An Analogy on Accountability

Something I nicked off this blog., which was in turn sent to me by Barry:

Domestic Maids, Mas Selamat and Why Wong Kan Seng Should Be Fined

Pardon the slightly bizarre title of this post. In a roundabout way, it was inspired by the following article from Today:

2 years on, employers still skirt day-off clause
Should there be a law to get employers to comply?
Friday • April 25, 2008

NEWLY arrived, a maid asked her employer if she could get a rest day. Her employer was incredulous.

"If I wanted to give my maid a day off, I would have hired one from another country," said the employer, who had signed her up on the assumption that maids of some nationalities were more pliant than others.

Faced with an employment contract that requires them to either give their maids a rest day, or compensate them accordingly for working, some Singaporean employers have sought ways to get around the terms or extract the most from their workers.

And this begs the question of how much has truly changed for the 170,000 foreign domestic workers in our midst — two years after the industry association put together a standard contract requiring employers to give maids at least one day off a month.

A Today straw poll of 50 employers found that only 62 per cent gave their maids a rest day.

With some industry watchers criticising the rest-day clause as being too flexible, should legislation be put in place to mandate the issue? ....
There are several simple reasons why many Singaporean employers are reluctant to give their maids a day off.

You see, if the maid runs away, the government will fine the employer $5,000. If the maid commits a crime such as shoplifting, the government will fine the employer $5,000.

If the maid is caught having sex with someone, the government will fine the employer $5,000. If the maid gets pregnant, the government will also fine the employer $5,000.

(Oh, and you have to send your maid for a pregnancy test every six months).

If you didn't know any of the above, then either you do not employ a maid, or you didn't read the small print of the Manpower Ministry's work permit conditions.

Many employers are afraid that if their maid has a day off and gets into trouble, the employer will not only have to solve the trouble, but also have to fork out $5,000 as a free gift to the government.

(Not that the government will then help you solve the trouble. It's just a fine, plain & simple).

Intuitively, this smacks of gross unfairness. The employer gets punished not for something he did, but for something that somebody else (the maid) did. Furthermore, once the maid leaves the employer's residence, the employer has no way of monitoring where the maid goes and what she does there.

To encourage employers to give their maids a day off, the government needs to change these ridiculous rules.

I agree that employers should be fined and punished, if they fail to perform their responsibilities as employers - for example, paying the maid's salary on time; providing adequate food and accommodation; and ensuring a safe, secure working environment.

But employers should not be held responsible, for things that a maid may do, of her own free will. When the maid goes out on her rest day, the employer simply has no viable way to ensure that she will not do anything that breaches her work permit conditions.

(Which, by the way, are quite extensive and onerous).

We may draw a curious parallel with Mas Selamat's escape, and PM Lee's determined, if muddled, defence of Home Affairs Minister Wong Kan Seng in Parliament.

Mas Selamat ran away. But PM Lee said that Wong Kan Seng was not at fault and should not be punished in any way. The reason being that Wong Kan Seng personally did not do anything which allowed Mas Selamat to escape.

Strangely, if your maid runs away, it IS your fault and you SHOULD be punished. Even if you did not personally do anything to let her run away (apart from giving her a day off).

Similarly, if your maid becomes pregnant, it IS your fault and you SHOULD be punished. Even if you did not personally do anything to make her pregnant.

Oh well. What can I say? Maids are not terrorists. But then you are not Wong Kan Seng. So the rules remain stacked against you. Wong Kan Seng gets off lightly, but you won't. Even if his lapse has far greater, and graver, implications than yours.

Your runaway maid wouldn't blow up Changi Airport, would she?

Questioning Normalcy

Was looking for information on the film Taxidermia when I stumbled upon this report:



I wonder how these fines take place, but somehow I suspect it wasn't the fruit of some young graduate sitting in a darkened room screening tv shows for objectionable programmes.

Why don't poeple just live and let live?

Taxidermia

Grotesque, bizarre, repulsive. Weird.

I really wanna catch this movie!

