There's a cake on our shared table at work: pink with soft, light whipped-cream icing and little rosettes at each wedge. It promises to taste of birthdays, celebrations and children's parties. I've already had a slice, but I want another one. I want to taste my childhood again, to reminisce through the Vaselined-lens of time.
The strawberries don't taste of much, but I'm not actually tasting these ones. I'm tasting the ones I remember. The ones on the Kellogg's cornflakes boxes; whoever thought of putting strawberries with cornflakes created an entire generation of people for whom the first taste of a strawberry was imagined, fantasised and built up for years before they actually had access to this (usually) air-freighted fruit from the West.
The cake is light but nothing special, really. I don't see balloons, streamers or fried noodles; hear the music for pass-the-parcel, musical chairs or statues. But the pink still lures me with its promises.
Monday, February 11, 2008
More Fat Fun
"You grow fat, already hor?" announced Iris, the woman who works the cash register at my office cafeteria.
"Really?" I was surprised. I'd been on a diet of Hydroxycut [caffeine supplements] and tofu (well, mainly) for the last few weeks.
"Ya! I see your shirt and belly; all fat already."
Slightly disturbed, I pay and only eat half my lunch (vegetables and a chicken stew - I don't eat rice at lunchtime).
The following day I brace myself for another assault on my physique. She adds up my bill and declares, "And one papaya [slice] right? I see your face and I know you want already." She's right. I did want a slice of papaya - I didn't know it at the time, but my obviously my face did, and she read it.
Back at my office I ask my boss's secretary something. She doesn't answer straightaway but then it starts.
"Wah, people saying you put on weight. Fatty hor? What you eat? All the sweet-sweet, fry-fry things, ah?"
I answer in my best Singlish, "Where got fat, leh? Where fat?" There's an edge of desperation in my voice as I plead for her to deny what she sees.
"There, lor. Your belly fat lah! You don't exercise, ah? Must exercise, don't eat all the sweet-sweet things."
"I'm not fat, and I do exercise," I tell her.
I'm annoyed now. Who are these "people" talking about my fat anyway?
The following day I'm extra hungry - maybe I'm rebelling - so I load up my tray with noodles, pumpkin and a deep-fried chicken wing. Out of nowhere my fairy godmother of anorexia pops up and admonishes, "Fat fat, hor."
[Note: This incident occurred sometime in Sept/Oct 2007 when I was in the midst of a creatine cycle. My increased bulk must have confused the ladies.]
"Really?" I was surprised. I'd been on a diet of Hydroxycut [caffeine supplements] and tofu (well, mainly) for the last few weeks.
"Ya! I see your shirt and belly; all fat already."
Slightly disturbed, I pay and only eat half my lunch (vegetables and a chicken stew - I don't eat rice at lunchtime).
The following day I brace myself for another assault on my physique. She adds up my bill and declares, "And one papaya [slice] right? I see your face and I know you want already." She's right. I did want a slice of papaya - I didn't know it at the time, but my obviously my face did, and she read it.
Back at my office I ask my boss's secretary something. She doesn't answer straightaway but then it starts.
"Wah, people saying you put on weight. Fatty hor? What you eat? All the sweet-sweet, fry-fry things, ah?"
I answer in my best Singlish, "Where got fat, leh? Where fat?" There's an edge of desperation in my voice as I plead for her to deny what she sees.
"There, lor. Your belly fat lah! You don't exercise, ah? Must exercise, don't eat all the sweet-sweet things."
"I'm not fat, and I do exercise," I tell her.
I'm annoyed now. Who are these "people" talking about my fat anyway?
The following day I'm extra hungry - maybe I'm rebelling - so I load up my tray with noodles, pumpkin and a deep-fried chicken wing. Out of nowhere my fairy godmother of anorexia pops up and admonishes, "Fat fat, hor."
[Note: This incident occurred sometime in Sept/Oct 2007 when I was in the midst of a creatine cycle. My increased bulk must have confused the ladies.]
Going home: Business Class
The woman checking the boarding passes at the gate stopped me. I thought "Oh no, what's happening." Apparently there was a seat change. Great, now I'll be shoved in the middle instead of the aisle where I wanted to be. I'm flying Qantas and my red boarding pass was changed for a black one.
I clear the queue and study my pass. It says "Business Class" - what's this about? Maybe they ran out of the normal forms so they're using the Business Class ones.
