You wacky Aussies

... and all the other things for which I didn't have the camera handy ...

... Jai Ho on the airport muzak.

... Wallabies rugby shirts go on 50% discount after Australia gets kicked out of the running for the Rugby World Cup.

... A brown dog standing on the passenger seat of a dusty Holden ute, head stuck out of the wound-down window, ears flapping in the wind.

... street name sign for "Dreamhouse Road", just outside Manly. Ah, happy the residents.

... Kids in school uniforms hitting the beach after they've been let out from school. Why hang out at a mall when there's a beach?

... Stuffed toy kangaroo tied to the rear bumper of a ute going down Campbell Parade, Bondi.

... Wedding photographer yells out to wedding party on church steps to "take off your sunnies" before clicking the shutter.

Not regal enough

Not quite sure what's so queenly about this Tshirt collection. It's neither Freddie Mercury nor Priscilla of the Desert.

9/11

Ten years ago, and I remember it as clear as day. And I'm not American, and live on the other side of the globe.

I was at work. It was shortly past 9pm in Singapore. By that time of the night, I had already finished my work, and I was idly scanning the newswire service. The regular copytaster was off that day. I saw a little newsflash that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Center towers. That first single-line newsflash suggested that it was a light plane.

At that time, nobody had any idea it was a jet. I had thought it was a small plane because some years before, there was a prankster who landed a light craft in Moscow's Red Square, just for the hell of it. And I used to play a game that a friend had on his computer, which was an aircraft flying simulator where you could pick a skyline of whatever city you wanted to soar about in. I used to pick the New York City skyline and made it the object of my game to try and fly my plane between the World Trade Center towers. And I thought that was what happened. Someone probably tried to do that and ended up crashing into the tower.

I told the night editor about the newsflash, and he wearily said to put it as a short one or two paragraph filler in an inside page, which would involve minimum rejigging of pages that had already been done. This was the same man who once famously banned stories of train crashes in his native India because it happened too often to be news.

And then live coverage spluttered on the TV. And crescendoed into an unending torrent. Not just New York, but also the Pentagon and a Pennsylvania field. There wasn't so much horror when we saw footage of the second plane crashing into the tower as disbelief. It didn't feel real. It felt like we were watching a Hollywood disaster movie. I don't know if it was because news people feel no emotion when covering disasters because you snap into a somewhat detached business-like mode of 'How many dead? How many wounded? Is this picture too gruesome to use in print?'

I think the detachment was the effect of watching a disaster unfold on a screen -- you're wired to think that it's not real, it's a Michael Bay movie, and that after a couple of hours, the lights will come back on and life will become normal again.

It was with that sense of disbelief that I typed an e-mail to a dog e-group I belong to, all dog people and friends, and all American. "What on earth is going on in the US?" And their replies slowly came back, all stunned and shell-shocked as I.

And it didn't help when you keep watching a loop of the second plane crashing into the tower, like it's some kind of instant replay. I remember it got too much for me, so I went out of the newsroom to get away from it and to clear my head. I very probably lit a cigarette at this point. At the carpark, I ran into the copytaster who was on her day off. She got into her car and started driving back to the office as soon as she saw the TV news.

By the end of the night, that one-par filler became the front page, back page and several inside pages. I usually got home at midnight then. That night, I got home at 5am. My father, who usually went to bed at midnight, was still up, and had just turned off the TV. "Horrible, terrible," he said to me as he went upstairs to bed. And he's a man not given to saying very much.

The next day, a New York resident in my e-group forwarded an e-mail from the father of one of her students, a first-person account of how he walked down from his office in one of the two towers. Later, when the NYT wire service picked up his story, I recognised his name. Suddenly, picking through news wires wasn't impersonal detachment any more. These were friends of friends. It was a friend's friend who walked down a World Trade Center tower. Over the next 10 years, it would be a friend's nephew who was posted to Iraq. And so the web of connection slowly crept out and grew, and drew us closer than six degrees of separation.

I wasn't supposed to be working tomorrow, Sept 11. I thought I would be spending it at home, watching all the 9/11 programmes, docu-dramas and analyses on TV. There's been an unending row of trailers for them. I was pretty sure that it didn't matter what station I was tuned to, at any given time, some channel would have a 9/11 programme airing.

I wasn't sure that I wanted to watch another loop of that plane flying into the tower. So I was somewhat relieved when a supervisor asked if I could work the Sunday shift because we were short-handed. It would at least get me away from the TV. But it won't get me away from the news wires. Come 9pm, I don't know if I want to be doing what I did 10 years ago.