Wistful

The SIFF is almost over. I tarried too long. Oh well, even if I can't catch Lucky7 (which I'm hoping will get a commercial release sometime later), there are a few films I could still possibly catch this weekend. Even one would suffice. Now, if only JW would confirm when our short has to be filmed...

The Mangled Jacket & Thrift Store Thrills

I was out of town for a business meeting this week, and thought I'd bring my smart new jacket along with me. I love it because it is

a) a Missy Elliot design from Adidas
b) almost perfect in the way it hugs my curves
c) bought on sale at like, half the original price
d) a gorgeous shade of navy blue
e) satin

Behold:

But, alas, point e) also became its undoing. Unbeknownst to me as I was rushing from one end of a terminal to another, a tiny, almost unperceptible rough spot was hooking onto my sleeve, causing it to snag and tear in twenty different places:

And trust me, it's worse than it looks. All those little dotty lines running across the sleeve? Those are not a result of poor handiwork.

Lesson learnt: Never buy a fragile item of clothing if you're gonna be a tomboy with it.

But there is happier satorial news. I went to The Salvation Army today and scored a few gems!

A vintage clutch (total steal!!!), a pair of 1kg dumbbells (to train those flabby arms), and eight pairs of plastic fantastic earrings (because they're cheap). How much did these cost? Just $40.

(The Boyfriend commented: "It's not so cheap after all." *pffffft* What do men know about good buys.)

I love thrift stores! Like flea markets, I love what treasures you could find if you rummage/loiter/poke around long enough. If I could, I'd shop in them all the time.

Cebu Rendezvous - A Preamble

I know, I know, I promised photos and a blow-by-blow of my trips to Cebu and Scandi. I still intend to do them. Actually for the period of time where Facebook was at its fever-pitch for me I was considering ditching the thought altogether, but then I realised nothing seals an experience quite like writing about it. But since it's a little late on a Sunday night to be putting up dozens of photos online, I shall just give you this little nugget to bate your breath. Heh.

(Damn, this shot is really unflattering. But still, I do like it.)

In Praise of Lurve

I don't know where we get our ideas from - Bird Park, Botak Jones, and now, Camping at East Coast Park - but we certainly mark the significant occasions in our life as a couple with visits to unusual locales.

So, last Saturday, The Boyfriend and I biked to ECP with heavily-loaded bags, picked a choice spot and starting pitching our tent.

Twenty minutes later, we finally got it up! I noticed that, besides the four corners, there were "hooks" in the middle of each side supposedly to place pins to further secure the tent. Before I knew it - the sea breeze began to blow.

Our tent shifted and moved, and got all wonky and out-of-shape.

"Argh!" I screamed. "Go buy pins!"

"No need la!" The Boyfriend countered. "One day only, buy for what??" As penny-pinching practical and thrifty as ever.

"But it will get windier at night," whined I, "and then we'll be in trouble." He then proceeded to fuss over the four corners, walking round a few times to re-adjust the legs of the tent, as I sat stubbornly sulking inside.

Finally, confident that the tent would hold, he entered the tent with a satisfied look written on his face. "Actually," he mused, "should've asked my brother for the pins, hor? Army sure have one what." (His brother is currently serving his NS.) By this time, however, I had missed his presence and was glad he was back, so I let the matter slide with a good-natured roll of my eyes.

And thus, the day proceeded, with him doing most of the tasks (buy tea, fuss over tent, buy dinner, fuss over tent, clear rubbish, fuss over tent) while I hid in our little cove.

The highlight of the day must be the shared reading of old letters and cards (I brought his, he didn't have space in his bag for mine). We reminisced, questioned, clarified and mostly laughed through the incidents and events that brought us to where we are today. On hindsight, it was part serendipity, part careful (sly?) planning and part dogged determination that we even managed to be together.

Night-time presented itself with a few minor challenges. We were to shower in the public toilets of the Resort (formerly NTUC Costa Sands), but by the time I went in, the pools were closed and the loo was deserted. The dimly-lit shower stalls were creepily silent except for the incessant dripping of a tap at the end of the row. I gingerly stripped, allowed the water to touch me, washed my privates hastily and got dressed again in a jiffy.