But dare I hope?
Well, it is. I'm quite excited. I get to turn left when boarding. The seats are grey and capsule-like. I try to act cool. Never mind that I'm worried that I won't know how to operate the tray table. Already I had to look behind me to find the plug for the super-comfortable noise-cancelling headphones. But I'm not the only one. My neighbour had to ask me where to plug his in.
Someone that looks like Billy Conolly sits to my right. Oh my god. Billy would travel Business, wouldn't he? He's also dressed in the most disheveled clothing possible. Of course the rich and famous do that - to remain inconspicuous of course. I mean, if you've that much money you can afford not to care about how you look sometimes.
The meal arrives and a white tablecloth unfurls over the tray table. It's a little bit over the top, since we're still eating with grey plastic knives (but metal forks). he menu is designed by Neil Perry (Rockpool) and the food is delicious. I have the Beef and Pancetta Lasagne. Also on offer is seared salmon with crushed white beans, basil pesto and lime.
I place my order for breakfast and hang it on the coathook, like they do in hotels.
After eating I watch a bit of Beowulf, but then recline my seat flat and have a snooze.
My neighbour turns out not to be Billy Conolly as he has an American accent. I think he's just a badly dressed American. I notice the others in Business and I think most of us in this section were bumped up from Economy. My neighbour to the left (headphone guy) certainly was. He must be as he's Australian, so going home, but didn't know where the headphone jack was. That is, he didn't travel business TO Singapore (or Frankfurt). We stick out a bit as we're the single travellers (young) and look like we're trying to look like we do this all the time. So far the tattoo artist pulls it off the best. He could be a rock star, you see (maybe he is?).
I clear the queue and study my pass. It says "Business Class" - what's this about? Maybe they ran out of the normal forms so they're using the Business Class ones.
But dare I hope?
Well, it is. I'm quite excited. I get to turn left when boarding. The seats are grey and capsule-like. I try to act cool. Never mind that I'm worried that I won't know how to operate the tray table. Already I had to look behind me to find the plug for the super-comfortable noise-cancelling headphones. But I'm not the only one. My neighbour had to ask me where to plug his in.
Someone that looks like Billy Conolly sits to my right. Oh my god. Billy would travel Business, wouldn't he? He's also dressed in the most disheveled clothing possible. Of course the rich and famous do that - to remain inconspicuous of course. I mean, if you've that much money you can afford not to care about how you look sometimes.
The meal arrives and a white tablecloth unfurls over the tray table. It's a little bit over the top, since we're still eating with grey plastic knives (but metal forks). he menu is designed by Neil Perry (Rockpool) and the food is delicious. I have the Beef and Pancetta Lasagne. Also on offer is seared salmon with crushed white beans, basil pesto and lime.
I place my order for breakfast and hang it on the coathook, like they do in hotels.
After eating I watch a bit of Beowulf, but then recline my seat flat and have a snooze.
My neighbour turns out not to be Billy Conolly as he has an American accent. I think he's just a badly dressed American. I notice the others in Business and I think most of us in this section were bumped up from Economy. My neighbour to the left (headphone guy) certainly was. He must be as he's Australian, so going home, but didn't know where the headphone jack was. That is, he didn't travel business TO Singapore (or Frankfurt). We stick out a bit as we're the single travellers (young) and look like we're trying to look like we do this all the time. So far the tattoo artist pulls it off the best. He could be a rock star, you see (maybe he is?).
What makes it Wellington
Capturing my experience on film seems so inadequate. True, Wellington is exceedingly beautiful; breathakingly picturesque spots on the harbour, scenes of people enjoying public spaces (an urban developers dream-come-true), weird scruptures designed to showcase the exposed and gale buffeted shores. But all of this is mere backdrop to my remembrance of my hometown.
Do I feel 'at home'? Have I come home? Well, to be honest, no. I'm familiar with Wellington, I know my personal axes of Cuba St, Lambton Quay, City-to-Sea and Oriental Parade. But it is not home for me.
What makes it Wellington are the lack of crowds, the easier pace of life and the omnipresent wind; the tattoos on every second forearm, the grunginess of Cuba St and the disheveled hospitality staff.
