Son of Singapore

Life Stories - Part 7

2009-03-30T09:38:00.001+08:00

It’s just after 6 am when you cross the lights on Bras Basah Road near St Joseph’s Institution, an old David Bowie song playing in your head as you take long, determined strides.

You’re in Primary Six, and partnered with a Secondary Four kid on a Saturday flag day for your school. His strategy is simple – start really early, hit the places that the other kids wouldn’t think of, avoid Orchard Road (where most people are intent on spending money on themselves rather than on giving to charity) and go where two hard-working, earnest youngsters are most likely to be rewarded for their efforts with generous donations.

Within the next hour, you cover two wet markets, amazed at how many red-coloured bills are stuffed into your collection tin by matronly women doing their weekly grocery run. A quick lunch of boiled vegetables and rice at an uncle’s home nearby is the only break that you really take throughout the day, pounding the pavement around the Bugis and Rochor districts.

By evening, you’re thoroughly exhausted and back at school, waiting intently as the collections are counted. You beam with pride as they announce that you’ve collected the most of all the teams, beating the runner up pair by a convincing margin.

That Secondary Four kid goes on to become a top government lawyer, having taught you some of the most valuables lessons in life.

singapore

Fastlove - Part 6

2009-02-28T14:28:00.003+08:00

She says she’s been in the business too long, lighting up a super thin cigarette that somehow makes the next girl seem unsophisticated with garden variety Marlboro Lights.

You’ve always found her attractive, with her petite frame and hair tied up in a signature ponytail. Today she’s dressed casually in a fitted long sleeve dark blue shirt and skinny Miss Sixty jeans, a stainless steel Rolex Submariner sitting on her slender wrist.

She speaks to you in a comfortable mix of English and Hokkien, and fixes her eyes intently on you as she takes a long drag on her thin cigarette. She tilts her mouth to the side as she exhales, grey tendrils of smoke sneaking off into the cold air of the darkened room.

singapore

Fastlove - Part 5

2009-01-29T08:28:00.000+08:00

You reach for a book on your bookshelf as you pack for a business trip. It’s slim with a blue cover, telling the story of the reengineering of a Japanese automotive giant, and unread since you bought it sometime the previous year on some work trip.

Carelessly you flip through the pages, scanning them for interesting passages. You notice a receipt stuffed somewhere in the middle, and when you look closer, find a single long strand of golden hair curled up neatly next to it. You unravel the blonde hair, admiring its length and relative straightness, and how the colour is more or less even from the follicle to the end.

You pause for a moment, trying hard to remember how it got there, and to whom it may have belonged. You smile to yourself when you think you know the answer.

singapore

Life Stories – Part 6

2008-12-29T08:08:00.002+08:00

You are in primary school, part of a student contingent sent to pay respect at the funeral of a society elder, a generous benefactor of the school.

You and your friends line the driveway to the old man’s house as his funeral procession begins to wind its way past you. One of the last cars to leave the compound is a sleek BMW 7-series, with an incongruous bumper sticker that reads: “If you love someone, set them free… If they don’t come back, hunt them down and shoot them.”

You don’t know it then, but this moment would somehow colour your view on love.

singapore

Life Stories – Part 5

2008-11-13T08:08:00.000+08:00

The girl you’re with excites you, more than many have in the past. Quietly and without letting her know, you bring her to all your old dating haunts and weekend getaways, as though doing so will eradicate the memories of those who have come before her.

singapore

Pour que tu m'aimes encore – Part 3

2008-10-30T07:42:00.000+08:00

She’s waiting for you in a crowded café in an Orchard Road mall, slouched down in her seat at a corner table and wearing a faded orange baseball cap with her long ponytail coming out the back. She’s dressed simply in a sleeveless top and track pants, suggesting a visit to the gym or maybe some yoga afterwards.

She says that on her way over, someone had recognised her and asked for a photo. She gladly obliged, all the while apologising for not wearing any make-up and for dressing so casually.

You took no notice of her comment at the time, realising only later that evening that her public persona had begun to diverge, spreading away from the nervous girl you thought you once knew.

singapore

Three

2008-09-28T08:28:00.001+08:00

Happy birthday, Son of Singapore.

singapore

Pour que tu m'aimes encore – Part 2

2008-09-19T19:39:00.000+08:00

You first met her four years ago, when she was working the auto show. She was dressed in a short shiny blue dress, a white bolero and white boots. With her hair tied up in a ponytail, you couldn’t help but think that she was one of the most beautiful girls you had ever seen.

You remember the way she spoke, her words strong and deliberate, as though she rehearsed each line in her mind before speaking. You remember the way she carefully looked at you as she spoke, as though trying to size up your intentions, too used to unwanted attention, and too weary.

singapore

Pour que tu m'aimes encore - Part 1

2008-08-29T09:11:00.000+08:00

You’re absentmindedly flipping through a business magazine when you see her in a new ad. This time she’s poised on the seat by herself, long legs coiled up and head tilted to one side, drawing the reader’s eyes to her graceful slender neck and almost magical smile.

Remembering that it’d been months since the two of you last spoke, you decide to send her a text. She always said you were the first to alert her when her campaigns finally appeared. You wonder how long she will take to reply and wonder if you should suggest meeting up.

After some minutes, your phone starts to beep. You stare at it for a while, wondering what to do next.

Je deviendrai ces autres qui te donnent du plaisir
Vos jeux seront les nôtres si tel est ton désir
Plus brillante plus belle pour une autre étincelle
Je me changerai en or pour que tu m'aimes encore

singapore

Waiting - Part 4

2008-07-28T08:48:00.001+08:00

A split second lack of attention. You’d rounded the corner and almost walked into her. She seems to stare right into you, oblivious to the near collision, her mind lost in thought and faraway. You’d seen her in the building dozens of times before. Always dressed in black, usually in pants or an occasional knee-length skirt, black flats, black hair band and long tresses layered at the back.

She shuffles to the side to let you past. You keep on walking, turning back to look at her go and wondering when you might chance upon her again. A minute later, you realise you're going the wrong way, all because of a split second lack of attention.

singapore

Fearless

2008-06-23T08:00:00.000+08:00

She shifted her weight from foot to foot, feeling tired from standing for so long. In the next gallery, a man in his early twenties wearing a pink long-sleeved shirt, a pink floral skirt and brown Birkenstocks stood clucking to himself in front of a piece by Mark Bradford, which was one of her favourites. What she loved about this job was that it allowed her to be so close to the art that she admired, like the Anish Kapoor pieces, which she now shepherded.

At some point, you mustered the courage to talk to her. She turned to you with expectant eyes, a shade of green and grey just like Alisa’s from so many years ago.

singapore

Kim - Part 1

2008-05-30T08:18:00.000+08:00

It was always on and off with her, a relationship that always seemed to tether on the brink of developing into something more serious, but that ultimately never did.

She said she thought Asians looked cool because of their jet black hair. At first, you took that at face value, and dismissed her comment as curious and slightly silly. Over time, you began to suspect that perhaps she liked you for what you represented, rather than for who you were, and that annoyed you.

singapore

37°2 le matin

2008-04-25T07:47:00.000+08:00

Your dates were always interested in hearing about the strange, exotic movies that you’d seen overseas, and that weren’t available in Singapore. The ones that began with the protagonists fornicating in the heat of the night, or that revolve around a man watching his favourite stripper going through her schoolgirl routine night after night in a Toronto club.

They listened intently as you set the scene, turning the celluloid into words and the words into images in their minds. They nodded sagely as you described each vivid movement, each tortured expression, each stolen kiss.

singapore

Kismet - Part 6

2008-03-30T08:08:00.000+08:00

You’re nervous, wondering what you would do if she doesn’t laugh or isn’t that interested. The sense of not being in total control is something you haven’t experienced in a while, slightly worrying yet strangely exciting.

singapore

Life Stories - Part 4

2008-02-28T07:59:00.001+08:00

Valerie was the prettiest girl in your JC, as far as you were concerned. A year older and a school runner, she had a lean, athletic body and long slender legs. She always sported a page boy haircut that nicely complemented her soft-looking, oval face, giving her a quintessentially Chinese look.

There was one particular conversation with her that you’ll never forget.

“Do you ever wonder why things happen the way they do?” you’d asked, thinking of Jungian synchronicity.

“All the time,” she replied, tugging nervously on the collar of her uniform, scanning the canteen with weary eyes.

singapore

How To Date SQ Girls - Part 5

2008-01-31T08:48:00.000+08:00

In the two years you hadn’t seen her, you’d forgotten how tall she was. Even now, seated at a table in the cosy second floor restaurant off Boat Quay, you suspect she’s leaning forward in a vain effort to make herself seem shorter, her long slender torso canted to one side as she tells you excitedly about her new job, three days in.

A group of six men walk noisily across the dark hardwood floor, taking their seats at the next table, set several feet away. Throughout your meal, you notice them looking over from time to time, studying her and the way she waves her long slender fingers as she talks. You can’t work out whether this is because of the copious amounts of red wine the men are consuming, or because there aren’t any other pretty girls to stare at in the restaurant. From her seat, she doesn’t seem to notice them, or perhaps she’s just trained herself not to notice people staring at her. She speaks with you animatedly, reciting the job pointers you give her, as though she’s trying to commit them to memory.

