over what excuse to cook up, I suggested that we simply tell him I was choking, and that they were all tending to me (a half-truth, because it was only the girls' table who was waiting for me). The guys, I suppose unaware that I had really been choking, did not heed my suggestion.

The final decision was made when someone uttered "Actually there's no reason, let's just tell him the truth". And that was that. Our instructor came out minutes later, showed us into a room, made us sit down, and gave us a warning. Even though he asked if there was a good reason why we were late, I did not venture my reason. I didn't know at that point in time if it would have been rejected, and I was further cowled into silence by my previous "misdemeanour".

On hindsight, it was totally stupid to keep quiet. Oh gosh such passive-aggressiveness. If I get a chance I must explain myself.

My One Hundredth (and First) Post!

Thank you, dear readers, for showing an interest in my mundane life! I also hope you like my new layout: had a tough time figuring out how to do it up properly. (Slowpoke.) Hopefully it stays on a lil longer than the previous one.

Happy Belated Icky-Lovey-Dovey People's Day!

...Whom you want to plonk over the head with an industrial-sized frying pan so that they can go away to lovers' heaven and never disgust you with their Irritating Couple-dom again!


Anyways, Sunday was the day I (clad in discomfitting shoes) scoured the streets of Orchard in search for ingredients to what - I hoped - would make the perfect Valentine's gift for my One And Only. From Selegie to Plaza Sing I stalked; from PS to Heeren I trudged; from Taka to Borders I hobbled. By the end of the journey, I had excruciatingly earned for myself not a few number of blisters on my hence-raw claws.

This experience garnered, I began to wonder whether this was love in a microcosm - besides the obvious obligation of giving, was sufferment and pain inevitable by-products of being in a relationship?

Surely you jest, Ms Coddle: I hear those words ring in your head right now, dear reader. That is too melodramatic a view of things! But Ms Coddle here gets down whenever things don't go her way, and inadvertently, Pessisism that dark monster, sets in. And of late, things on the love front, though not in shambles, haven't been exactly what she'd hoped they'd be.

Wanting to blog on the subject of love and pain, she decides to do a bit of research when she noticed the Straits Times Saturday special on Valentine's whilst digging for a bit of dinner's reading material. The report was on the lack of romance in Singapore - something she felt was really speaking for the state of affairs on her side, but as she read on, she realised that, far from being unromantic, The Boyfriend was really demonstrative of his feelings, albeit in a more subtle way from which she expected from a Romantic Person. In fact, she needn't have looked further than the day before, when he whipped up a delicious meal for the both of them.

The Boyfriend, whipping up a delicious meal.

In its simple, down-to-earth manner, that meal offered much more than any candle-lit dinner, however posh, that money could buy. Yet Ms Coddle, unaware of its value, was temperamental and glassy-eyed at times because there were no fancy candles, no fancy dinnerware, nor any fancy tablerunners. And, perhaps most tellingly, no fancy words. And to add to that tragedy, Ms Coddle, the person whom he was supposed to profess his undying love for, had to actually help in the buying, cutting, chopping, slicing, dicing, scrubbing and wiping of the whole process.But look! What words does one really need when one is presented with a scene like this? (And lip-smackingly good it all was.)

The Lip-Smackingly Good meal

Me looking mousey. Us trying to look happy, not hungry.

And guess what? The Boyfriend came up with a lovely present: a self-made voucher that can be redeemed for a Creative MP3 player in about a month's time!

Read the fine print. (This picture chosen for the tell-tale nail colour - for those in the know.)

I was most impressed by his gift. It had none of the commercial, consumerist smackings most V Day gifts have (my LOTR boxset included) and all the effort, meticulous attention to detail and sweetness a real gift should possess. My lousy present was wrapped in 20 layers of newspaper (all the better to conceal its true identity, but very sec-school), with no accompanying card (no time to write it, though I'd bought all the necessary materials - lame I know). Partly because I expected my present to come the way it has always come - simple, straightforward and no-nonsense - and I guess part of me was half-hearted about it already.

At this point, Barry, if he is going to read this, is likely to go "See? This is what I was telling you all along."His theory is, when your other half doesn't normally shower you with attention and gifts and romantic gestures and suchlike, on the rare occasion that he actually does, you are especially happy and thus, appreciative.

But, if attention, gifts, romantic gestures and suchlike are just the things he does on a regular basis, then you'd come to expect them, even cease to become touched and moved by them.Which is true, and honestly (not to brag, but...) I'm low-maintenance, but girls still want to be Princesses. Or at least this blogger does. Why else do you think she's Ms Molly Coddle? Then again, what's important is that a nice balance is struck, right? So long as the girl feels treasured and the guy not too hassled (or broke), then all should be fine and dandy.