Now, 10 years on, the lights have come back on. But life was never normal again.

Double take

When I saw Sean Bean in a trailer for Game of Thrones, I stupidly thought for a fleeting moment that there's another instalment of the Lord of the Rings. That split-second hurray moment of yay! more! was rapidly squleched by a rational how-is-that-possible, there-are-no-more-Tolkien-books logic.

Well, you can't blame me. Sean Bean looks exactly the same as Boromir ...


... and whoever he's supposed to be in Game of Thrones.


There's a reason why Thrones writer David Benioff called it "The Sopranos in Middle Earth" (says the ever-helpful Wikipedia).

Saturday night drumming

I don't even know what to call Drum Tao. They are more than taiko drumming -- the performance incorporated dance, musical interludes and even a few comic sketches with the punchline in percussion. I suppose they were sort of like a hybrid Stomp, fused with eastern classical, with more choreography than Madonna, more spectacle than Lady Gaga and more drum solos than Ringo Starr can shake a drumstick at.

No pix -- they were strict about no photography or filming, but their website has got videos. They're very, very good, the full house at the Esplanade Theatre gave them a standing ovation.

Larger than life

OK, I filched the pic off the Net because it's better than what I attempted to take with the cellphone cam. It's a hoarding for an upcoming shopping centre in the heart of Orchard Road. And apparently, it's created some controversy. I personally, don't find it at all objectionable. In fact, I find it quite yummy. :)

Ain't that the truth

Stole the pix off a friend's Facebook profile.

Cos I can.

And cos it's well said.

But does it come in a serif font?

For all you OCD subs!

Festive feasting

Sometimes I wonder why I bother to cook on Hari Raya (Eid) when the neighbours are only going to show me up. :)



Oh yeah. L's birthday was on the same day. Roast lamb with mashed sweet potato and roast zucchini and carrots are a pale comparison to sambal ayam, mutton rendang and sayur lodeh though!



And guess which Doofus Dog head-butted the oven when the lamb was in there roasting?

Doofus dog

You know something's wrong when the house is too quiet and That Dog is nowhere to be found. Rupert wasn't in any of his usual sleeping spots and the only thing that kept down the rising panic as I looked round the house for him was that Queeni didn't seem very perturbed.

I finally found him in the corner of the dressing room. Earlier, we had taken Queeni to the vet for her annual shots, and after we got back, L had left her soft-sided carrier in there, next to a coat-stand. Roop had gone in to sniff at the carrier, had somehow got his head stuck in the carrying strap, and on top of it, had somehow got it twisted round the base of the coat-stand, probably when he tried to wriggle out of it. And there he stood, tied to the coat-stand and waiting quietly for rescue.

At least he didn't bring down the cast iron coat-stand. He did look rather relieved when he was freed. Queeni didn't give a damn, I think she probably thought he was better off tied up in the room.

Curry on

National Cook Curry Day was a week ago, and L was so pleased with the assam fish curry then that he followed it up this weekend with chicken curry.

On the shelf

Just back from a caffeine run. That's like 10 bags of Carrefour coffee behind the two big boxes of Marks and Spencer extra strong tea bags. Everything else on the shelf are dog treats and dog biscuits. We're all set.

Going green

There are now potted plants all over the office. Big, leafy plants two to three feet tall, placed in corners, at the end of cubicle rows, in between filing units.

I found out from the administrators that these plants were rented. I didn't know you could rent plants. The rental includes watering once weekly and a topping up of the hydroponic feed.

They are part of some workplace health initiative the organisation is undertaking, and my particular office is getting the first go at the plants, to sort of test drive the outcome. The biggest boss emailed that we were picked because we had the highest MC rate.

I honestly don't know how the plants are going to cut down on the sick rate. I think people are falling sick because they are overworked, and we are overworked because we are short staffed. New hires might solve things better than new plants. But I guess plants are much cheaper to rent than people.

Also, I remember from biology classes that while plants absorb carbon dioxide and give out oxygen from photosynthesis in the day, the reverse happens at night.

You wanna bet that the sick rate among the night crew will only get worse? Now, among other things, we have to fight for oxygen.

Starting young

There was a bit of commotion on the landing outside our front door yesterday afternoon (and the dogs joined in happily). Turned out that the six-year-old boy down the corridor had staged a run-by toy-throwing at the three-year-old boy across the landing. Yes, he ran past the open door of the flat, and threw a small stuffed pink dinosaur inside, freaking out the younger boy.