At one point she turns to look for a waiter. Through a gap between the buttons at the front of her blouse, you see a sliver of lacy black lingerie. As she begins to turn back, you avert your eyes just in time, focusing on a window frame just off to her right. She continues to talk, changing topic and picking up speed, slender fingers still waving in the air.

singapore

Fastlove - Part 4

2007-12-30T09:28:00.000+08:00

It’s a quarter past twelve when she gets into your car, swinging herself into the seat with a practised grace. As you reach for the gearshift, your eyes can’t help but notice the goose bumps on her slender legs, no doubt a reaction to the sudden change from the humidity outside to the cool air now surrounding her.

Your eyes linger a moment longer than they probably should, and you wonder if she noticed. She turns to face you, her hand flicking aside the strands of her long blonde hair.

singapore

Breathe

2007-11-28T09:09:00.000+08:00

Her CD arrived in the mail today. The one she’d mentioned in a chance meeting a few weeks ago, in the course of a simple and plain conversation, catching up on many years of being out of touch.

It came in a padded white envelope with foreign stamps and a customs declaration. You take it out and look at the picture on the cover, and decide that she looks more or less the same. The case looks fairly new, although the back is stamped with the word “Sample” in dark red letters. You open it, inspecting the liner notes and noticing that the disc looks like it’s never been played, and that the liner notes look like they’ve never been taken out, true to the seller’s description.

You examine the six photos of her in the liner notes. It’s a darker, older and more knowing version of her, someone whom you almost do not recognise. You play her CD. Her voice is higher-pitched than you remember, ethereal.

You try to recall the times you spent with her, but the images are fleeting, playing hide-and-seek in your mind and not wanting to be remembered. You wonder if she ever realised how much you cared about her and how much you wanted to be with her. This woman, then a girl, who changed your life more than she will ever know. This girl, now a woman, who at one point was the greatest love in your life. Who was, and perhaps always will be.

And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted
All the time
All the time

singapore

Kismet - Part 5

2007-10-30T08:08:00.000+08:00

In another time, at another place, she’d be your girl.

If she wasn’t already dating someone else, if things weren’t so complicated, if you both had more time.

For now, you just observe her from a distance, listening to the things she says, watching the way she moves her hands, studying her pixie face and her many varied expressions as she talks to you.

singapore

Two

2007-09-28T08:08:00.000+08:00

Happy birthday, Son of Singapore.

I say love will come to you
Hoping just because I spoke the words that they're true
As if I've offered up a crystal ball to look through
Where there's now one there will be two

singapore

Teardrops - Part 1

2007-08-31T13:18:00.001+08:00

The day after the breakup, she cut her hair short, adopting a pageboy look that quite suited her roundish face. Within a week she had quit her job, and just over two weeks later, she finds herself in a window seat waiting for the nearly empty plane to take off and bring her home to her parents, childhood friends and hopefully, the opportunity to start over.

She takes a deep breath, trying to slow down her pulse. The previous days had become a blur, of a frantic garage sale to sell her sofa and TV, of filling small cardboard boxes with clothes and books and CDs, of throwing away years of mementos, photos and memories in large black garbage bags.

She isn’t sure if she’s making the right decision by leaving this city and this life, but she’s tired of the bags under her eyes and of the constant confusion and the pain. She closes her eyes tightly as the aircraft finally taxies down the runway, gathering speed and lifting her into a cloudless August sky.

Footsteps on the dance floor
Remind me baby of you
Teardrops in my eyes
Next time I'll be true

singapore

Voices Carry - Part 1

2007-08-24T08:08:00.000+08:00

Like clockwork she appears a little after noon, crossing the pink tiled floor of the airy café just off Raffles Place, which will soon fill up with customers looking for their fix of sandwiches, salads and famous cupcakes.

The first time you saw her about a month ago she was wearing a tight-fitting white knit top over a simple camel coloured skirt. Today she’s similarly dressed, but rather more businesslike in a dark blue skirt and a silky black blouse. You can’t help but think how a string of pearls, a Hermès scarf and a Birkin bag could dress up either outfit and instantly transform her into one of the ladies who lunch in the 16th arrondissement, or a youngish Sloane Square soccer mom with a Range Rover or Lexus SUV parked around the corner.

Your eyes linger over her slim frame as she lines up at the self-service counter with her back to you, and you notice how she absentmindedly crosses her left foot behind her right one as she waits, three inch stiletto heel dangling in the air. The back of her blouse is meticulously tucked into her tight-fitting skirt, pleats and visible lines lining up symmetrically.

She heads over after buying her lunch, together with a colleague, who’s similarly attired in a slim grey skirt and black blouse, first two buttons undone. They sit down at a table close to you. The first time you saw her she shared a big salad with her colleague. Today they have individual salads whilst a bowl of soup sits squarely between them.

Her tanned complexion, long straight hair and pretty face make her seem at once youthful yet mature. You hear snatches of their conversation, in perfect English, peppered with parochial slang. They’re chatting about their food and a big Hollywood movie that’s in cinemas at the moment. You wonder what else she gets up to, where she went to school, whether she reads Baudelaire or chick lit, whether her iPod nano carries Editors or Enrique, whether her movie tastes run to Sundance selections.

You step out of the fantasy you’ve invented for her, having lingered just a little too long on your long black, now cold and somewhat uninviting. It’s just before 12:30 pm on a Tuesday as you step back onto a cloudy Raffles Place, but already you’re looking forward to next week.

singapore

Rain - Part 2

2007-07-27T08:48:00.000+08:00

You’re sitting at a table under the five-foot-way outside your favourite kopitiam, along a street lined with conservation shop-houses. Breakfast today comprises two orders of kaya toast, two runny eggs and a cup of steaming hot kopi-o.

It starts to rain quite heavily, and you watch as the water runs over the roof of your car and trickles down the back and over the rear bumper, collecting in a puddle at the side of the road.

You think back to the garden in your parents’ house, where as a young boy you squatted under the car porch, watching the raindrops splash down, forming muddy puddles in the grass. You could spend hours just staring at the rain and the puddles, breathing in the cool, fresh air. It seems like such a long time ago, in an age before deadlines and meetings and the various other machinations of working life that bring you alternating happiness and anxiety.

singapore

Waiting - Part 3

2007-07-19T09:09:00.000+08:00

A man in his late fifties or early sixties with big square rimmed glasses and a fedora asks if he can share your table. He’s wearing a brown tweed jacket over a camel coloured argyle sweater over a teal coloured shirt over a white inner shirt, despite the fact that it’s a balmy July morning. There’s a small yellow cloth flower pinned on the lapel of his jacket, which captures your attention for some reason.

He lights up a Marlboro red, and proceeds to alternate each drag of the cigarette, held in his left hand, with a sip from a big cup of cappuccino, held with his right hand. He does this for about three minutes, finishing both his cigarette and his coffee at approximately the same time. He gets up to leave, saying “thank you” with a slight nod of his head, before he turns and shuffles away into the crowd.

singapore

Paddington

2007-06-29T06:55:00.000+08:00

It’s 6 am in the morning and you’ve just gotten off the train from the airport. You have two hours to kill before your first meeting of the day.

You find a nearby café and settle in at a sidewalk table with a cappuccino and a croissant, still hungry despite a full continental breakfast a couple of hours earlier, courtesy of Singapore Airlines, still a great way to fly.

A middle-aged couple, American you’re guessing, walk past holding hands and pulling along matching tan luggage with floral trim. Somehow you feel a bit envious. You plug in the radio on your mobile phone, hoping to listen to some Britpop but sadly finding Nelly Furtado and the Pussycat Dolls.

It’s been eight years since the last time you were in London. Memories flood in of her tiny flat in Belsize Park, of languid smoky nights in the basement club of a hip Moroccan restaurant on Regent Street, of the convey belt sushi restaurant in Soho that was all the rage back then, of the murderous NCP car park charges and wheel clamps on your black Mercedes. You laugh to yourself, startling the woman at the next table. You give her a quick smile, and turn back to observe as the city begins to awaken from its slumber. More people walk past, dressed almost invariably in dark greys and black, taking quick determined strides, striving for destinations as yet unknown.

singapore

Velvet - Part 1

2007-06-21T08:08:00.000+08:00

She leans sharply forward and grabs your right wrist, turning your palm upwards. Your eyes move downwards, ineluctably following the plunging neckline of her sleek black dress. She starts to look up, and your eyes race upwards, hoping you won’t be discovered. Your eyes meet hers and she laughs, knowingly.

singapore

The Roaring 20s - Part 2

2007-05-28T09:28:00.000+08:00

One of the most intense relationships you ever had lasted exactly one week, from the first time you met her over plates of char kway teow at lunchtime on a Friday, to the last time you said goodbye, exactly seven and a half days later, just past midnight at the wine bar at Zouk.