Something about New Zealand brings out the best in people. I forgot my contact lenses and tried to buy some without a consultation (a bit of a no-no). I was prepared to pay $75 for one, just to get the free trial pack. As I walked out of the shop the optometrist, a young English girl, ran after me, thrust the free trial pack in my hands and said, "Here, just take these. Forget we said anything." I got five pairs for free, just enough to cover my time away.
I bought a smoothie from a juice bar and the girl making it overestimated the milk and yoghurt. So I got one-and-a-half cups. In Singapore I've seen the staff pour the excess down the drain rather than serve it to the customer.
I think it's being allowed the time to think, to reflect and to consider what's going on around you. The high level of education helps too. Yes, I know you don't need a degree to serve juice, but intelligent people can't help but think about stuff when bored behind a counter; sometimes with good results.
Do I feel 'at home'? Have I come home? Well, to be honest, no. I'm familiar with Wellington, I know my personal axes of Cuba St, Lambton Quay, City-to-Sea and Oriental Parade. But it is not home for me.
What makes it Wellington are the lack of crowds, the easier pace of life and the omnipresent wind; the tattoos on every second forearm, the grunginess of Cuba St and the disheveled hospitality staff.
Something about New Zealand brings out the best in people. I forgot my contact lenses and tried to buy some without a consultation (a bit of a no-no). I was prepared to pay $75 for one, just to get the free trial pack. As I walked out of the shop the optometrist, a young English girl, ran after me, thrust the free trial pack in my hands and said, "Here, just take these. Forget we said anything." I got five pairs for free, just enough to cover my time away.
I bought a smoothie from a juice bar and the girl making it overestimated the milk and yoghurt. So I got one-and-a-half cups. In Singapore I've seen the staff pour the excess down the drain rather than serve it to the customer.
I think it's being allowed the time to think, to reflect and to consider what's going on around you. The high level of education helps too. Yes, I know you don't need a degree to serve juice, but intelligent people can't help but think about stuff when bored behind a counter; sometimes with good results.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Pillow talk
Ralf, the sweet guy I'm dating, speaks in a mixture of Singlish and Sindarin. It's a local patois that I find quite intriguing and very grassroots/blue collar. He's teaching me some Hokkien tht I hope to use for comic effect one day.
Sometimes I use English words that he's not entirely familiar with. He's always wanting to know what I mean, so will keep bugging me until I explain it in a way he understands. The other day I wrote on my facebook that I was "feeling ironic". He wanted to know what "ironic" meant. He said that he thought it meant "something a bit strange." So I tried explaining it, "It's like when something happens that you don't expect and it takes you in an unexpected direction."
He asked for clarification. I struggled to find an explanation for "irony". Perhaps I could draw something from literature, or modern poetry.
"It's like rain, on your wedding day," I ventured. What other examples could there be, I wondered.
"It's like a free-ride, when you've already paid," the words sprung to my mind brazenly.
"It's like good advice, that you just didn't take." Oh yeah, these were good examples. "And who would have thought, it figures," I finished.
I looked around cautiously, in case the literary gods would strike me down.
He seemed to understand the examples though.
Sometimes I use English words that he's not entirely familiar with. He's always wanting to know what I mean, so will keep bugging me until I explain it in a way he understands. The other day I wrote on my facebook that I was "feeling ironic". He wanted to know what "ironic" meant. He said that he thought it meant "something a bit strange." So I tried explaining it, "It's like when something happens that you don't expect and it takes you in an unexpected direction."
He asked for clarification. I struggled to find an explanation for "irony". Perhaps I could draw something from literature, or modern poetry.
"It's like rain, on your wedding day," I ventured. What other examples could there be, I wondered.
"It's like a free-ride, when you've already paid," the words sprung to my mind brazenly.
"It's like good advice, that you just didn't take." Oh yeah, these were good examples. "And who would have thought, it figures," I finished.
I looked around cautiously, in case the literary gods would strike me down.
He seemed to understand the examples though.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Tattoos
I went to a tattoo exhibition a few months ago. This had photos of various Singaporeans showing their tattoos and a brief story about them. The whole exhibit was about the stories behind the tattoos; why they got them, what they meant (if anything). Through the tattoo, you got an insight into their lives.
Several of the people shown had their tattoos done purely for decorative reasons. They liked the designs, or created them themselves. It was art for arts sake. The most moving photo was of an old man showing some blurry blue-black lines on his shoulder. You'd almost miss them if they weren't pointed out.