My Life Revolves Around Clothes

But today, I don't mean that in the shopaholic, bimbotic way that I normally do. I spent a good part of my precious Sunday evening ironing clothes that didn't even make them look properly pressed, and languishing in the toilet are two jackets, one cardigan, a tee shirt and a dress all waiting to be laundered. (By hand.) It's not that I'm too poor or miserly to use the washing machine, but rather I'd like for the lifespan of my clothes to be stretched as far as possible, instead of being mangled in the drum and acci-dyed a myriad of colours I never intended.

So, even though my heart was yearning to blog, blog away to compensate for the weeks my eyes has had to endure the dry spell on this blog, I decided to heed The Boyfriend's (unsolicited) (but still well-meaning - and well-given) advice and, well, do my chores. Because now I can blog to my heart's content. That is, until it's time for bed. Nowadays I have the sleeping habits of a three-year old come weekdays. Weekends are still reserved for unabashed hair-let-downing, of course. But enough of this meandering. A bumper crop of photos awaits!

In reverse chronological order:

The Poptart event at Home, Otherwise Known As The Night I Became Chao Hee Lang (Hard of Hearing)

My soci mates. They love to play Sexually Ambiguous one-upmanship.

Excursion To Chinatown (Follow the Teachers-to-be)

Although looking matronly in my outfit, it is not myself I was referring to. I, of course, mean my two pretty lady friends featured below, flanking the gleeful only-guy of the outing. Incidentally, we saw another stall or two carrying the same wares as the ones they hold in the picture. The same goes for some of the other so-called speciality stalls - same lion puppets, same this, same that. Methinks the 500-stall festivity market which opened to such fanfare at the start of the season was a wee bit too optimistic, rain or no rain. One of the stall holders told me the rental for a month went into the thousands. While it must be really lucrative to set up stall there for them to even accept such terms... how much they'd have to earn to even cover their sunk costs, I really dunno.

In the midst of our thronging through the crowd, we chance upon a 变脸 performance.

Something tells me that, if only I knew a little something about the trade, that what I captured on this frame is probably the key to unlocking the secret of this highly mysterious art. That man is friggin' in the middle of a face change!

And thus concludes a rather dry post. I have more to share, mind, but 'tis the time for me to prepare for slumber.

Post-note: I know I posted much less than I promised I would, but - time constraints la. Sorry 'bout that.

Happy Year of the Dog!

Mr Sausage Man says: "Do you want an ang pow with that, my dears?"

D Day!!!

Note to self: Never buy cotton shirts.

Don't be taken in by attractive price tags, pretty designs, or take having to use up that cash voucher and run off for lunch before you faint of hunger as an excuse to give in to that moment of weakness.

Please please please, Mr Instructor Sir, please don't notice the awful creases on my spanking new shirt. Not on my first day! I ironed it for ages, honest, I swear!

Into the wind.

Just past midnight, and Chye was sending me home. We had just watched Election on vcd at his place, and it was, in all, a nicely quiet day spent with each other. As usual, I was off in my own world, enjoying the wind in my face and allowing random thoughts to just flash into my mind when suddenly, Chye alerted me to a blockage on the road.

"What’s that?" He asks, raising his voice to be heard.

I shifted my gaze from the left to the right of his body, and there, in front of us, was a civil defence vehicle and an ambulance, taking up the middle lane of the road. That could mean only one thing – an accident had taken place.

As our bike approached the site of the crash, I saw the civil defence officers gathered round a blue car, stretcher at the ready. The car had stopped awkwardly outside of its lane, on the left side of the rear of a large goods-carrying van, the kind with the raised metal container that allowed the wheels to be completely exposed. I was half-afraid, half-attracted to the scene that lay ahead of me. What would I see? How many people were there? Were they injured? How seriously? Was there a lot of blood? Any severed limbs? Could I stomach that? Should I even look?

The car ahead of us slowed down to take a look at what happened. Human nature, almost, to be drawn to accidents, scenes-of-crimes, and other venues that provide gruesome pictures for all to see. We are at once attracted to and repelled by them, transfixed in a mixture of curiosity, horror, awe.