Sometimes you wonder whether that relationship might have had some hidden mileage in it that prematurely vanished that fateful Friday night. When you think back to that week, you remember certain bits and pieces more vividly than others, like the flickering fragments of some old film.

There was an evening earlier in the week, when you waited for her on the landing outside her flat, as she hurried about inside gathering some clothes and things so that she could stay over at your place. You remember looking out at the next block of flats, and noticing how the setting sun had cast beautiful purple and orange streaks in the sky. You remember that you didn’t want to go into the flat and meet her family, that things were progressing quite quickly, and that you weren’t sure how long it would last. But most of all you remember the setting sun and the beautiful sky.

Sometimes you scroll through your phone list, and think about calling her, but you always end up putting the phone away. Sometimes some things are better left in the past, and it’s been years since you said goodbye.

singapore

Life Stories - Part 3

2007-05-16T07:57:00.001+08:00

At some point there were two women who entered your life at the same time.

One was shy and reserved, always dressed conservatively in knee length skirts and slightly frilly blouses in muted tones of olive, grey and black. The other was vivacious and tanned, wore her hair in a ponytail, dressed in tight fitting dresses and short skirts in primary colours and neon tones.

One seemed to whisper “I’m here, I’ll be here for you” while the other shouted “I’m here, here and now.”

It didn’t take long for you to decide which one to pursue. Like a moth to a flame.

singapore

Fastlove - Part 3

2007-05-03T09:11:00.000+08:00

“Do you love me?” you ask.

She takes a sidelong look at you.

“If I said I did now, I’d be lying,” she says, in crisp, unaccented English.

singapore

The Roaring 20s - Part 1

2007-04-17T08:08:00.000+08:00

There was a moment when your desire for her turned into disgust for yourself.

You looked around the room, glancing over framed pictures of her and her family, studying the tired teak furniture and listening to the soft purring of the air-conditioner. She slept beside you, unaware that you were awake. You could hear her soft breathing, which seemed loudly to you than it actually was.

“What the hell am I doing here?” you remember thinking to yourself.

Almost silently, you gathered your belongings and slipped out the bedroom and slipped out the front door.

Outside it was about 5 am in the morning. You walked along the corridor, glancing down to see your car illegally parked below, wondering which route would get you home, as quickly as possible.

singapore

Everything Counts

2007-04-11T08:08:00.001+08:00

You wake up in the morning to the radio, tuned to a station named after a perfect score on a test.

When you drive to work, the guy next to you at the lights slowly looks you over, probably hating you for being younger and driving a nicer car than him.

In the office, you’re hit by a constant barrage of emails, phone calls, instant and text messages, leaving you little time to gaze out your window and enjoy the breathtaking view of the city.

When you party at night, the first question from almost every girl you meet is “what do you do for a living?”

Sometimes you leave the clubs around midnight, taking long slow drives by yourself down a sodium-lit Shenton Way just for the hell of it, looking up to see some office windows still burning bright, wondering to yourself what everyone’s working so hard for, these days.

singapore

Kismet - Part 4

2007-03-26T07:57:00.000+08:00

There was a moment that evening when everything just seemed more lucid. When superfluous sounds faded away, when your vision only registered what was immediately in front of you. When you focused all your attention on her, on the movements of her hands, on how she was dressed, on how she was seated, legs crossed, on the faint floral scent she left in the air. Strangely you didn’t seem to register what she was saying, although you knew it was about some book she’d read, or some movie she’d seen.

Your mind raced to store this amongst the catalogue of cinematic moments in your life, knowing that somehow, this event would change things, forever.

singapore

Life Stories - Part 2

2007-03-09T07:44:00.000+08:00

You bought your first jazz albums during your JC days because of a girl named Lynette who loved Ella and Coltrane.

You started taking tennis more seriously later that same year because of a girl named Karen.

Although you’d been watching operas since you were 15, you first appreciated them when you saw Madama Butterfly at the university cultural centre, ironically with a Japanese-American girl named Yoko who’d never dated Asian guys.

You first read Don DeLillo later that same year, when a girl named Eileen in Introduction to Anthropology recommended White Noise.

Every girl teaches you something about yourself.

singapore

Fastlove - Part 2

2007-02-27T07:55:00.000+08:00

You’re driving her black BMW coupe faster than you should. Thankfully the elevated road heading to Central is almost deserted at this time of night. The car flies over the tarmac, thudding softly each time it crosses an expansion joint.

It’s about a month before the handover and the mood in the city is mixed. Some dread the change, whilst others are euphoric, expectant.

Her two best friends have moved with their families, seeking new pastures in Canada and Australia. Her parents decided to stay, “to see what happens,” as she says, deadpan.

An exit looms ahead, and she signals for you to turn off. You go hard on the brakes, and the tires squeal as the car negotiates the bend, descending rapidly to street level.

singapore

Fastlove - Part 1

2007-02-21T10:28:00.000+08:00

A yellow Gallardo lines up next to you at the lights.

You turn and see the girl in the passenger seat looking at you and your car, making sure that you see her. You suspect she’s trying real hard to look bored, just as the lights go green and the Lambo takes off, spinning its wheels for a split second before exploding down the road towards the next set of lights.

I cannot live
I can't breathe
Unless you do this with me

singapore

Kismet - Part 3

2007-02-12T07:52:00.000+08:00

Of all the girls you’d dated, she probably had the most exotic name. The most fabulous, the most unique, conjuring up grainy images of distant lands and romantic sunsets. Reminding you that fate played a crucial role in affairs of the heart. Reminding you that in life, there are always things that lie beyond your control.

You wondered how her name may have changed the way she led her life. How it may have changed the way she related to you. You never found the answers to those questions, as the relationship started to spiral downwards, flinging you further and further apart.

singapore

Summer

2007-02-02T07:38:00.000+08:00

It was a hot day in July when she packed her stuff and moved out. You had argued because she’d once again left the air-conditioning on all day whilst you were both out, a wasteful habit that annoyed you.

The apartment was unusually quiet as you sat on the couch, alone.

Outside the sun had yet to set but the streetlights had already come on. You saw two kids in the distance, running in an open field, flying white kites.

You could hear her favourite song playing over and over in your head, as you wondered if she would return.

singapore

Linjiang Street

2007-01-29T08:48:00.000+08:00

The stamp on the back of your right hand is still visible, administered twenty-four hours earlier by the bouncer at a dark club playing a curious but pleasant mix of Chinese R&B and European house music. That’s where you met her.

She crosses her long legs and leans forward on the metal stool, deftly using the thin wooden chopsticks to lift a piece of chou dofu to your lips. The skin has a crispy texture, yielding warm and smooth tofu that you slide across your tongue.

Every now and then, you notice a guy in the passing crowd taking a second look at her – this tall, pretty, elfin-faced girl with a perfect milky complexion, feeding you with a pair of disposable wooden chopsticks.

You close your eyes and savour the moment. The noise of the crowd, the refreshingly chilly air, the fragrance of the foods mixing with her faint perfume. Right here, right now.

singapore

Happy

2007-01-22T07:11:00.000+08:00

She’s dancing by herself now, her petite body swaying from side to side along with the quick tempo, feet more or less on the same spot on the small, crowded dance floor.

She’s got on a short tube dress, in a black satiny material covered in a pattern made up of white spades. For a moment, you wonder how different she would look if the pattern were made up of red hearts, silver diamonds or gold clubs.

Her eyes are shut and there’s a smile on her lips. Her hands move in a constant, circular motion in front of her face. She starts to mouth the words to the song, her bright satiny pink nail polish glinting every now and then.

It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this?
It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss
Now I’m falling asleep
And she’s calling a cab
While he’s having a smoke
And she’s taking a drag
Now they’re going to bed
And my stomach is sick
And it’s all in my head
But she’s touching his chest
Now, he takes off her dress
Now, let me go

singapore

The Moment

2007-01-18T07:38:00.000+08:00

It’s close to midnight as the big yellow cab speeds eastwards to the city, the driver impatiently flashing his lights at slower traffic, bullying them to move to the right.

Tomorrow she would leave Singapore, spending a week with her parents on the mainland before heading to Australia to join her sister, possibly never to see you again.

She picks up after three rings, the poor connection making her voice sound faraway, and weak.

“Fang xin, li kai wo,” she says, echoing the first song you heard her sing, long ago.

“Take care of yourself,” you reply, instantly hating the long pause that follows.

singapore

Saturday afternoon 1:43 pm

2007-01-11T07:55:00.000+08:00

From what I can see, it isn’t going too well.

She arrived on the dot at 1 pm, in an elegant black halter top and nicely pleated black knee-length skirt, and sat down at the table next to mine on the open terrace of the restaurant, located in a quaint residential neighbourhood.

He shows up over twenty minutes later, noisily making his apologies. She stares at him for a moment, taking in his outfit of light grey tee-shirt, khaki berms and brown Teva sandals.

They scan their menus and order their meals, without really speaking to each other. He starts recounting his morning, probably speaking a little louder than necessary, but she doesn’t seem to be very interested. She checks her phone for messages, pausing to thank the waitress for the two flutes of champagne.