He grew up during the Japanese occupation of Singapore and his brother tattooed their initials on each other so that their family could identify their bodies should they be killed or mutilated. I was stopped in my tracks by this story - I remembered my grandmother's and aunt's stories about living during the occupation; huddling under the bed in a corner while the soldiers swept under with their bayonets glinting in the dim light, their father making a false wall so they could hide behind when they came looking for women, my aunt losing her only treasured photo of her childhood because the Japanese soldier threw the frame on the ground, broke the glass and urinated over it.
There's a bartender with heavily tattooed arms, full sleeves Japanese-style but with more Chinese motifs. He talks about getting out of prison and his tattoo for enduring/tolerance: the Chinese character made up of a knife above a heart.
A mother tells of recovering from a bad marriage breakup and she sought to express her inner emotional pain through the physical pain of a tattoo. She chose her starsign Libra watching over her son's Leon. A father tells of a raging sun on his deltoid as his light-of-his-life, the son that died in childhood.
A young girl with a whole scene from a storybook on her left arm and shoulder describes the inner world that she escapes to. She's talking to a cat in a fantasy landscape as she prefers animals to people.
Then there is the guy who wanted a bar code tattoo because he thought it was "unique". He wasn't sure what number to get, I guess he didn't want to accidentally set off the supermarket scanners with "Bananas $1.99". So, he chose his girlfriends NRIC (Identity Card) number. She paid for it for their anniversary; how 'romantic'.
I wonder if he'll ever realise the irony in doing what he did in a country like Singapore? It's a militaristic one-party state that fortunately has a reasonably benevolent ruling family in charge. Nevertheless, it's highly monitored and everything is cross-linked to your identification number. I heard that all you need to apply for a mortgage is your NRIC - they can pull up your entire credit history, asset listing, etc. with just that.
My tattoos also tell stories. Most of them complicated and interwoven with previous and past events in my life. There's more detail to what I'm about to describe, but in the interest of keeping things interesting, I'll tell them to you in person.
Here's a brief description anyway. My koi (Japanese carp) is about serenity, peace and quieting the mind. It swims up because it strives to do better. Carp swim up-river to spawn. There is also the Chinese legend of how dragons are born when a carp swims up river and jumps through the Pearl Gate. Perhaps one day my carp (me) will reach the gate and jump through and I will finally be the dragon I could be. In case you don't know, I was born in the year of the dragon and my surname is the character 'dragon'.
The bamboo was suggested by my artist after a visit to a tattoo convention in Sibu. I thought it was cool as I wanted something big and long to show off a bit. This signifies for me growth and flexibility; to be able to bend and flex, adapt to change but keep still keep growing.
To pre-empt questions:
Yes, it hurt. It's like small needles scratching your skin until it bleeds. But he knows when to lift off so you get about 2 seconds to catch your breath before he continues. The pain is proportional to the sensitivity of the skin in that part of the body.
The koi took three 2-hour sessions: outline, shading 1 then shading 2. The bamboo was meant to be completed in one 1-hour session but I fussed with the original drawing and he got tired as it was the end of the day, so it took two 2-hour sessions. There's still a touchup session to finish off the koi's eye and perhaps correct some of the leaf detail.
Several of the people shown had their tattoos done purely for decorative reasons. They liked the designs, or created them themselves. It was art for arts sake. The most moving photo was of an old man showing some blurry blue-black lines on his shoulder. You'd almost miss them if they weren't pointed out.
He grew up during the Japanese occupation of Singapore and his brother tattooed their initials on each other so that their family could identify their bodies should they be killed or mutilated. I was stopped in my tracks by this story - I remembered my grandmother's and aunt's stories about living during the occupation; huddling under the bed in a corner while the soldiers swept under with their bayonets glinting in the dim light, their father making a false wall so they could hide behind when they came looking for women, my aunt losing her only treasured photo of her childhood because the Japanese soldier threw the frame on the ground, broke the glass and urinated over it.
There's a bartender with heavily tattooed arms, full sleeves Japanese-style but with more Chinese motifs. He talks about getting out of prison and his tattoo for enduring/tolerance: the Chinese character made up of a knife above a heart.
A mother tells of recovering from a bad marriage breakup and she sought to express her inner emotional pain through the physical pain of a tattoo. She chose her starsign Libra watching over her son's Leon. A father tells of a raging sun on his deltoid as his light-of-his-life, the son that died in childhood.