Later on, a group of foreign workers decided that 15 metres away from our tent was the best spot for them to lay a huge canvas, sit cross legged on and regale each other with stories while drinking sobriety away with an assortment of beers. Needless to say, they started making quite a din.

When the time came for us to retire for the night, I found that the ground that we picked to lay our tent over was rather uneven, causing my bum area to be lifted at an angle. I made do with by locating a small dent in the otherwise high mound, settled down and went to bed. I'm sure I now have a few small bruises on my pelvic area.

But all the more blissful for it. :)

I leave you with a few pictures we took of our experience:

Wayang

I don't know how to do it. Or rather, I don't like, or want, to do it, most of the time. It is too effort-intensive. It is a snivel. It is what people would screw up their noses at, behind your back.

Yet, at times, it is essential, if you are not to get into trouble with The Man. Or receive a black mark. It is a mode the more street-smart amongst us would get into when necessary.

I should really learn how to wield it properly so that, when the need calls for it, I am alert enough to use it for my own well-being/survival. But the inner struggle never quite goes away. Can one be wayang and yet not be fake/hypocritical?

Season's Greetings!!!

Last weekend, The Boyfriend and I did some shopping at the about-to-be-closed Concourse, where he deliberated for a very, very long time, whether to buy Snow From A Can and a pack of 9 Christmas-themed stencils. Eventually, finally, after a lifetime he did, and we had a field day decorating all sorts of glass surfaces!


My room:

My dad's car (my dad's away for work; I have no idea how he'll react when he sees these)(my dad didn't say anything about them. They were later washed away in the rain, which goes to show why people don't spray these things on car windows.):

If you look closely at the pictures, you'll noticed they've got this slightly blurry effect about them. That's because we drove through a short shower - the rain didn't destroy the snow pictures, but it definitely left its mark. As did some fingermarks belonging to some very itchy-fingered people (which can be seen on the reindeer).

Oh, by the way, since 'tis the season for giving, and some people might be scratching their hair out trying to figure out what I may want for Chrissymas, here's a short wishlist I have compiled, using the daydream sessions I've had at the office.

1. Cute/Funky pen holder. No cartoon characters please, unless they are bona fide cute. Thanks, Kelly!

2. Seat cushion. 'Cause my office chair is damn freakin' dirty. Thanks, Daph!

3. Simple lappie bag. Those kinds that look like a cushy A4 file. Thanks again, Daph!

4. Cute, one of a kind tissue box cover. The other time I came across one in the form of a hedgehog, which was the cutest, but by the time I'd made up my mind to buy it, it'd sold out. What are the chances, right? Thanks, JW!

You realise most of these are office-centric. Yes, I definitely like my cubicle cushy and cosy. :)

P/S I owe you die-hard readers photos of my trip to Cebu and Scandi. I haven't forgotten. Hang in there!

Happy Holidays, people!!

I Should Be in Cebu

That's the thing about being cheapo. You take your chances too often and somewhere down the line, something has to give. There I was, my sleepy ass waiting for my seat to be confirmed, running all over the airport trying to tie all the loose ends together before taking off - only to be told that all of the passengers showed up.

But it's ok, some good came out of it, at least I managed to get some more work cleared before I go for my holiday (which I hope will be fun!). I managed to get some more last minute stuff. I don't feel so flustered and rushed. I get to spend one more day at home, seeing my family. (Sadly, I only recalled an hour ago that Zouk's Flea and Easy was held today. But nevermind.)

Crossing my fingers. X

Go Gene Go!

Hadn't been blogging for a while, because the recent blogworthy things of date were company-related, and hence, out of bounds. Nothing else of note took place in my boring little existence. Until yesterday!

Yes, our very own Eugene is in the running to become one of two winners of a brand new Subaru Impreza!

A bunch of us were there last night and again tonight to support him. After almost 36 hours in the competition, he's still going strong.

(Apologies for the grainy picture - camera isn't the best, and he is quite a distance away from the barricades.)

It's prolly raining in Orchard now though, so tonight'll be a tough night. We're hoping he'll stick around long enough for us to go down again tomorrow night! In the meantime, here're some shots for your enjoyment.