At some point, he stops talking and raises his glass for a toast. She obliges, clinking glasses with him almost half-heartedly and giving a weak, forced smile that looks a bit like a smirk, before turning away and staring into the street.

singapore

Waiting - Part 2

2007-01-05T07:11:00.000+08:00

She leans against you as the cab rounds the corner a little faster than expected. She laughs, smiling at you with a big grin. Her bright white teeth contrast with her dark luscious lips, and her eyes light up, seemingly with a simple sense of happiness.

The car passes yet another beautiful chedi along the road that lines the old town wall, and you find yourself thinking how majestic it all must have looked, long before the tourists started to arrive and the five-star hotels started to mushroom all around.

Today, her straight black hair is tied back in a bouncy ponytail, making her look younger than 23. She runs her right hand through her fringe, her silver bracelet glinting for a moment in the bright sunlight.

“Suay ngaam,” you say, although she speaks perfect English.

She laughs at your accent, her big brown eyes twinkling once again.

singapore

Kismet - Part 2

2007-01-02T10:28:00.000+08:00

Beautiful women sometimes appear when you least expect it. Crossing Orchard Road from Borders to Lido, when you’re the first car at the lights. Manning a roadside noodle stall in Sukhumvit Soi 38. On a New York subway train in the middle of a scorching summer. On the opposite escalator in Ngee Ann City. Anywhere and just about everywhere in central Paris.

They appear and disappear, equally quickly. You stop, you pause, sometimes you even turn around. The image always lingers, sometimes for a minute, sometimes for much longer.

singapore

Life Stories - Part 1

2006-12-11T08:33:00.000+08:00

There are many thoughts, ideas, sayings and teachings that you internalize over time, and which inform your decisions as you go along in life.

A friend of mine used to say that if you liked a woman, then you should treat her as best you can, simply because if you don’t, someone else will. And all things being equal, assuming that a certain base chemistry’s already in place, why should she hang out with you when she can find someone else who will give her more attention, lavish more thoughtful gifts, and simply be more available?

Over the years, I’ve also come to realise that the sheer number of hours you spend, or the dollar value of your gifts, don’t really mean a lot when it comes to someone who really matters. Sometimes, spending more time or more money works against you in the end, for a myriad of reasons.

singapore

Shopgirl - Part 2

2006-12-06T08:28:00.000+08:00

Her immaculately-tailored wide-legged black woolen pants hang nicely from her hips. The thin material sways slightly whenever she moves, and the seams just touch the carpet behind the heels of her black pumps. She wears a charcoal grey V-neck top, its slightly stretchy material accentuating her curves. She slips on a fitted black woolen jacket, fastening the single button before pulling on the bottom hems and patting the material at waist level.

Beyond the door, her colleagues are getting the store ready for the day. They are switching on the lights, unlocking the large glass doors, and checking the racks of dresses, skirts, pants, tops and suits, all neatly arranged by colour throughout the store. This season the various sections are mainly black, silver grey, camel, dark red and lavender.

She looks at herself carefully in the mirror, examining her foundation before touching up her black mascara, which contrasts against the playful light green eye shadow that she has on. She purses her lips, deciding that her lipstick looks alright.

She takes one step back, pulls on the hems again and checks herself in the mirror, as the small diamonds that line her wedding band glitter for a moment under the solitary halogen light.

singapore

So sick

2006-11-28T07:42:00.000+08:00

It’s late in the morning when he finally awakes. He walks into his kitchen and towards the wide open windows, lighting up his first cigarette for the day. He leans with his elbows on the window sill, absentmindedly looking at the ground below, as a couple of cars snake through the parking lot and several children run around noisily on the playground some distance away.

He turns to look at the empty kitchen. Not that long ago, Sunday mornings saw it filling up with smells of fresh coffee, as they sat together at the small dining table and shared some kaya toast and runny eggs, both of them reading the morning papers in silence.

He’s trying to remember the details when his mobile phone suddenly beeps with an incoming message. He picks up the phone and sees that it’s the girl he’d met the night before, asking him what he’s doing, and whether he wants to meet up. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, slowly composing his reply in his head, wondering how to come across interested, yet not too eager.

And I'm so sick of love songs
So tired of tears
So done with wishing you were still here

singapore

Kismet - Part 1

2006-11-22T07:59:00.000+08:00

You’re sitting on a high chair in the window of a café, watching people pass on the pavement outside, when a pretty girl in a black skirt suit walks by.

“If she turns back to look, it’s meant to be,” you tell yourself.

Her fast, confident strides take her up the street quite quickly. You keep looking as she moves further away, your eyes focused on her long black hair, silently willing her to turn around.

singapore

Friday night 1 am

2006-11-13T07:23:00.000+08:00

The bar is full of gweilo patrons. You lean against the long counter, watching as your friends down tequila shots and laugh out loud at jokes that probably wouldn’t seem that funny sans alcohol. The music is a mishmash of current Top 40 chart hits, old school 70s American rock songs and the occasional 80s New Wave Britpop single.

At a nearby table, two cute blonde girls who look like tourists (one of them is holding a compact camera) lean forward in their seats, straining to hear a guy in a pinstripe suit, who’s holding a Heineken in one hand and probably trying some standard pick-up lines.

You notice a pair of local promo girls making their way closer to where you are. The taller one strikes you as quite attractive, in a shiny tight-fitting sleeveless orange Jägermeister top, black miniskirt and black boots. She and her colleague each down a shot, at the same time as the four men in the group they are talking to.

She turns in your direction and you notice that she’s wearing light brown coloured contact lenses. Her cheeks have a reddish hue, probably from the numerous shots she’s had tonight. She sees you looking at her and smiles, nodding her head slightly, before the other girl grabs her hand and leads her away to another group of revellers.

singapore

How To Date SQ Girls - Part 4

2006-11-07T08:22:00.000+08:00

The first time you dated an SQ girl you were about 19 or 20 years old.

You had taken a week off from the army and flown to Europe with a couple of buddies. On the flight up, you were seated on an exit row, across from the jump seat which she occupied during some bad turbulence halfway through the flight.

You chatted with her and discovered she was about your age, and had just joined the airline after leaving the poly. This was one of her first long-haul flights. You both seemed to like the same sort of movies, and played the same computer games back home.

You asked where she was staying so she gave you the name of the crew hotel, and asked you to call. When you called the next day, she said she’d been put on standby and thus couldn’t leave her room. The two of you chatted for about half-an-hour, whilst your buddies paced up and down and kept pointing at their watches, wanting to go out. She gave you her Singapore number, and asked you to call.

About a month passed before you met up again. You caught some forgettable movie, and spent the next two-and-a-half hours sharing an Earthquake at Swensen’s and talking.

A week later she gave you a copy of her schedule and taught you how to read a block pattern, deciphering the airport codes for you.

The next day she called you from a payphone at the airport as she was about to board the plane. You remember your heart beating fast as you listened to her, imagining how she must have looked in her sarong kebaya.

singapore

The hallway

2006-11-02T14:22:00.000+08:00

She turns back to look at you several times as she leads you down the hallway, smiling vivaciously and laughing softly.

Her black dress fits her perfectly, and you admire the milky smooth skin of her exposed back and her long shiny black tresses that bounce with each step she takes.

When she reaches her door, she fumbles with her clutch bag, digging inside to find her keycard. She slides it into the reader and you hear a soft click, and a green light flashes as she pushes down on the handle and swings the door open.

She steps into the darkness of the room, leaving you standing in the hallway, but only for a moment.

singapore

Queen's Road Central

2006-10-30T08:28:00.000+08:00

You seem like an incongruous pair, standing on the street corner, waiting for the light to change.

She’s wearing a bright green tight-fitting sleeveless top, trimmed in dark blue around the armholes and the plunging V neck. Her pants are soft dark blue cotton, again tight-fitting and looking almost like gym gear, ending in a pair of small white leather sneakers. She clutches a colourful Anya Hindmarch tote bag in one hand, a small black paper bag poking out the top. She’s about half a head shorter than you, and her long straight black hair is highlighted with streaks of orangey-brown. Her tanned skin has a healthy glow and her face bears a rosy tinge.

You have on a regulation navy blue suit, single-breasted with three buttons (last one unbuttoned) and angular black shoes polished to a high shine.

The light changes and she crosses the street. You watch her for a few seconds as she turns upon reaching the other side and heads towards the Pedder Building, before she merges with the crowd and disappears.

singapore

Waiting - Part 1

2006-10-24T09:22:00.000+08:00

She looks out the window at the wide avenue, through an intricate wrought iron grille. An endless stream of bicycles flows past, punctuated by an occasional red taxi zooming by and sounding its horn. Diagonally across the street is an elegant colonial-style building with a traditional art deco porch, like the ones that cover some Métro entrances in central Paris.

She’s wearing a traditional ao dai, the fitted emerald green top accentuating the curves of her slender body, covering golden pants whose wide hems kiss the patterned caramel carpet as she turns and makes her way back towards the main door.