Now, a day later, the three-year-old's mother said he won't step on the bits of the floor where the toy bounced and landed. The toy is now sitting in the basket of his dad's bicycle, which is left outside the front door. The boy insisted on placing it there yesterday. Today, he seems anxious that the toy be removed and returned to "abang down there" (brother down the corridor). His mother explained that he feels the need to right things. A concerned L patted the boy on the head. The boy then scrubbed away at it. His father explained that he does that when he is touched, and will then run to the bathroom to wash his hands.

OCD sure starts early.

So does toy terrorism.

Weekend in front of the TV

Only the Brits will consider making a TV programme that retraces the journeys of a long dead poet -- The Scandalous Adventures of Lord Byron. And only a Singapore girl whose name came from Byron and who was mad about the Romantics when she was much younger will watch it. Rupert Everett as the narrator was the icing on the cake. The bonus is when he strips down to his skivvies and tries to swim the Hellespont. Even if he didn't cross it (a Russian tanker got in the way of this Leander), I think he out-Byroned Byron on that.

Impulse buy

Sort of. I was looking for something to wear in the office when the aircon gets chilly at night when the room empties out. I was thinking of a fleece hoodie. And then I saw this. Cut and styled like a leather jacket, but it's denim. Certainly light enough to wear here. And at 70% off. What's not to like?

It's criminal

Went to Borders to get a book today. And found them selling cookware. And photo frames and gee-gaws, all stacked aptly under "crime".

Headbanger

Loopy Roopy's idea of getting into anything -- including closed doors and baby gates -- is to head butt his way through. Well, That Dog has twice banged headfirst into the oven door. The oven being hot, in use and containing a roasting chicken.

Communal watching

I'm too young to remember when TV was new. But I'm told by my mum that back in the days when only one neighbour had a TV set, every one would gather in his house to watch. Well, this is Gen Y's version. One kid with a PC with a DVD player. What's more enterprising here is that they plugged it into an electrical outlet at the communal deck. I guess when the town council planned the deck for communal sharing, they didn't expect the outlets to be used this way.

Goodbye Mr P

Vic Prooth was my Shakespeare teacher when I was in junior college. Those first lessons, we didn't know what to make of the English expatriate teacher striding in the front of the classroom roaring like King Lear, which he was teaching us.

I was soon to find out that Mr P's bark was worse than his bite. And that he did more than just teach in the classroom. He also taught in the canteen, sitting down with students who needed extra hours after class to wrestle with the intricacies of Elizabethan English. And he didn't just teach the set A level texts either. He spent time reading to us from other literature greats. I never understood the Milton, but I loved the sound of it. I told him that, years later, when I was grappling with Milton in university. He said then he had done his job. It would be like children picking up on nursery rhymes -- it's all sound, cadence and rhythm before the meaning. And if I had picked that up, then there's hope that I would understand Milton.

Mr P made me cry. Lots of times. Once in class, when he enacted Laurence Olivier's version of Lear carrying the body of Cordelia -- how one could say "never" five times over and make it sound different each time while increasingly driving it home that Cordelia had well and truly snuffed it. Once outside of class during those extra-curricular readings he held in the canteen, it was the last scene from Cyrano de Bergerac. When I asked to borrow his copy of the play so that I could read the whole thing, he had his entire copy photostated so that I could have my own copy to keep, copyright laws be damned. Another time, he lent me a copy of Oscar Wilde's The Happy Prince -- I read it on the bus home from school, and wept all the way home.

Mr P taught me more than English Literature. He had a subscription ticket to the Singapore Symphony Orchestra, and he used to talk quite a bit about the concerts he attended. I had a passing interest because of a classical music background from piano lessons since young. But the piano lessons only made the subject dreary. It wasn't until Mr P started playing music and making me cassettes from his records, and later on CDs, that I realised this classical stuff wasn't just Associated Board set exam pieces and scales. That this Mozart stuff was really nice and not at all boring.

Over the years after I left school, he became a friend. But he has stayed as a teacher too. His last lesson to me was during the elections in Singapore earlier this year. He was interested in the country's political scene and if things had changed since he left Singapore. I had written that I would probably spoil my vote because I didn't want to vote for the ruling party but there was no credible opposition in my ward. He said that he had spoilt his vote for years, and always with a quote from Romeo and Juliet: "A pox on both your houses." And so that was what I wrote too. It seemed more refined than scrawling all over the ballot paper. And that was the last email exchange I had with him. He was a teacher to the very last.

It had occurred to me that I should end this with a quote from Shakespeare. It would be fitting somehow. But the only one that I can think of is Hamlet's "good night sweet prince, may flights of angels send thee to thy rest". But I don't think Mr P would have much truck with cherubim and seraphim.