Caught off-guard: It's his slacker posture and good people-skills (i.e. keng gai power) that has gotten his this far.

Supportive and enthu friends YM and HX and the placard they made to cheer him on. Funny right?

JW holding up his message for all and sundry to see. Gene Gene was caught chatting up girl 263 from the adjacent car. This guy! Forever at it. (By the way, the whiteboard was my stroke of genius. Heheh.)

My boy's two faces: One at 2am, and one at 9pm. Hint: A night owl he certainly ain't.

Edit: Yep, Eugene didn't manage to bring back the car. He dropped out because his sleep-deprived mind started hallucinating and he started losing his reasoning powers. But he's ok now. And we're still proud of him! We had a great time!

排排站，查查看

Restaurant review, inspired by the above-mentioned foodie show on Channel 8.

Credits: Video edited by YM (you can read his blog entry here too)

So, at WH's suggestion, we found ourselves in a small, tucked-away corner in Singapore that night, a place not usually patronised by people who aren't planning to make a move on their girls after dinner (i.e. us)

I won't touch on the bits they talk about in the video, but shall just comment on a few things:

1. Ambience was disappointing. I was expecting soft, amber light and the canopy of trees to serve as shelter, but instead got a food centre kind of feel. And though the bountiful fans saw to it that we never broke into even the faintest moisture-moustache, everything else about it was plebian and did not justify the price I had to pay for my makan.

2. Service was not worth the 10% charge we had to pay on top of the food. The wait staff were listless, unprofessional and made inappropriate comments.
For example, our drinks were not dutifully topped up, and requests for them to do so sometimes had to be repeated.
Another case in point: Our dessert sorbets came in a rock hard milk-chocolate shell. One of the waiters, seeing our bewilderment that the supposedly soft sorbet was nowhere to be found, made this remark:

"Oh, it needs time to soften. You'll have to wait." Pause. "It's the same thing for everyone else here tonight."

?!?!?!?!? Are you referring to the sorbet, or did you make a Freudian slip about your slipshod service, Mister?

3. Did I mention how far away this place is from everything (except maybe Keppel)?

You have been warned.

Okay, enough bitching. Some interesting bits to notice when watching the video.
a. The constant giggling in the background is Ching.
b. The rojak way WH spoke. Hilarious!
c. How pro Linghui looked and sounded. Macham really on TV!
d. When she smiles, Ching speaks without moving her upper lip.
e. How weird I look and sound on-camera (vastly different from the way I look in my mind's eye).

Enjoy the video! I watched it, like, three times in a row. Thanks, YM!

Transience

Today marks my grandad's second death anniversary. His wife, most of his children and his grandchildren made a visit to the temple where his remains are housed. In remembrance of him, we offered up joss sticks, prepared his favourite food, burnt some offerings and (finally) unveiled his tablet. I still get a little emotional whenever I see his likeness on his urn, but on the other hand it's always nice to see the family gathered together like this. We don't hold family gatherings as often as we used to.

In the car on the way home from the temple, my grandmother showed me the wrinkled skin of her arm, citing her weight loss as the reason. Haven't having laid eyes on her up close in a few months, I was taken aback slightly at how much this sprightly woman has aged. As I held her arm, examining it, I quietly pondered how much time we had left to spend together. I was glad to have finally handed her her intended portion of my bonus payout, today. It's not much, I know, but it's nice to know that I did something that she appreciated.

A couple of hours ago, I was at the hospital to pay Chye's grandmother a visit. She looked so small and frail, hidden under the covers and illuminated only by the backlit yellow fluorescent light. At one point she removed her dentures and sat up slightly on the bed to rinse her mouth. Chye's father moved forward and put his hand under her back to offer her more support. It was a slightly incongruous scene, and I quickly realised why: I had always regarded Uncle as an "old man" and put him in the same "Old People" category as Chye's grandmother, even though he is a good 20 years younger than her.

In 20 years' time we might be that hand of support for him.

In 50 years' time, who would be our support? Our kids? And if we had none, our siblings? And if they were gone too? Would we still have friends at that age?