The large high-ceilinged room is bright and airy. Each table is covered in freshly-ironed white linen, with thickly-padded cream-coloured chairs pulled close and spaced apart at uniform intervals. The table settings are simple, with expensive white china, crystal glasses and silver flatware. On each table, a cut red rose sits in a small light brown pot, adding a dash of red and green to the room’s warm white and tan palette.

She brings a few menus to the high table next to the entrance of the restaurant, and sets them down next to the black telephone and the big vase of red roses.

She opens one of the menus, caressing the thick paper and scanning the immaculately-presented list of dishes. She wonders what her first guests for the day will order, and then decides it will be bouillabaisse and rack of lamb.

She shuts the menu and waits, as the faint sound of another car horn comes, and goes.

singapore

How To Date SQ Girls - Part 3

2006-10-21T08:48:00.000+08:00

There’s a little mole on the back of her neck, towards the left, and another, almost identical one a couple of inches from the top of her back, this time closer to her spine. Her neck looks long and delicate, perfectly upright as her hands deftly pull her long shiny black hair into a big bun.

A day later she calls you from the other side of the world.

“Do you miss me?”

Her voice sounds thin and distant, echoing slightly in the silence of her hotel room.

singapore

Tunnels

2006-10-18T08:08:00.000+08:00

It’s getting close to KL when the sun begins to rise over the highway. The car’s running low on gas and the front end has begun to bob up and down over imperfections in the tarmac. It’s getting lighter, and going faster.

On the stereo, the same song plays on repeat.

You change all the lead
Sleepin' in my head to gold
As the day grows dim
I hear you sing a golden hymn
The song I've been trying to sing

Purify the colours
Purify my mind
Purify the colours
Purify my mind
Spread the ashes of the colours
Around this heart of mine

singapore

Rain - Part 1

2006-10-16T08:08:00.000+08:00

It’s raining heavily when you turn off North Bridge Road and pull into the covered driveway of the Raffles Hotel. There’s a long line of people waiting for cabs, and they look at you as your car comes to a stop a few feet away.

She pushes open the door, and curses when her short skirt rides up as she swings her left leg out of the car. She turns to you momentarily to say thanks, and smiles as she scrambles up and out, rushing for her dinner, already twenty minutes late.

As you slip the car into gear, you notice the girl at the head of the taxi queue. Almond-shaped face, big bright eyes, slim frosted pink lips with a hint of a smile. She’s wearing a dark red dress, and has slung the handles of her shopping bags from Nine West and Mango over her forearm. Her long, straight hair has a reddish-brown tint, with the fringe swept to one side and bangs nicely layered.

You hesitate for a moment, but you know you can’t do it. So you look away from her and drive off, checking the traffic and merging back into the rain.

singapore

Avenue

2006-10-12T07:33:00.000+08:00

The first time you meet her is in a cavernous, trendy restaurant on St. James Street. The three of you are sitting on sofas near the bar, waiting for your table to free up, when her roommate Julie goes to the washroom. It’s too noisy to hold a meaningful conversation, so you continue nursing your drink and surveying the room.

She empties her glass and reaches forward to place it on the table, and then rubs her hands dry on her tan-coloured jeans. She takes another drag from her Virginia Slims cigarette, giving you a sidelong glance as she blows the smoke in the other direction.

Your gaze connects with hers for a second and you notice how blue her eyes are. She smiles and laughs, for no apparent reason, and then looks down as she flicks the ash from her cigarette onto the floor.

singapore

Stardust

2006-10-09T07:47:00.000+08:00

The dance floor is packed with bodies pulsing to the relentless house rhythm when suddenly she turns to you and holds your face with both of her hands before reaching in to kiss you. Instinctively you pull her closer, left arm around her shoulders and right hand tracing the small of her back.

The music, the people, the heat and the vibrations all begin to melt away.

singapore

Worst Date Ever - Part 1

2006-10-04T07:37:00.000+08:00

After the play, you head to a nice French restaurant for a late dinner. So far things are going badly. The conversation has been stilted, even boring. You’ve beginning to realise what little you both have in common.

The girl is a theatre studies major. Over her salad, which she stabs with her fork and cuts up with her knife, she proceeds to recount what happened in class earlier that day.

“We did these exercises to help focus us on getting more emotion into our acting. It works like this: you pair up with a partner and say something to that person three times, each time infusing it with more emotion.”

She takes a deep breath.

“Fuck you,” she says, matter-of-factly.

“Fuck you!” she says, much louder and more aggressive this time. The lady at the next table turns to look.

“Fuck you!!!” she practically shouts. The whole room has turned to look. You stare at her, mouth agape.

She leans forward, with a mischievous grin.

“You see that guy at the table in the corner?” she asks. “I think he wants to know if I’m going to be free after dinner.”

The guy has glasses and a beard, his wife and two kids in tow. They seem to be staring at both of you in disbelief.

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. You look down at your soup, knowing you’ve just reached a whole new low.

singapore

Beautiful

2006-09-29T13:11:00.000+08:00

Sometimes you can tell a lot about a person from the music they listen to. She says that right now, she’s listening to James Blunt, Robbie Williams and Santana. More courtyard tapas bar than trendy club, more Class 95 listener than NME reader, more fuzzy woolen sweater than brushed stainless steel.

She’s starting to slur now, leaning forward to place emphasis on certain words. The neckline of her white top slips lower, partially revealing black lingerie with white trimming.

“Have you ever been tempted?” she asks, staring at you with large, intent, brown eyes, a shade darker than the streaks of colour in her hair, shoulder length with wispy bangs. You can’t help but notice how young she looks for her age. Her skin is milky white, smooth and shiny.

She pours the last of her bottle of sake into her cup. The empty dishes coated with teriyaki sauce and mustard lie haphazardly on the table. Her mobile phone blinks quietly in one corner, next to a Louis Vuitton porte-trésor and a Mercedes key fob. A group of Japanese salarymen settle in at the next table for a late night dinner, talking and laughing loudly.

“Have you?” she asks again, a little more urgent. “We only have one life to live. Don’t you want to be sure you didn’t miss out on anything?”

She tells you that a person can only get at most eighty percent of what he or she needs from one single person. The other twenty percent has to come from somewhere else. You assume she means attention, but maybe also love, in its various forms.

You ask her who she is tempted by, right now. She is leaning to the right in her seat, shoulder resting against the wall. The front of her blouse has slid lower. Her skin has a red glow from the alcohol.

She tells you about him, closing her eyes, as though she’s trying to remember the details of his face. She says he is older than her. She says he is always game to do the things she wants to do. She says he makes her laugh. She stops, eyes still shut. There’s a slight smile on her lips, as though she’s enjoying the images that play silently in her mind.

Sometimes you can tell a lot about a person from the music they listen to. And sometimes you don’t need to know anything more.

I saw your face in a crowded place
And I don't know what to do
Cause I'll never be with you

singapore

One

2006-09-28T09:11:00.000+08:00

Happy birthday, Son of Singapore.

Love is a temple
Love the higher law
You ask me to enter
But then you make me crawl

singapore

The breakup - Part 1

2006-09-25T07:57:00.000+08:00

The day after the breakup, the reality begins to set in. The morning was wasted replaying the previous night’s events in your mind, and by noon you know that the day will not get more productive. You decide to head home, skipping lunch and determined to sleep off the heartache.

A quarter after two, a buddy calls and you answer the phone in a semi-stupor. He asks how you’re doing and then lets you rant for a little while.

“You know,” he says with a whisper of an English accent, the product of many years studying and living in the U.K. “It’s hard to believe it right now, but things will get better. Just get some rest.”

You want to believe him but find yourself staring wide awake at the ceiling for what seems like an eternity. Eventually you drift off to sleep.

It’s evening by the time you awake, and the clock reads 7 pm. Strangely, you feel completely refreshed, and the thought of her seems to be a distant memory. You’re hungry and the prospect of a nice bowl of laksa brings a smile to your face as you grab your car keys and head out the door.

singapore

Sunday morning 10 am

2006-09-19T14:08:00.000+08:00

She sits on the edge of the bed in a white terrycloth bathrobe, running a brush through her damp strawberry blonde hair, her bare feet on the old parquet floor. Outside it’s a crisp September morning, and the bright autumn sun has begun to stream into the apartment through the tall windows, highlighting tiny specks of dust that float lazily through the air.

Her head is slightly tilted to one side, her eyes glued to the TV. It shows a road passing through a tunnel, the scene of a car crash, not far from where you live.

She doesn’t really notice as you stretch across the bed and put your arm around her waist, pulling yourself closer to her. Her eyes remain fixed on the television, and she continues to brush her hair, almost absentmindedly.

singapore

Thumbsucker

2006-09-14T16:28:00.000+08:00

Many years ago, a beautiful girl told me that there’s one characteristic above all others which beautiful girls look for in guys. She didn’t, however, tell me what it is.

To this day, I am convinced that that quality is self-confidence. Not over-confidence or smugness or arrogance. Just the certainty of knowing you can handle any situation and that your knowledge is infallible.