I don't know where atheists go when they die. And Mr P used to positively revel in being a heathen. I'm sure that where ever he is, there'll be good music. And lots of good books.

Farewell, Vic. You will be missed.

Wish we could say the same

I sighed when I saw the cover of the current issue of The Economist. Not too long ago was the Aids memorial where I met with old friends, and thought of even older friends. Of those of us still attending the memorial faithfully every year, almost every one had dropped out of volunteering. Now, we just attend the memorial as an audience member instead of a volunteer. "Every one I used to do this for has died," said one of the ex-volunteers.

It was the saddest thing that I've ever heard.

I wish we in Singapore could say the same of the sentiments expressed by The Economist. The latest data from the Ministry of Health shows that in 2010, the number of people reported with Aids in Singapore dipped slightly. But two were perinatal. Those could have been avoided.

The fight goes on.

A week of gifts

Almost everyday now, for the past few weeks, I came home to find a stuffed toy (the dogs') on my side of the bed, sometimes under my pillow, sometimes tucked behind the bolster.

I think it was most probably Queeni who did it -- she's the one that will carry a toy in her mouth and move it about. Rupert just shakes them and drops them when he's done. I'd like to think that she left me a present everyday because she missed me while I was at work. But I think she was really just leaving a toy to bag a space for herself on the bed for later in the night when we retire.







I took these pictures over the past week. The one time I forgot to close the bedroom door when I was taking a picture, guess who got into the frame and claimed the toy for himself.

Yummy yummy peri peri

I'm not food blogger enough to take pictures of my meals before I start tucking in. But I didn't expect my order to come on a sizzling hot plate. I had to wait for it to stop spitting at me before I could start eating. So while waiting, I took a picture of it. Peri peri chicken with pasta in tomato sauce and mushrooms. At the food court next to the office. Yummy.

While everybody else was at work on Monday

... just desserts for working on Sunday.

Royalty has its privileges

HRH Queeni could have been the model for this T-shirt.

Except that I don't see her offering to help anybody.

Day out

The company I work for has a Family Day outing once every year -- usually to the zoo or bird park or something. I've never gone. Not for the past 10 years. But today, hoo boy, today, the outing was at Universal Studios at Resorts World Sentosa. Getting there was already part of the fun. There's now a boardwalk where you can actually walk across to the resort island (with a travellator for those who don't feel like walking) and a view along the way. Not to mention some cafes and a wine bar if you really need sustenance for that 10 minute walk.



Universal Studios extended their opening hours till 11pm, just to cater to us. Which meant that most of the general public got chased out after their official closing hour at 7pm, only people like us (with special wristbands) could stay on in. And ride the roller coasters without having to queue since the hoi polloi were booted out. The Revenge of the Mummy ride. Battlestar Galatica at SciFi World. Woo hoo! I went round and round and round until my stomach kinda moved up to my mouth. Contents anywhere in between. And I don't get motion sickness ordinarily.



There was a water ride at Jurassic Park, and the staff warned that we could get splashed. Somewhere in the queue, you could buy a rain poncho, but because I was a single rider (L wimped out on anything that would get him upside down or wet), I didn't have to join the general queue and missed that. I didn't mind getting splashed. Wrong. I got soaked. Head to toe soaked. As in dripping wet. I could've won a wet Tshirt contest easily, only I don't think I was Miss Congeniality when I took off my sneakers and wrung out my socks.

And that was my last ride for the night. But it was fun!

Sunday pig out

We went to the Marriott for their dinner buffet as we were nearby for the Aids Candlelight Memorial. We were quite late, but there was 45 minutes left to the buffet seating and we figured we could do enough damage in the remaining time. The staff quite kindly warned us 10 minutes before the buffet officially ended and told us that we should load up on whatever else we wanted before they started clearing the buffet set-up. So L got himself another plate of meat entrees and dessert to share -- a plateful of the petit fours and cakes (one of every variety), a bowl of ice cream (one scoop of every flavour) and made himself a bowl of local shaved ice dessert at the assemble-it-yourself counter. He was very happy with all the food on the table.

Ahhhhh

:)

Door stopper

There is nothing as heart stopping as when you get home and only one dog rushes out to give you a red carpet welcome. It verges onto panic when the missing dog is the mischievous one that gets himself into "uh oh" moments.

Luckily, we soon found out that it was because Rupert somehow got himself into a room that was shut off by a baby gate that closed on him and effectively locked him inside a room that he was supposed to be locked out of.