I know this is all very morbid, but. I just can't help but wonder how it feels like, to be in an elderly person's shoes. To know that your journey in this world is nearing its end. What kind of feelings would be going through your mind, then? How would you wish to be remembered? Will you be remembered?


Or will it even matter then, I wonder?

I am: a victim of my own delay tactics

Sigh, another weekend gone by, again. I don't know whether it is a function of age or work, but since both The Boyfriend and I started out as office drones, we have had less and less inclination to venture outdoors. And I only just started on the work I brought home around an hour ago, though I had the whole weekend to do it. Thankfully it was quite effortless. Either that or I'm just not putting in the effort required, heheh.

However, I must say that things have looked up lately. Less fighting, more cooing. Less work, more bus rides home - as opposed to the comparatively more expensive cab rides that were a staple of my weeknights nary two weeks ago. Honestly, I think a big cut of my pay goes into cab fares. It's so disgusting.

Speaking of which, I really hate cab-snatchers, of which there are plenty around in my company. And it's usually those auntie sorts. Their pattern is always the same, too: they pretend not to see you, and brazenly walk a few steps away from where you're standing to flag a cab. Luckily the frequency of cabs passing by the area is quite healthy, otherwise I would not be merely muttering "bitch bitch bitch" under my breath and eyeballing her like mad. Ugh.

Once again, I can't believe it's Monday again tomorrow! You aren't exactly going to find me prancing in to the office, that's for sure. Maybe I should take half a day off to go shopping. I'm interested to try out Triumph's new Deep V range - hopefully, it'll do something to temporarily alter my nearly-titless state - and also check out the new Bugis Village. Was in the vicinity last week and it looked nicely spruced up, and (more importantly) with more shops per square inch. Ah... to dream....

Best Tressed

Me, at a company event last Friday, at which I was part of the organising committee. It was tiring, but fun!

Yes, I know: I am irritatingly act cute.

Stream of Consciousness Rant

Bah. I missed Fash Bash. For the second time. And it was held over two days! Man, the weekends are simply too short. I woke up late yesterday after playing sitter to a bunch of my drunk/high workmates the night before, and alternated between being present at my dad's birthday bash (I struggled with that, even) and going out with The Boyfriend's friends from out-of-town.

And today - Work. I'm fast becoming a no-Lifer! Ughhhhhhhhhhh. The dumbest thing was, when I was ready to sit down and start punching into my lappie, I realised that I'd brought everything home but the most important bits. Thinking back now, I can't quite believe that I made the trip back to the office and back just to fetch those silly sheets of paper. Argh. Thankfully my sis was nice enough to accompany me. She just sat patiently next to me, with her revision in her lap (complete with calculator) while we made our journey through the rain and back. *pat pat*

Some photos of the energy-draining night.

Their way of saying Farewell: forcing drinks down her throat.

My colleagues trying to strip me. Such nice people they are.

"I just can't get enough. I just can't get enough!"

I wanted to put up more photos, but I think my colleagues'll kill me if they found out I'd pasted their drunken miens for all and sundry to see on the world wide web. And there weren't more of me I can share, because it's much more fun taking pictures of high people doing silly things than sober people sitting around avoiding getting trampled on by stiletto-clad feet, you see.

My Red, Red Heart

As a little girl, I was seriously patriotic. Whenever Majulah Singapura was played over tv or the pledge recited, I would stand, ramrod straight, and belt out the lines with gusto. Ah, those days of self-consciouslessness.

But those things changed as I grew older. Slowly, I started to notice the adults giggling at me when I sang my national anthem at attention. As I moved onto secondary school, it suddenly dawned on me that it was uncool to be seen singing at assemblies in earnest, and learnt to play down my siao-onness, as they call it. Things came to a fore in JC, when I learnt things about my country's governance I'd never even dreamt of before, and started becoming more skeptical about news articles extolling how well the Party had done that year, or how many more jobs the growing economy had bolstered.

So when I was given tickets to my first NDP last year, I wasn't very enthused. In fact, even as a kid who loved hanging the state flag outside my flat, I was never enamoured of the broadcasted event. It simply wasn't able to capture my short attention span.