I think.

singapore

Neighborhood #1

2006-09-06T08:18:00.000+08:00

In my rush I’d forgotten to ask for an aisle seat, and found myself next to the window for the first time in years.

A little after 7 am, I looked out the window and saw the approaching airport and familiar F1 track. Below us people were just stirring from sleep, and the streetlights began to go out. There were only a few cars on the highways, like tiny specks of indistinguishable colours. The sun was rising over the horizon, forcing a wide swath of orange through dark grey clouds.

We seemed to be floating in the air, with the ground crawling past almost imperceptibly. For the first time in years, I stopped to take in the view, and felt a real sense of peace.

“There is much beauty here because there is much beauty everywhere.”

singapore

Like the deserts miss the rain

2006-09-05T07:58:00.000+08:00

Everyone has one. Someone who came into your life at the wrong place and the wrong time, but who could otherwise have been The One.

Sometimes you wonder where she is. Ten years have passed since the two months you were with her, and nine years since your last phone conversation. Her family moved away around that time, and the friend through whom you’d met her lost touch with her as well.

Once in a while you Google her name on the Internet, hoping to find her. There’s always only one search that matches her name, in reference to a quote in a UCLA student paper, but the article isn’t archived and can no longer be accessed.

Ten years have passed but you still remember that last lunch with remarkable clarity. In that nice French restaurant that now no longer exists. You remember what wine you drank, and how she cradled her chin in her palm as she rested her elbow on the table.

Sometimes you wonder where she is. If she still looks the same, still uses the same perfume. If she still laughs the same way, still smiles the same way. You wonder if she’s okay. You wonder if she’s happy.

I step off the train
I'm walking down your street again
And past your door
But you don't live there any more
It's years since you've been there
But now you've disappeared
Somewhere like outer space
You've found some better place

singapore

Bed

2006-08-31T08:23:00.000+08:00

You are looking at her when she looks up, and your eyes meet for a second, which seems longer than it really is.

The club is awash in cool blue light, and the white sofas and tables give the scene an almost eerie, almost monochromatic effect.

She’s wearing a black (or maybe dark blue) skirt suit with three inch black heels, looking very businesslike and a bit prim and proper. This makes you think she must be a banker or a lawyer. She doesn’t look Thai, so you figure she must be Thai Chinese because, although she is two tables away, you can hear the others at her table talking loudly in Thai.

She looks up again, and this time you get a better chance to study her face. She has clear skin, big eyes, a delicate nose, full lips and a strong jawline. You smile at her, hopeful. She stares for a moment, then smiles slightly, before breaking into a laugh and turning back to her friends.

You tell your Thai friends that you think she’s really pretty. One of them walks over to the bar, glancing over to take a better look. He returns and says, “She’s above average, but no one would look at her if she was on the BTS…”

The deejay begins to play Superstylin’ by Groove Armada.

The girl is laughing with her friends, and then turns and looks your way again.

Sometime
You can make our pressure does unwind
Sometime
It’s for your spirit and your mind…

singapore

So long and thanks for all the fish

2005-11-25T08:48:00.000+08:00

When I was back in college in the States, I really used to enjoy my creative writing classes. My professors liked the voice in my work and felt that I should keep on writing as people would want to know what the dating scene was like in Singapore. Yes, even then, it was a theme in lot of my writing.

However, in the years to follow, career ambitions got in the way, and I just didn’t find the time nor discipline to sit down each day and push something out.

Then one evening about two months ago, I was looking out over Raffles Place, and decided to start writing again. At first, a blog for friends seemed like a good idea, but as it turned out, precious few have had the time or inclination to read.

As with many things, Son of Singapore eventually developed a life of its own, with a small band of regular visitors with whom I have shared my thoughts, both on this page as well as on theirs.

Alas, the time has now come for me to move on. Work dictates that my time be spent solely on economically productive endeavours, at least for now. Story of my life? Perhaps. Story of Singapore? Most definitely.

To the Maine Minx, good luck on your adventures, and take care of you, always. You have a wonderfully readable style, and I will keep on visiting.

To Spinnee, who was very possibly my first reader, see you sometime around Raffles Place, at the Mei Ling Street coffeeshop or on the streets of our town. Just don’t run me over.

To little fish, keep listening and keep watching. It’s always fun to meet people with similar taste in music and movies (Unbelievable Truth, Johnnie To).

Most of all, to Elvina, bon vent, j’espère qu’il t’amène où tu veux aller.

And to all readers, farewell.

singapore

Fruit Loops

2005-11-25T07:11:00.000+08:00

Supermarkets are a great place to observe people.

One day last week, as I navigated the aisles, I chanced upon a slim, petite girl wearing a grey cotton tee-shirt, tucked into dark blue tracksuit pants. Probably hang-around-the-house clothes, suggesting that she lived nearby. The tee-shirt had a big black dragon imprint on the front, which looked like it was made of velvet. Her white tennis shoes squeaked against the floor as she stretched to reach a box on the top shelf.

The girl had an oval-shaped face, with a button nose and smallish eyes. She smiled to herself at one point as she read the label, and I could see that her two front teeth were a fraction larger than the others. Most guys would call her cute, rather than beautiful.

As I walked towards her, I glanced down and looked into her shopping basket. It contained a few cups of Swiss yoghurt, a loaf of white bread, a small bottle of Nutella, a head of lettuce, red and green peppers and a couple of cartons of fresh milk (not low fat). She was holding a huge box of Fruit Loops and she smiled at me as she turned to place the box in her basket. Here was a girl after my own heart.

singapore

Saturday

2005-11-24T07:42:00.000+08:00

When the weekend paper comes each Saturday morning, men and women reach for different sections.

Women grab the Life! section, reading articles on things to do, places to go, movies to see, TV to watch, foods to try. They read the latest gossip on Hollywood and local celebrities, plus human interest pieces on subjects as varied as local culture, history, interior design or media and entertainment.

Men grab the Classified ads, even if we aren’t planning on buying anything, just yet. We quickly flip through the ads on new and used hi-fi equipment and audiophile CDs, and then settle down to tackle the car section. We diligently look at all the display ads by car dealers (both official distributors and parallel importers), be they for European, Japanese or Korean makes. Then we look at the individual ads in each classification, selecting the makes of cars that we like. If we see an advertised car that’s similar to one that we own, we do mental comparisons and make ballpark conclusions as to how much our own car is now worth (or rather how much money we’ve lost on it this year). We look at ads for cherised registration numbers, as well as for vintage and classic cars. For a brief moment each time, we imagine ourselves behind the wheel, before we move on to the next car and the next dream.

singapore

Backburner girl

2005-11-23T07:57:00.000+08:00

Most guys have one. Someone to whom you were close in your late teens or very early 20s. Someone who always joked with you, saying “if no one wants either me or you when we’re older, we’ll have to marry each other.”

Well, my backburner girl called to say that she was going to get married to her current beau. After the spectacular, explosive disaster that was her previous relationship, I’m really glad she’s found someone.

Of course, what she never knew, and will now never know, was that I’d always been prepared to take her up on that offer she made late in her teenage years. I’d craftily introduced her to my parents, would bring her for family gatherings every now and then, kept in touch all these years as we went separate ways for school and work, and watched her and her various loves from a distance. I’m really glad she’s found someone. I really mean it.

Those were the days of our lives…

singapore

The elevator

2005-11-22T07:33:00.000+08:00

It’s early morning and I hit the up button and the elevator door opens.

As I step into the empty box and the door closes, the light scent of a floral perfume hits me.

As the elevator rises rapidly through the floors, I wonder about the woman who rode in it just before me. The scent is at once fresh, sporty and playful. It is the perfume of a young woman, probably fresh out of school, possibly single, possibly attractive. And probably working somewhere in my building.

singapore

Wonderwall

2005-11-21T07:02:00.000+08:00

The car you drive is much older than the girl in the passenger seat.

It’s the mid 90s, and the car is a bright orangey red early 70s Alfa Romeo GTV 1750. More powerful than the Junior and not as nose-heavy as the 2000. With immaculate chrome bumpers and period-correct Compomotive wheels.

Through the open windows, the throaty roar of the twin Dell’Orto carburettors is almost deafening, ricocheting off blocks of flats as the Pan-Island Expressway curves sharply, heading westwards, somewhere near Bedok or Simei. You can’t remember exactly where you are when the road curves, although you’ve driven this way so many times before.

You’re not going especially fast, but the way the GTV interacts with and communicates each bump in the road surface, coupled with the glorious roar of the engine, makes the drive seem much faster than it is. The black Bakelite steering wheel twitches in your hands, alive. The back of the car squats down as you accelerate through the curve. The car is pure, mechanical, raw.

The sun has started to set, so it must be about 6:30 in the evening. You glance over, and see that the girl is looking out the window, her hand flicking back her long hair as it gets blown about by the wind. She’s wearing a black cotton tank top and tight blue Levis, and you know that if you moved closely, she’d smell like the sea. Not just because you’ve spent the whole afternoon at Changi, talking and watching the waves, but because she always wears this Escada perfume that smells like the ocean.