That's when we realised that he's learnt how to nose the baby gate open if it wasn't properly latched close. The only unfortunate side-effect was that when he barged in after nosing it open a crack, it tended to swing itself shut behind him, gathering enough momentum to swing into the latch and then he couldn't nose it open to let himself out. (That was also when we realised that when we weren't home, he's been patrolling round the house and sticking his nose into things.)

Yesterday, I came home to find this. He's learnt to use a stuffed toy as a door stopper so that the gate won't swing shut behind him. And he's so pleased about it too.

The last word

In the last election, in 2006, the ruling party won, with 66.6% of the votes cast. I remember that percentage well. Who can forget the number of the beast?

Yesterday, it won, with 60.1%.

So from where did the prime minister derive his "clear mandate"?

Finally

A long weekend. I got today off, and it's immensely satisfying to be able to lie in bed till the middle of the afternoon when everyone else is at work.

It also helps that today is Cooling Off Day. No campaigning, no rallies, just some party political broadcasts on TV tonight -- but that can be easily silenced.

Ah, peace.

Until the polls close tomorrow night, that is.

A plague on both your houses

I want to vote for the opposition. But not the way they're asking me to, in the bottom poster. Marking my vote with a tick doesn't mean voting for them, it means spoiling a vote. You're supposed to mark your vote with a cross.

No wonder the opposition never wins an election.

Another long weekend

I was quite happy to be rostered to work on Sunday. I like Sunday shifts -- the top bosses are not around, nobody breathes down your neck, you do your work at your own pace and if you're lucky, you finish early and leave early.

Until I realised that Monday -- I'm working that day too -- is a public holiday. Labour Day. I'd quite forgotten about it. Another long weekend spent at work!

And so it begins

Had a late night last night -- not entirely work related. OK, somewhat work related -- G needed a stiff drink before facing Nomination Day today. So stiff that after we left when the wine bar closed at 3am, he popped into 7-11 for one last beer. Me, I was rostered off on Nomination Day. I offered to work instead and take another day off but the design chief said I could "escape" especially as I worked Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Ah, just desserts.

Which meant that I woke up late today -- well after the noon deadline for nomination papers to be filed, but just in time for the media frenzy to begin.

I think I will switch off the TV and not read newspapers for the next week. I should just read the parties' manifestos. Everything else in the media will be hogwash at best and hysteria at worst.

Close encounters of the lift kind

My pet peeve is a common Singaporean complaint -- people who crowd round train and lift doors, and rush in as soon as they open, without first giving way to those who want to come out. I've never understood this. Surely there would be more room for them inside if they let the others come out first?

Last Wednesday: A Chinese-speaking lady tried to enter the lift as soon as the doors opened, before L could and Queeni could leave it. Queeni snorted. Not barked, not growled. Just snorted in a pig-like way, which is Schnauzer for "ahem". The lady jumped back and exclaimed in Mandarin, "Scared me to death." And then raised one high-heeled foot and made as if to kick Queeni. That was when L stepped in. Ordinarily monolingual, he summoned enough Mandarin to tell her: "Your face also scared me to death." She was all dolled up but looked like "an extra from the Rocky Horror Show", he later told me. I still prefer to have kicked her.

Last Friday: A teenaged girl barged into the lift as soon as the doors opened, only to walk right into us -- two people and two dogs coming out. This time round, the dogs were silent. Not even a polite doggy "ahem". Young Lady promptly burst into tears at the shock of there actually being people (and dogs) wanting to come out of the lift first. When we were well down the path, I turned back to look at her -- she was still standing at the corner of the lift lobby and crying, while her boyfriend held the lift door open and looked helpless. Poor sod. The guy, not the girl. The girl's just what Queeni is biologically termed as.

Happy Easter

L (looking at a printed in Australia calendar): Why isn't Easter Monday isn't a holiday here? (It is a holiday in Australia and Britain.)

Me: Because Easter Sunday isn't a holiday here, so we don't get Monday off to compensate for a Sunday holiday. Good Friday off is supposed to be good enough for us.

And after a moment's thought: This is Singapore. When you resurrect isn't as important as when you die.

The real meaning of just in time delivery

Back in February, the government announced -- as part of Budget 2011 -- several benefits such as utility rebates, tax rebates, growth dividends, education subsidies. This week, a flyer summarising all those goodies arrived at my door step. Two months later. But just in time for the elections.

Pre-election present

I didn't even realise it until the clerk at the counter gave me a quizzical look when I tried to pay my utility bill. Thanks to the utility save handout, this month's bill was a grand total of zero.