Still, the actions of the driver ahead of us, besides causing Chye to have to brake defensively in order to prevent another mishap from taking place, also gave me the chance to glance at the wreckage as we passed it by. The windscreen at the driver’s side of the vehicle was badly smashed, and, from the looks of it, the driver was pinned to his seat. At that point in time I couldn’t help but think – would he survive? Could he survive? It was an awful sight, but somehow, I couldn’t tear my eyes away – like I was sucked in unwittingly, hypnotised by something so terrible, it was impossible to fathom how it’d be like if the same fate were to befall me, yet all the same, did not change the simple fact that it could – until it wasn’t possible for me to turn my head backwards anymore.

And, just like that, I was whisked away. In a matter of seconds, that scene, as much as it took me by the shoulders and shook me, disappeared from my line of sight. Just like how, in a matter of seconds, one could be robbed of one's life. Just like that.

Down that last stretch of road before we'd reach my place, my one hand gently felt at the flesh on my thigh, as if to seek physical affirmation of how utterly human and mortal it was, while the other continued to clasp itself snugly round Chye’s reassuringly corporeal waist.

The Eternal Struggle

The sign was there: that article in Sunday's Straits Times sounding the alarm bell on pigging out during the holiday season (stored fat in your body can do worse than that: they can grow new fat cells).

The motivation was there: seeing an acquaintance of mine with toned abs and thinking to myself - I want that! I can do that! Dammit.

The encouraging/goading was there:

Me: Oh mah gawd my tummy is so fat and ugly!
The Boyfriend: (Laughingly, but in a carefully suggestive voice) Maybe it's time you started to exercise.

(On another occasion)
The Boyfriend: (Spies my rotund and grotesque abdominal region.) Ermmmmm.... maybe it time for you to start exercising, huh?
Me: (Visibly embarrassed at being found out) Heh. Yeah. (Mind changes track.) Maybe next week!

(And another occasion)
Me: (Rubbing The Boyfriend's stomach. A teasing smile.) Has your tummy grown smaller?
The Boyfriend: (Puffing up in half-mock pride) Yup! The running has made a difference. You should start exercising too! It really helps, know?

So, yes. This year, though I never was one to make New Year's Resolutions, I am resolved to exercise more.

I set my alarm for 9a.m., even though I wasn't in bed til 2+a.m., maybe 3 (I thought I could exercise first, sleep later). And wadayaknow? I woke up at 10. After washing up and breakfast, that would easily set me back at least an hour and a half. But I was still determined to go for that run I promised myself. The weather was cooperating too, the sky being overcast and the air cool. But wadayaknow? I was still at home at 12. And by then the heretofore bashful sun had started to come out from its shell. At that point, I admitted that I contemplated throwing my plan aside (after all, I'd done that countless times before) and just slack my day away. Still, in the end I decided to put on my running gear - ugh, that reminds me, they're still soaking in the toilet - and go for that all-important first run that would set the tone (here's to hoping) for the rest of the year.

Phlegm-invaded throat? Run.
No other loser on the track on a public holiday but me? Run.
This guy, seemingly poised for a day down at the street soccer court himself, turning and uttering "Fwah." in disbelief as he walked past me while I was doing my warm-ups? Run.

And I'm glad I did.



Happy New Year to one and to all!

Square One

There, are you happy now, Barry? Thanks to my ineptness at HTML, less than a month after unceremoniously discarding this layout, I have had to come crawling back to it. Honestly though, I'm quite bored of looking at it. But until I polish up my skills at the language, I guess I'll leave it as this for now.


And, to reward those few of you who stuck by me despite the unreadable text - and also because I have taken a deluge of them - Behold! Random pictures I could have used, but did not, in my last post.

I don't know why, but I have a compulsive habit of personally defecating on my painstakingly-constructed persona of a glam-queen. Build it up, take it down. Xian, this definitely tops (or bottoms, if you want to look at it another way) than what you had on your blog hurhurhur. And September, I hope this gave you a good chuckle or two (Look! I even have whiskers!) - I had you particularly in mind when I badgered my sister to take these shots.
Since I endangered the lives of all the occupants in the car each time I took to the wheel, I was holed up in the back seat most of the way back home, which was a long and boring way to spend one's day. What to do but to whip out the camera and amuse oneself?

You guys have gotta check out the pedicure I got at the resort's spa! We also had a treat of Javanese massage, herbal body scrub and body mask - the latter of which was slathered all over our bodies, clad only in disposable undies, by our Indonesian masseuses. Who could, by the way, individually deliver on anything at all you wanted that was on offer at the spa. You name it, they could do it.

Bad skin on display. Plus, does anyone recognise which Season 5 episode of Sex and the City my pose comes from?

And I leave you with: more goofin' off with the camera settings.