That changed, however, when I actually attended the event. The flying of the flag as we sang the Anthem, the communal taking of the pledge, and of course, the fireworks, ignited the latent patriot in me once again. There was just something that roused me when I watched it live for the first time. I'm a sucker for these things. Except for the actual parade pieces.

It was the same this year (yes, I was lucky enough to be given tickets again to the event). I may complain a lot about Singapore, but I do love it at the end of the day, warts and all. Here are some pictures I took at the event.

Local Gems

Forever yummy, The Dim Sum Dollies! (And I think I recognise another famous mien in the bottom left-hand corner of this picture.)


The T'ang Quartet! I love their verve. And I like that they looked happy to be there.


A close-up of my fave, Leslie Tan.


Kit Chan! My favourite local singer.

The Parade (or at least, the bits that I caught)

One of the "Red Lions" doing his thing, which, unlike his moniker, is really quite amazing.


Happily milking the parade for what it's worth.

The Sights

I took this picture using digital lens, which accounts for the poor quality. But look at the number of people gathered across the river! Which is a really nice spot to perch (next to actually being a member of the audience, of course) to see a lot of the displays like the fireworks and showcase of the Navy's powerful toys.


A sea of colourful clappers. My favourite was the blue which, alas, I did not get.


A scene which warms the cockles of my heart. This, to me, was worth more than anything the parade could offer. Despite not actually wanting to work in any of these buildings, they nevertheless represent to me the "peace" and "prosperity" bit in our pledge. Mostly peace, but some prosperity too (though not mine). Oh, and the jellyfish are a nice touch. Too cute.


The Boyfriend and I fooling around with a silly hat (which incidentally all the ministers had to wear. Teehee.)

Age is Just a No.

Yesterday (was it really just yesterday?) I turned a quarter-of-a-century old. And although I started celebrating - for lack of a better word - my official entrance into the mid-20s since last Friday, it only really hit me when my close friend sent me an MMS of me holding a cake (my fifth) with the caption "Happy 25th Birthday!".

I most definitely do not feel 25. Heck, sometimes I still can't believe it's been so long since I was in a school uniform. Which begs the question: is age just a number, then?

Aren't people supposed to be getting married and having babies at this age? At least that's what I thought, back in JC days - or at least that's what an old classmate said I had said, when we were having a chat a mutual classmate's wedding. Which is highly unsurprising, seeing as 25/26 seems a long way away when one is 17 going on 18. About a gazillion light years away, in fact.

But we forgot we first had to complete our education. Then, get a job. And after that, get accustomed to - and hopefully, good, at that job. Stuff 17- or 18-year olds don't really factor into when they think about their future.

That said, however, I do have friends who are planning on settling down. 3 of them, in fact, from the same clique (actually 4 because one of the fiances is in this clique as well). Which is really cool and I am pretty darn happy for them. It's just that... I can't picture myself in their shoes.

I mean, yeah, I can picture the wedded bliss, a beautiful home, cooking for The Hub... all the picture-perfect things which fall into the "Too Good To Be True" and "In Love With the Idea of Love" categories. But the reality behind all this? So unchartered and so scary. Will I really have time to cook? Will we fight over what furniture to buy? Where to live? Who to do what household chores? To feed the cat? And, when the time comes, how many kids to have? Whose mother will take care of them? The differences we'll have in how to bring up the children? Will we be good parents?

And that, to me, is the moot point. As it is already, I feel woefully incompetent as a human being. Am I really up to it, this whole sharing my life with another half thing, bringing another life into the world thing - and being responsible for this life/lives for, by the looks of it, the rest of my life? *shudder* Am I really capable of doing that?

Argh. All this, and not even having been proposed to! Which is just as well. One of the to-be-Marrieds asked me if all this is making me feel pressured to wed. And I, quite honestly, told her that no, I subscribe to the Good Things Come to Those Who Wait belief. (Although, and quite honestly as well, I was also secretly wishing I had a Big Dose of Euphoria to cart around too. But that, as afore-mentioned, should also be filed under "In Love with the Idea of Love".)