And then I went into the office. And found out that Nomination Day is next Wednesday, and Polling Day is May 7.

Do good things come in pairs?

Just before the weekend, two of my colleagues gave me two books, saying that I absolutely have to read them. Have to say that I've never heard of either of the Toms before, but I'll go with my colleagues' recommendations. I don't know if the two of them cahooted to unload two books on me all at once -- especially as I've publicly admitted that a combination of Facebook and cable TV has eaten my brain. If I can't be prised off the couch this weekend, and if the laundry/dirty dishes/dust bunnies pile up, G and P are to be blamed. Wasn't the TV this time round. :)

Night at the museum

Nothing came to life -- most unfortunately.

The only thing that the ArtScience Museum had going for it -- other than it opens till 10pm (which suits night shift folk like me because my days don't start till late afternoon, even on a day off) -- is its beautiful architecture. I'd passed it often enough to know what it looked like on the outside -- a lotus flower -- and now I could prowl inside and try to figure out how the galleries connect. I think the exhibits I spent most time poring over were architect Moshie Safadie's notebook sketches when he conceptualised the building. And they were tucked away in two corners at the landing on the uppermost level, like some kind of afterthought.

The Tate, it is not. What's more galling is that entry to the Tate is free. This one has a S$30 entry fee. It got me into two still exhibitions -- a travelling one on Genghis Khan, and another on Chinese pottery excavated from a shipwreck in the South China Sea. Which really isn't very different from the stuff that the Asian Civilisations Museum has to offer. And frankly, I think the ACM does a better job -- and at one-third the price of admission. The Genghis Khan exhibition had a few interesting items, but it relied heavily on a video narrative -- which I could watch at home on the NatGeo channel.

I guess, with a name like ArtScience, I was expecting a cross between MOMA and the Exploratorium -- both of which I absolutely loved. Nothing like that here. :(

The king of musicals

The Lion King was the reason why I spent one summer in London angsting at the return ticket booth at Leicester Square almost daily when no returns were to be had. So you can imagine how happy I was that the production finally came to Singapore.

Breathtaking staging, wonderful costumes, amazing puppetry.

Loved it.

A Watergate by any other name

The placard that all cabbies have on their dashboard with their names printed on them said that this Chinese youngish 30-something driver's first name was Nixon.

By the end of the trip, I couldn't withhold my curiosity any longer, and had to ask him if that was the name he was given at birth, or a Western first name that he picked for himself. His parents named him Nixon.

You'd think that if you wanted to name your son after an American president, someone more salubrious than Nixon would come to mind. Eisenhower, maybe. Or Roosevelt. Maybe that would be a bit hard for Junior to spell... But Nixon! Hmm, or maybe it was that Nixon in China business.

Out of sync

The problem with working a six-day Sunday-to-Friday week (other than six days! Working on a Sunday!) is you're facing a mid-week slump on Tuesday -- just when other people are recovering from Black Monday. By the time it gets to Wednesday, you're starting to coast downhill for the second half of the week while everyone else is struggling up the mid-week hump.

Hmm

If I said that I wanted to red pencil this, then I would be equally guilty of verbing a noun, right?

Don't get outraged

The poster on the advertising billboard at the bus stop was a collaborative effort between an arts school and the police force to come up with visuals for a campaign advising the public on how to prevent "outrage of modesty" (such a lovely Victorian turn of phrase, if you ask me). That the bus stop is on a road with little traffic and is dark at night, well, that's the sort of thing that would make you look over your shoulder.

The copy includes useful tips on how to avoid being outraged -- avoid dark areas, have someone meet you when you're going home late.

It just doesn't tell you what to do if you've been outraged. I think maybe a good swift kick in the goolies should do it. Pity they didn't illustrate that.

Saturday night out

Working Sundays for the weeks ahead -- and am facing a six-day week ahead on top of that -- so nipped out to the Mosaic Music Festival at the Esplanade to catch Erik Mongrain and to chill a little, while I can. He played mostly acoustic guitar, which he also turned it into a percussion instrument to accompany himself. And then he set the guitar on his lap and played it like I've never seen before, by tapping it -- air tap, it's called. Blew my mind. I think sometimes, it's OK not to pay attention when your music teacher is going on about Proper Fingering. Or learn it all and then turn it all upside down. Or in this case, sideways on your lap.

Mis-prince?

Does this look like Harry or Wills on this royal wedding commemorative mug?

Did they get the wrong prince?