Although you don’t realise it, this is a moment you will remember the rest of your life.

singapore

How To Date SQ Girls - Part 2

2005-11-18T06:06:00.000+08:00

She didn’t say a thing as she crouched down to get into the car. She was visibly upset, but I didn’t ask any questions. I pulled out and made my way from Mohammed Sultan Road towards the highway.

Just fifteen minutes earlier, around midnight, she’d texted me asking where I was. The next message asked if I’d mind picking her and sending her home. She was out on a date and the guy was turning out to be an asshole.

Sometimes after a few dates, things don’t really work out the way you had hoped, but you can still end up with a beautiful friendship. For us, that happened six or seven years ago. I had met her the day she got accepted into flight attendant school, when she was out celebrating with her friends at another bar at Mohammed Sultan.

She had never liked my taste in music, and switched the stereo from the old Queen CD (playing You Don’t Fool Me from the Hot Space album) to Yes 93.3FM. She kept silent all the way (CTE to PIE in the direction of the airport, exit somewhere halfway, drive along some long ring road for a few minutes then make a u-turn and turn left into her condo).

I drove into the basement carpark and stopped near her lift lobby. She turned to me, and I could see tears welling in her eyes. Suddenly, she moved forward and planted a soft kiss on my lips, before opening the door and getting out, without saying a word.

singapore

The spy

2005-11-17T07:52:00.000+08:00

Raffles Place always surprises me. Whenever I think that I’ll just pop out and have a quick, uneventful bite for lunch, something really memorable happens.

She was one of four girls seated at the table, a few metres away and in full view from my perch on the counter seats of the fast food joint. I’d been happily woofing down my burger, when I glanced up and saw her looking at me. She looked away quickly and a little too obviously.

She was wearing a light bluish-green long-sleeved top, in a stretchy, figure-hugging cotton-mix material. Her dark blue pedal-pushers revealed slender legs, and her shoes were simple and black, with a single strap around the angle. All four girls carried the regulation Raffles Place combo of small wallet, mobile phone and a packet of Kleenex, without a handbag. Judging from the time of their lunch break, I figured they could be forex back office staff from one of the many banks around here.

I wasn’t sure if I’d seen her before, but as I watched her talking to her colleagues and eating her lunch, it struck me how pretty this girl was. Her straight black hair was quite long; the bangs slightly layered and swept forward to fall in front of and around her shoulders. Her face was oval-shaped, her lipstick was orangey pink and her skin had a pale, slightly shimmering, almost translucent glow, as from certain Japanese face powders. I really like that.

But what struck me the most about this girl was her glasses. Simple, thin black wire-framed items, with the lenses shaped like lozenges. The glasses drew attention to her face and her slender nose, distracting from her smallish eyes. They gave her a studious, slightly geeky look; a little bit at odds with the great care with which I imagined she applied her makeup and brushed her hair every morning.

Maybe I’ll pop by again next week for another quick lunch. Maybe then, I’ll see her again.

singapore

Hi I'm an architect

2005-11-16T07:22:00.000+08:00

Here’s a sampling of the professions that some women find attractive when it comes to men:

- Architect
- Banker (includes investment banking and dealing room)
- Engineer
- IT engineer
- Law enforcement officer
- Lawyer (includes litigation and corporate finance but not conveyancing)
- Marine biologist
- Pilot (includes commercial airlines and air force but not freight forwarders)
- Sportsman (especially watersports)
- Tow kay (local businessman with gold medallion and S class)

singapore

Kiss On My List

2005-11-15T07:33:00.000+08:00

You’re driving past Waterloo Street and suddenly become aware that a silver Japanese-made Corolla has pulled up on your right and is traveling at the same speed as you are. You glance over and see you a girl in the passenger seat waving to you. She’s laughing and her girlfriend who’s driving is laughing too. You don’t recognize them but they certainly look pretty cute.

At some point, you decide to wave back and this brings a big smile to the girl’s face and more laughter. Just then, you realize that you need to turn right at the next junction, so you brake hard and duck behind their car, swinging two lanes and sweeping past the back of the Corolla from left to right. You notice that the car carries one of those ugly yellow and orange probationary plates in the back window. The registration number isn’t familiar at all, just an ordinary four digit number, but you make a mental note of it as you shift down a gear and turn right at the junction, slightly faster than you would have preferred, and watch as the Corolla crosses straight across the junction, going too fast to turn and go after you.

singapore

High Fidelity

2005-11-14T07:55:00.000+08:00

Guys like to make lists in our heads. It’s just something that we do. At the drop of a hat, almost every guy I know can name for you his top ten favourite albums, top ten favourite movies and top ten favourite cars of all time.

Similarly, almost every guy I know can probably name for you five girls with whom he’d like to go on a date soon, in order of importance, priority and urgency. And for each of these five girls, he’s probably figured out the basic dating scenario – when and how he’d ask her out, when the date would be, where he’d want to go, what he’d like to do. In all likelihood, for each of these elements, he’d also have a list of possible options. For example, a list of restaurants to try, or of movies to watch. And contrary to what some women may think, most of these dating scenarios and options lists are not interchangeable. They’re custom-made, just for you.

singapore

Vanilla

2005-11-11T06:56:00.000+08:00

After dinner, you follow her into the basement car park and walk her up to her car, a pert silver coupe-cabriolet with tasty oversized alloys and low profile tires. She unlocks the door, but instead of getting in, suddenly turns around to face you, moving her body closer.

She’s wearing a light grey thin woolen skirt suit, with a hemline that’s a little above her knees but not so short as to be tacky. The two-button jacket is immaculately tailored and fits her perfectly. Underneath the jacket, she wears a simple, thin, figure-hugging white cotton top. Her shoes are black strappy things, with two-and-a-half inch heels.

Her eyes focus in on yours. Her face is only inches away, and you start to become aware that her body is now touching yours. Her perfume is faint, a delicate bouquet of flowers with a hint of vanilla.

She takes your hands and places them on her hips. Without thinking, you pull her closer, hands slowly moving to caress her back. Her eyes are still fixed on yours. Her eyes start to close and her lips part slightly, almost in slow motion.

singapore

Shopgirl - Part 1

2005-11-10T07:07:00.000+08:00

Some guys have a thing for attractive saleswomen. Especially when it comes to certain types of products, such as skincare, cars and CDs. Somehow, there’s something intrinsically attractive about an immaculately-presented saleswoman who’s able to make informed, authoritative recommendations and seems to understand your needs. She can tell you which American shine-free moisturizer, expensive European sports car or Parisian house music compilation is going to change your life forever. And she’ll do it with a smile.

Sometimes, it’s also fairly easy to ask an attractive saleswoman out for coffee, a movie or to grab a bite. You know where she works so it’s pretty easy to find her the next day. She’s usually very bored, especially mid-afternoon, midweek. She’s usually glad for any non-work-related conversation. And she’ll probably like the fact that you’re polite and seem genuinely interested in what she thinks, compared to the vast majority of local shoppers who’ve never worked retail in their lives and treat salespeople like shit.

Of course, that’s not to say you’re guaranteed success. You could just come across as overly vain or deeply insecure or simply end up buying the crappiest CD she’s ever heard in her life.

singapore

No moneyman can win my love...

2005-11-09T08:11:00.000+08:00

It’s amazing what guys will do to meet women.

Since the mid 90s, club-goers everywhere began to celebrate the medium rather than the source. We started buying CDs mixed by famous deejays, invariably from Ibiza or Paris. We can go through an entire compilation not knowing who made the music, although we certainly do know who mixed it. Witness the rise of the celebrity deejay.

So what do guys like us do? We hit the decks. Go to school to learn how to scratch CDs as though they were vinyl. Buy the latest Denon or Pioneer CD mixing decks. Carry our stuff (even business documents for us Raffles Place types) in 12 inch deejay bags. Wear tee shirts bearing stylized humans with arms outstretched over stylized mixing decks. Announce to the world: we’re cool, we’re hip, we’re all about the music.

singapore

Iceblink Luck

2005-11-08T07:37:00.000+08:00

Another memorable bit from the BBC documentary Under The Sun: Singapore Singles is when one of the girls gives a post mortem on a date with a guy she met at an SDU mixer.

Interviewed in her bedroom, she says she doesn’t think it will work out, even though the date went well enough and the guy seemed nice enough. She thinks he feels “inferior” to her, because she’s got a good marketing job and was able to buy her own car. In fact, if I recall correctly, the girls who were interviewed kept talking about how guys would always think they were too “sophisticated”.

The guys who were interviewed kept talking about how they wanted a girl who had long hair, was plain-looking and had “traditional” values.

singapore

Dilemma

2005-11-07T07:22:00.000+08:00

There are certain songs that remind you of certain girls.

On the way to work this morning you hear Dilemma by Nelly feat. Kelly Rowland, and it transports you back a couple of years. Into a warm dusty evening, as the sun is setting and colouring the sky a brilliant orange. As you drive down past the Fullerton on that long stretch of road towards the Esplanade, and look up for a moment and appreciate the beauty of the scene. As you listen to the song on repeat, and wonder whether you’ll ever forget how much you enjoy it, or enjoy being with her.