And thus, I am forced to conclude that age is just a no. (or possibly, simply a big No!) in your head. It doesn't mean a damn thing.

In the meantime however, I shall work on BBP (Becoming a Better Person) and becoming of MMM (More Marriageable Material): both of which are, you would agree, inextricably linked. That is to say, in simpler terms: I'll be ready when I'm ready.

My Opinion of Her Just Sank Even Lower.

I cannot resist commenting on this:

"I also hope that besides seeing my diligence, he also sees how attractive and beautiful I am."

If you've read today's Life!, then you'll know who spouted that utterly bimbotic line.

Now if she said: "I also hope that besides seeing my beauty, he also sees how diligent I am," I'd hold my piece. Peace. She'd earn a lil of my respect. But, yeah, I'm sure Andy Lau loves your plastic beauty, Jolin.

What Jolin Tsai wears under her clothes.

(Ok, this was the original I posted.)

A Tale of Unremarkable Courage

Every morning, I take a bus to work. You've seen them before, those schoolbuses that double up as private transport for office-going people (my carbon footprint looks good, no?) who wait punctually by the curbside for them.

So every morning, I get on this bus, greet the ladies who are seated behind me (only one of them ever deigned to reply), plonk down on my usual seat, get cosy and nod off to sleep. (Things get territorial if you take the same bus with the same people, every day, much like what happens in a classroom.)

Of late, though, I began to experience problems carrying out this usual routine. The culprit? Paper. Not any normal paper, mind you. Sheets and sheets of it. It's newspaper, wielded by the hands of the lady behind me who is determined to read it spread out in its full glory, instead of folding it up into squares politely like everyone else does on public transport (and on this particular transport, too). Everytime she flips to a new page, she jerks the paper heavily, straightening it, conking my head in the process. On particularly news-worthy days, the paper is thick and heavy, and the resultant conking gets rather so hard that it became quite difficult to get any shut-eye at all.

It's not like this obstacle to rest just recently came into existence. No, it has always been around, but recently it has developed to become much more acute than before. Perhaps Newspaper Lady thought she could gradually build up my resistance to the conking over time.

But I, determined to maintain the genial neighbourliness of our relationship, resolved to be tolerant and make no mention of it. (Even though at times I really wanted to turn round and pointedly ask her to read the papers with more consideration for others.) And so, too shy to comment, too embarrassed to ask, one, two or maybe even three months passed by for me in this uncomfortable fashion.

Oh, who was I kidding? On one particularly violent day, I received a knock after falling asleep with much effort. And that was it; enough was enough: Positively fuming, I gritted my teeth and, in a deliberate move, shifted to the outer edge of my seat.

And with that, my troubles were over. I smiled, settled down and smiled, happy that I could enjoy my morning naps once more, now that I was outside of her range - or so I thought. Nary a few days after my momentous move, the unthinkable happened - Newspaper Lady passed her weapon onto her seat-mate, who promptly began to rain blows at me. What use could she still have for it, after all, when she could no longer use it to torture me? I was devastated. I liked my seat on the bus, but I couldn't be as rude as to tell her how Newspaper Lady should be reading her papers now, could I?

A colleague and fellow bus-mate noticed my woe-begone look that day, and asked me what ailed me. I told her my story, and to my surprise, she nodded knowingly and said, "Yah, I had that problem too. That used to be my seat on the bus. That's why I now sit in front of you."

Then it dawned on me. Newspaper Lady was trying to get me to vacate my seat! There wasn't enough space, it seemed, for her to spread her paper just the way she liked it, so that she could read it from left to right, top to bottom, in one glance. Good for the muscles too, judging from the way she holds it up.

And so, my mind was made up. It was time to move. Far, far away.

The next time I took the bus, I cheerfully greeted her like I did every morning, then proceeded to prance happily to the back of the bus. And now, my dear readers, I am able to enjoy my morning energy naps undisturbed on the bus - except for the fact that the air-con blows relentlessly down on me, making sleep all but impossible.

Oh woe, woe is me.