The Singapore government announced a couple of days ago that it was donating $500,000 to Japan, towards aid efforts.

Today, a Singapore woman bested them by giving double, $1 million. No press release, no announcement. The Japanese embassy had to hastily arrange a ceremonial handing over of the cheque for her, and only because the Japanese Association told them of the fat cheque.

Phooey to the government. I hope they at least give the woman a tax break.

My office is organising a charity drive for the Red Cross. Hope it shows the government what-for too.

No friend left behind

I'm used to seeing gory pictures taken at disaster scenes, Katrina, the Burma hurricane, the Indian Ocean tsunami. My first reaction of the pictures coming out of Japan was, oh, another Banda Aceh.

The first time any disaster picture made me teary was this video clip posted on a colleague's Facebook wall.

Ganbatte kudasai

I remember a snippet off the newswires that a colleague showed me, weeks ago, post-Christchurch quake, and the authorities were abandoning hope of finding survivors. The leader of the Japanese rescue team was asked for his comment, and his reply was: You must understand that I rescue people. My business is hope. Ganbatte kudasai

Rock on

As much as I like Santana's music, the two best bits of his concert here actually had nothing to do with him.

The second best bit was when Mrs Santana took over from the resident drummer for a set.

The best bit when Santana introduced his band, and when it came to the guitarist, the guy used the spotlight to launch into the opening stanza of U2's New Year's Day.

That's as close as anybody is going to get to two rock concerts for the price of one.

Spotted something new

They look like and are the size of greengages. But they're exactly like kiwi fruit inside -- tiny kiwi, minus the furry brown skin. Genetically modified kiwi? Kiwi crossed with greengages? They're sweet, juicy, yummy and very expensive (almost $4 for a punnet that held just nine pieces).

Biting my tongue

More on the evilness of Facebook corrupting my soul. It lets you read posts of people whom you do not know at all -- because a friend whom you do know has commented on the post of a stranger whom you don't know. Which was why I was horrified that a bunch of strangers were oohing and aahing over the culinary discovery of another stranger.

Which was: a slice of processed cheese floated over a bowl of instant noodles and stirred up.

I can't be rude to a stranger. But it's terrifying that processed food garnished with processed yuck is getting Facebook "likes". This wiki wisdom of the crowd thing is wrong.

I'm not snobbish. I eat instant noodles too. But I think it's not so hard to throw in a handful of fresh vegetables on top of noodles. Or to stir in a spoonful of miso or Marmite to flavour the soup instead of using the sachet of e-numbers. You don't really need to know how to cook to do that.

Or perhaps people really don't think about what they're putting into their mouths. Only last week, I had the hardest time trying to explain to a friend who had to be off dairy that there is no dairy in salad dressing. He insisted there was milk in it because it was creamy. He couldn't wrap his head round that mayo is emulsified egg, oil and vinegar. That you don't need cream to make things creamy.

I'm beginning to understand the need for Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution. Come on over, Jamie. Please.

Saturday night out

Went to the SSO -- only because there was the holy triumvirate of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven on the programme. Couldn't go wrong with any of that.

It was billed as a gala night, so there were none of the usual ticketing concessions. However, $50 bought me a ticket in the fourth row (as opposed to $300 for a seat in the second balcony for THE Berlin Phil -- yes, still harping on that) -- I was so close to the musicians that when a second violinist used his bow to stab down a flyaway page of music, I could hear the thwack as it hit the sheet.

Haydn was Symphony No 44; Mozart was the Prague symphony and Beethoven was his allegedly only violin concerto, with guest violinist Renaud Capucon, but I hadn't heard of him. Liked the Beethoven and Mozart anyway, but I don't know whose version of Prague I've been listening to, thought last night's version didn't have an arresting enough opening.

Facebook ate my brain

It's a deadly combination of social media and newly acquired cable TV -- the cable company (one out of the two here) gave us free access to all their 100+ channels as new subscribers (don't you love competition). It's not a free lunch but a marketing ploy (see, some bits of the brain still works, FB didn't eat it all. Yet). They probably wanted to hook us onto all the channels available so that we'll take them all. Or they probably hope that we forget to opt out after the free access period is over and then bill us for 100+ channels instead of the few dozen or so that come with the package we've taken on.

Anyway, with 100+ channels and getting on FB, I have not read a book in the past two weeks. I'm deeply ashamed. The bookmark left in the volume by my bed hasn't moved in a while. The only reading that I've done is The Economist, and that's because I have a subscription. If I don't finish the current issue, another one will show up on Friday and I don't want them to pile up.

Must. Turn. The. Mac. And. The. TV. Off.

