Weekend.

 

Took it easy on Saturday. Cycled, lifted weights, b-balled. And got home for Grandmother’s birthday dinner. Loads of sub-par food and plenty of cousins. Stayed away from them and kept to myself mostly. Drank with Nesh – just 1 pint. How unusual of me to say "no" after 1. Despite that, we spent over 2 hours jawing about women, women, work and women.

 

Sunday.

 

Lunched with family. Ran off to the library to do some work. Got horribly distracted. Managed to get something out. Met friend for movie. Drank a can of beer. And ran off home. Wandered where time went to today. So quickly gone. Bye bye and very bothered. A night of bad sleep looms ahead.

End of week

At the end of the day – after a week of looking and learning a budget – I stood up from my cushioned chair.
Unable to walk straight, I wavered all the way from chair to bus-stop then to home. A long, hungry serpentine route. 

I’ll be at home tonight. Others will be outside, gallivanting and finding their girl / boy Fridays, getting drunk on same same.

Good night all, sleep tight and don’t let the boogeyman bite.

Frustrated ice-cream

 

Came home in a mounting fury.

Was about to tear my room apart.

Was about to rip into the next fucker who spoke to me funny – that 154 driver was speaking wierd Hokkien; like a damn challenge until he suddenly quieted down.

 

Cooled down considerably as I considered the source of my anger. Merely frustration at not finishing work.

 

That’s all. Chey.

 

Washed. Ate. It drizzled.

 

DING DONG!

 

A kid in black and a kid in white rolled up a bone-white styrofoam box infront of my house gates.

 

"Sorry to disturb you Sir! I am Trying to asdjdw ,gregseg…."

 

"WAIT." Got up in a huff. Tore open the front door and stormed out to the gate.

 

The boy in black had a big head and stupid eyes. If his mouth opened, I think his tongue would have lolled out. All the classic signs of Down’s syndrome.

 

He waited for the other kid. The one in white. He wore a dirty looking shirt and the drizzle had made his hair spikey.

 

"Sorry to disturb you Sir. I’m just trying to earn some pocket money. Please buy my ice-cream."

He lifted the lid. In the white box were smaller boxes of magnolia ice-cream – lurid purple, pastel yellow, easy green and barely brown.  

 

"The new flavours are perpermint and…" He shifted a newspaper full of something to show me his other flavours. Cold air eddied within the box.

 

"I don’t need ice-cream."

 

"Please sir. We only make a few dollars for every box that we sell. We need the pocket money."

 

"Sorry, I don’t need it."

 

The boy in white slowly pulled the lid close. He murmered, "Thank you, sir." to the box.

 

He pulled the cords tight and rolled the styrofoam box behind him. The mongoloid kid went with him.

I went back into my big, big house.

 

It drizzled. Rained. Poured.

A little money for lunch if they could sell all 12 boxes of ice-cream.

 

inhale, blow, plop!

 

Sungei Buloh was boring.

 

I sat on the boardwalk, tired from all the cycling. The marshland looked disgustingly dirty and as interesting as mouldering piece of cardboard. However, the air was cleaner than Chua Chu Kang; although brinier and tinged with smells of shit. I zoned out between the planks of the boardwalk.

 

That’s when I saw the ground breathe.

 

Little bubbles blipped and plopped all over the marsh. It was unsettling; like some swamp monster exhaling from every pore of its body instead of through two flared nostrils like every good, rational monster should. Curious, I strained to look at the ground. I wanted to see if there was a plausible rationale for the bubbles.

 

There was an itsby-bitsy cousin of the Sri Lankan crab scuttling across the surface. There were perfect mud balls being rolled up and pushed to one side of even tinier holes by unseen buggers. But for all my 20/20 vision, I couldn’t see the bubbles-makers.

 

As I searched for the source of the bubbles, the ground stopped breathing. As if it was aware of me. I must be over-worked; I’ve read too many issues of ‘Swamp Thing’; I need sex…

 

Calmer now, I zoned out once more.