A young girl with a whole scene from a storybook on her left arm and shoulder describes the inner world that she escapes to. She's talking to a cat in a fantasy landscape as she prefers animals to people.
Then there is the guy who wanted a bar code tattoo because he thought it was "unique". He wasn't sure what number to get, I guess he didn't want to accidentally set off the supermarket scanners with "Bananas $1.99". So, he chose his girlfriends NRIC (Identity Card) number. She paid for it for their anniversary; how 'romantic'.
I wonder if he'll ever realise the irony in doing what he did in a country like Singapore? It's a militaristic one-party state that fortunately has a reasonably benevolent ruling family in charge. Nevertheless, it's highly monitored and everything is cross-linked to your identification number. I heard that all you need to apply for a mortgage is your NRIC - they can pull up your entire credit history, asset listing, etc. with just that.
My tattoos also tell stories. Most of them complicated and interwoven with previous and past events in my life. There's more detail to what I'm about to describe, but in the interest of keeping things interesting, I'll tell them to you in person.
Here's a brief description anyway. My koi (Japanese carp) is about serenity, peace and quieting the mind. It swims up because it strives to do better. Carp swim up-river to spawn. There is also the Chinese legend of how dragons are born when a carp swims up river and jumps through the Pearl Gate. Perhaps one day my carp (me) will reach the gate and jump through and I will finally be the dragon I could be. In case you don't know, I was born in the year of the dragon and my surname is the character 'dragon'.
The bamboo was suggested by my artist after a visit to a tattoo convention in Sibu. I thought it was cool as I wanted something big and long to show off a bit. This signifies for me growth and flexibility; to be able to bend and flex, adapt to change but keep still keep growing.
To pre-empt questions:
Yes, it hurt. It's like small needles scratching your skin until it bleeds. But he knows when to lift off so you get about 2 seconds to catch your breath before he continues. The pain is proportional to the sensitivity of the skin in that part of the body.
The koi took three 2-hour sessions: outline, shading 1 then shading 2. The bamboo was meant to be completed in one 1-hour session but I fussed with the original drawing and he got tired as it was the end of the day, so it took two 2-hour sessions. There's still a touchup session to finish off the koi's eye and perhaps correct some of the leaf detail.
Friday, September 21, 2007
The Statistician
My colleague, TC, is a dour looking statistician. He's quite tall, just over 6ft, with a boyish soft flat-top haircut and glasses. He looks about 40, which is probably accurate, but the boyish haircut just makes him look so academic-young-lecturer.
He's got a really cheeky sense of humour that no one notices underneath the quiet exterior. But I work with him quite closely and I get little peeks into this lighter side of him. We've both been on a leadership course at work; lots of sharing of thoughts, activities and other soft-skill activities. One of the 'penalties' for being late back from breaks is the 'ZOOM'. This is when the late person has to trace the word 'ZOOM' with his butt facing the audience.
Yesterday someone was late and the facilitator asked us, "Should we make him do the ZOOM? Or shall we let him off?"
TC, in a loud but directionless voice boomed quietly, "No!" If I weren't sitting next to him I wouldn't have known that the loudest "No" came from him. The hapless late-person traced out the ZOOM and sat down.
"Next time," warned the facilitator, "We'll make you do a longer word, like 'elephant'."
"Hippopotamus," ventured TC quietly. He was obviously tickled by this embarressing show and wanted to see more.
He's got a really cheeky sense of humour that no one notices underneath the quiet exterior. But I work with him quite closely and I get little peeks into this lighter side of him. We've both been on a leadership course at work; lots of sharing of thoughts, activities and other soft-skill activities. One of the 'penalties' for being late back from breaks is the 'ZOOM'. This is when the late person has to trace the word 'ZOOM' with his butt facing the audience.
Yesterday someone was late and the facilitator asked us, "Should we make him do the ZOOM? Or shall we let him off?"
TC, in a loud but directionless voice boomed quietly, "No!" If I weren't sitting next to him I wouldn't have known that the loudest "No" came from him. The hapless late-person traced out the ZOOM and sat down.
"Next time," warned the facilitator, "We'll make you do a longer word, like 'elephant'."
"Hippopotamus," ventured TC quietly. He was obviously tickled by this embarressing show and wanted to see more.
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