Bye bye, boys

These are Spike and Zoey, a pair of Italian greyhound brothers who live with a friend in Tokyo. I'm fond of them because I first visited Tokyo when they were newly acquired, and slept in the guest room which also served as the dogs' room. So they were a big part of my first Japan experience. That was more than 10 years ago.

Spike died a couple of years ago. Zoey died yesterday. He was getting on in years, but seemed fine. Then he went to bed and never woke up. It is somehow comforting to know that he was a good boy to the end, didn't put anyone through that last trip to the vet, and that he went peacefully in his sleep, on his own bed.

But he will still be missed.

Geographical eats

There's a new(ish) stall at the food court that sells laksa. All sorts of laksa, actually, from around the region: Singapore laksa (of course), Penang laksa, Johor laksa, Kelantan laksa, Sarawak laksa and Myanmar laksa.

Other than Penang laksa, which is popular enough, I'd never even heard of the others. Though I was well educated -- and well fed -- on Sarawak laksa by a Sarawak-born wife of an editor I used to work with. I didn't even know that the Malaysian states all had their own varieties of laksa. I will have to go back and eat my way through the archipelago.

Out of solidarity for Aung San Suu Kyi, I ordered the Myanmar laksa. It was prepared and served by a cook from China. Only in Singapore.

The Myanmar laksa had a broth that was almost scary in its livid yellowness. It was creamy with coconut milk, cut by the tang of freshly squeezed lime on top. No picture. Am not food blogger enough to take pix of things before I put them in my mouth. Just take my word that it was yummy.

Facebook follies and a blast from the past

So I finally got on Facebook. And instantly slid down the slippery slope of perdition. I didn't poke people that much, really. But I swore a lot while trying to navigate round an unfriendly interface and trying to find the "hide" buttons that were hidden. Purposely, I daresay. And then a comment that I posted in response to a friend showed up in another friend's wall, puzzling friend #2 greatly while leaving friend #1 thinking that I was ignoring him. It was enough to make me "unfriend" Facebook. There. I've said the word. Unfriend. I'm deeply ashamed. Every fibre of the professional sub-editor in me is quivering with righteous indignation and demanding that I return all Headline of the Year awards.

The plus side of Facebook is that it didn't take long for an old school friend to find me. And then she got all nostalgic, and ended up posting on her wall, a picture of our old school gang, taken during someone's wedding. I don't even remember the occasion, but it was a calculated guess seeing that one person in the group is in a wedding gown.


The trip back to the 80s was another shock. I'd forgotten that I never used to cut my hair then. And that we wore blouses with big white bibs for collars. OMG, looking at the photo was like stepping into a time warp. I was part of The Breakfast Club.

Don't it turn my brown eyes red

These are Big and Small, an imaginatively named pair of stuffed dogs (the big one is Big, the small one is Small), who are err, pets to our pets. I don't know what possessed us to think along the lines that our dogs would like to have their own dogs when we bought them. Queeni likes to carry Small around in her mouth, and Rupert likes to feel macho by shaking Big, twice his size. Which means that Big and Small got a little stinky with dog saliva.

So L put Big in the wash with some other toys. Small escaped the wash because he was hidden by somedog behind the sofa. And into the wash went some bleach, partly because there was a predominantly white toy that had gone predominantly brown.

Big emerged from the wash with scary blood-shot eyes, the bleach having turned its brown eyes red. I find it scary to look at, but Rupert doesn't seem to notice the difference and is back to being macho with Big. Or maybe he feels even more macho now, to shake up Vampire Dog.

Touche

Somebody made her own pineapple tarts. She said I could post the pix of creations here with a "don't laugh" warning, seeing that this blog is on a pineapple tart roll. Seriously, nobody's laughing. I think they're awesome. Especially when she did everything from scratch, the pastry and the jam filling (which took six hours). The tarts look beautiful. I bet they taste yummy too.

Gongxi facai

I don't know if this was somebody's whimsical Chinese New Year display by the roadside, or it's if an offering/plea to Cai Shen (God of Fortune) -- given the ingot and the playing card (lucky No 8).

Fatt! anyway.

Pineapple tarts, round 2

Sorry, Somebody. Another neighbour, another jar of pineapple tarts. However, these are store bought and factory made. And nothing to shout about. Don't really like them in the pigs-in-a-blanket shape. The home-made ones still win for taste and aesthetics.

Glint in the eye

This pix is for the benefit of somebody, so that she needn't look at a pineapple tart everytime she drops by here. :)
Gongxi facai.