At once, the marshland blipped and plopped a thousand tiny bubbles. 

 

Sugei Buloh Wetlands   Add: 301 Neo Tiew Crescent OH: 7.30am-7pm (Mon-Sat), 7am-7pm (Sun, PH) T: +65 6794-1401 W: www.sbwr.org.sg Fee: S$1 adult, S$0.50 child; weekdays free Getting there: From Kranji MRT Station take the Kranji Express (S$2 adults, S$1 child; every hour from 9am) to the reserve. Alternatively, take 925 from Woodlands interchange.

 

Today…

 

Got a hangover from drinking and drinking the night before.

Wanted and needed drinks after work.

Got smashed and couldn’t do a single coherent thing.

I stared at the computer screen until – as Douglas Adams said, "You could stare at a piece of blank paper until your eyes bleed." – my eyes bled profusely.

 

Of course, you’re not here to listen to me gripe about my hangover-ed day which persists even as I’m writing this entry.

So bleeding eyes, queasy stomachs and general wooziness aside, this here’s a quick rundown of LAST NIGHT’S ITINERARY.

 

First stop, the grand opening of Emily Hill. A smorgasbord of arts groups in a lovely, laidback bungalow. A little freaky when it’s emptier. After all it was a Japanese HQ during the war. Good thing it was nicely crowded that night. I was there to congratulate several tenants. And make some friends. Yeah. right.

Went to take in The Blue Room Exhibition Preview; essentially a bunch of drinking glasses in a Blue velvet room.

Karen, the owner, was nice enough to introduce me to the Corp Comms dude of SOTA, James of Ampulets Design and Yvonne, MICA.

Ended up drinking a whole bunch of martinis while hanging onto their conversations.

 

Drinks: A whole bunch of Bombay Sapphire martinis – Cosmos, classicals, a blue genetically-modified peach concoction (who’s ever seen a blue peach anyways?)

 

Second stop, Night & Day. I stumbled down Emily Hill and climbed into the bar. Near impossible to find unless you know where’s the entrance. There were less than 10 people in the bar. Spoke to Chris – the bartender. Found out that he’s been bartending in Bali, KL, SG, HK. And he’s only 22! Get him to make up a cocktail for you. He’s got an amazing repetoire of cocktails kept in his head.

 

Drinks: 1 Corona, 1 Viro-something, 1 Blue Dreams. The last one isn’t on the menu and it’s fucking amazing.

 

Third stop, a pub at basement of Park Mall. Was staggering around by now. Wanted to head home. It was 11pm. No cab in sight. Wouldn’t get one until after 12pm. I wish, this Christmas, for a monster truck to crush cabbies. There were three poles in the pub. A girl occupied each one. How unflattering towards the poles.

 

Drinks: 1 Tiger beer.

 

I hate it here…

 

I hate it here. This is a very juvenile posting.

I hate it here. I am being to go blind.

 

I hate it here. What in the world  do those numbers mean?

I hate it here. Girls squealing, boys boasting. That bitch behind speaking loudly, fucker up front blocking the damn entrance.

 

Oi! Your grandfather door is it?! Siam ah!

 

I hate it here.

This is a telephone call…

 

– Hi. Are you the owner of the house?

 

– No. What is this about?

 

– Who is the owner of the house?

 

– That’s my granddad. Who are you?

 

– Can I speak to him or your parents?

 

– Who are you?

 

– I’m Yvonne from CH properties. Can I speak to him or your parents?

 

– What is this about?

 

– Can I speak to him or your parents?

 

(pass phone over.)

 

– NO! (SLAM!)

 

Fucking bitch was a goddamn property agent who wanted to sell our house!

God damn her. Calling at this time. She has no sales is it?

I should have fucked her jia lat jia lat over the phone.

 

ARGGHHHH!!!!!

 

I am adding ‘property agents who call in the evenings and do not properly answer my questions’ to my long list of people whom I will disembowl with a blunt spoon.