No matter what I do
All I think about is you

singapore

Of kelongs and karaoke

2005-11-04T08:42:00.000+08:00

Many years ago, there was a documentary on the BBC called Under The Sun: Singapore Singles. It was about Singapore’s Social Development Unit or SDU, and how the agency set about getting unmarried Singapore singles to meet, mix and hopefully match up.

Some parts of the documentary stand out in my memory, although I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry.

It starts with a group of SDU singles as they head out for one of the then-famous SDU singles weekends. This time it’s on a kelong (traditional Asian wooden structure built on stilts for fishing out at sea) where the group meets, plays get-to-know-you games, has a scrumptious dinner (food is always involved when Singaporeans get together) and finally has a karaoke session to pass the night away.

At one point, a guy and a girl, who had just met earlier that day, get up in front of the whole group to sing a duet version of Elvis’ “Love Me Tender”. The camera shows them focused on the lyrics on the TV screen, bodies slowly swaying back and forth, and then pans down and zooms in to show them holding hands. The moment’s almost surreal.

singapore

Shine like it does...

2005-11-02T09:22:00.000+08:00

A friend of mine once said that she was through with dating “flashy lawyer and banker types”, by which I think she meant 1) guys who often had to entertain clients or business associates at bars and clubs i.e. locations often used for picking up chicks, 2) guys whose colleagues included hot sexy sweet-young-thing lawyer and banker chicks or 3) guys with higher-than-average disposal income, whom she felt would somehow take a more callous approach to dating.

Her dream: to snag an IT guy or engineer. High on the geek quotient, loves spending time with his computer or with similarly geeky friends online gaming, seemingly more stable and less prone to philandering.

She realized that dream about a year later, and got married to an IT dude in his late 20s, whom I have never met.

Fast forward a couple of years, and she’s getting a divorce. Apparently, IT dude wasn’t such a momma’s boy after all. He’d been double-dipping with his ex- (ironically, an equally geeky IT chick), starting just a few months after getting hitched to my friend.

So which is better? A former party animal who’s been-there, done-that, or some guy who’s never really lived it up, who’s going to wonder if the grass really is greener on the other side, like a time bomb just waiting to explode? No doubt these are but brash generalizations, but I guess sometimes, all that glitters can actually be gold.

singapore

Boys night out

2005-10-31T08:48:00.000+08:00

For guys looking to meet girls on a Friday night, it’s usually best to travel in threes. One guy can look too desperate, two may look too predatory and four or more just look too intimidating for most women.

So three is the ideal number. Enough to instill a certain level of confidence amongst the players, create a healthy level of mindless banter when required, and, if need be, split the tab at the end of the night.

Of course, for improved performance, you’ve got to add a woman to your posse. This lends instant credibility to any grouping of men looking to meet women, as though you’ve been pre-approved by the opposite sex. “They must be okay; they’ve got one of us hanging out with them.”

The difficulty comes in finding that one woman to back up your pack. Ideally, she’s someone whom you guys know well, but aren’t really interested in. That way, she’ll put up with your antics and with the stories she’s heard a dozen times before. She could be someone with whom one of you had a thing before, and who’s now been relegated to “friend” status. But above all, she must have a sense of humour. Only then will she appreciate what’s going on for what it really is – just a bunch of guys just looking to score on a Friday night. Heck, she might even find it amusing.

singapore

Mei Ling Street

2005-10-28T07:37:00.000+08:00

I really like this neighbourhood. It has a certain timeless atmosphere to it.

Perhaps it’s the muted colours that I like. The blocks of flats come across as large faded grey monoliths, punctuated by tiny dots of colour where clean laundry billows in the wind on equally colourful bamboo poles.

Or perhaps it seems sleepier than other neighbourhoods I know. There’s certainly less noise here, except for the distant sounds of children playing and the occasional muffled purr of a small motorcycle passing by.

Or perhaps it’s the high, curved road that’s attractive, always forcing you to approach the buildings at a prescribed angle. The same curved road where I used to wait for her, pulled up by the side, engine switched off so as not to disturb the peace.

Or maybe I like this place simply because it reminds me of her. Her short pageboy hair that I didn’t like at first. Her lanky body in jeans and a plain blue or red tee-shirt. The simple lunches of soup, stewed meat and rice which she cooked and shared with me in her small kitchen. The small kitchen with its big white wall tiles and black-and-white mosaic floor. The way she rested her hand on my thigh as we ate. The way she looked up and smiled at me between mouthfuls, before turning to look out the window, into the distance and far away.

singapore

Human nature

2005-10-27T08:33:00.000+08:00

I’ve lost track.

I see her too often.

When I first started seeing her, when it was infrequent, every time was special.

Now it’s just mundane.

singapore

I Wanted To Tell You

2005-10-26T08:28:00.000+08:00

Roughly a month into my freshman year in the States, I went on a date with a cute girl called Erin. She had grown up in a suburb of a big American city, weaned on a diet of Gap, J Crew, Victoria's Secret and salted popcorn from the mall movie theatre.

Dinner was in a large Italian restaurant on Main Street, a few blocks from the main campus. The restaurant’s frontage consisted of huge two-storey high windows, revealing an interior with a double-height ceiling. We sat on a narrow mezzanine level that ran on one side from the front to the back of the restaurant. From our table, you had a good view of people and cars passing by on the street below.

Erin had strawberry-blonde hair and an oval-shaped face with large green eyes and long eyelashes. Her upper lip was thinner than the lower one, and she liked to wear bright red lipstick. There were uneven freckles over the bridge of her small nose that spread out onto the top of her cheeks, where there were small dimples whenever she smiled.

I can’t remember what we talked about, but I remember that I had a lot of fun that night. It was nice that she had lived a life somewhat different from mine, and hence had somewhat different views on a lot of things. There was so much material for discussion and so many possibilities for interesting insights.

Being an early autumn night, it was still fairly bright outside when we finished dinner, although the sun has just set and the sky had a pretty purple hue. The air began to turn a little chilly.

As we crossed the street, Erin grabbed my hand. When we reached the other side, I didn’t want to let go.

singapore

Café latte

2005-10-25T09:59:00.000+08:00

The girl who makes my coffee each morning goes by the initials EJ. I don’t know what they stand for. I asked her once, but she just said that everyone called her EJ. She never really uses her full name.

She ties her long hair up in a ponytail. Her work uniform consists of a black apron (her initials in correction fluid near the bottom), black company polo and tight Levis (25 inch waist). Most of the time she wears faded Nike Air Force Ones.

I reckon EJ’s about 20. She’s kinda skinny, has a sweet smile and never wears any makeup. She moves about with surgical precision in front of the big coffee-making machine, her shoes sometimes squeaking as she shifts back and forth.

When she finishes making a drink, she’ll place it on the high counter in front of her, and shout out the order. If you’re a regular, she’ll shout out your name.

Sometimes, when it isn’t busy, I’ve seen EJ pouring the espresso onto the foamy milk in a pattern, leaving the shape of a heart on the white surface, before she puts on the white plastic lid.

I wonder why she does this. I wonder if anyone notices. I wonder if she cares.

singapore

Searching to find you...

2005-10-24T08:28:00.000+08:00

So Zouk’s finally reopened.

Man, was it crowded. But it was good to meet up with old friends again. Ones I only ever see at Velvet or Zouk Members’. The type of friendships where everyone says “let’s catch up for lunch” but no one really bothers to follow up.

A guy whom I’d met once before stood in the corridor leading from Velvet’s entrance to the dance floor, and every time a girl he thought was pretty walked by, he stepped forward and beamed “Hi! Long time no see!”

Five out of six times, the girl would:
a) keep on walking
b) turn to give him a perplexed look, and then keep on walking
c) be too drunk to realize someone or anyone was talking to her
d) say “sorry, but do I know you??” with a frown on her brow (essentially a polite way of saying “fuck off, asshole”)
e) say “fuck off, asshole”

Of course, the trick was bound to work at some point.

So Zouk’s finally reopened.

Man, was it crowded. But it was good to meet up with old friends again. Ones I only ever see at Velvet or Zouk Members’. The type of friendships where everyone says “let’s catch up for lunch” but no one really bothers to follow up.

A guy whom I’d met once before stood in the corridor leading from Velvet’s entrance to the dance floor, and every time a girl he thought was pretty walked by, he stepped forward and beamed “Hi! Long time no see!”

Five out of six times, the girl would:
a) keep on walking
b) turn to give him a perplexed look, and then keep on walking
c) be too drunk to realize someone or anyone was talking to her
d) say “sorry, but do I know you??” with a frown on her brow (essentially a polite way of saying “fuck off, asshole”)
e) say “fuck off, asshole”

Of course, the trick was bound to work at some point.

Girl number six (girl-next-door, rather than dolled-up club vamp) would stop, turn slowly in the dim light, searching her mind for where she may have met this strange guy with the big, toothy grin and oily forehead. He’d jump right into it, leading away her by the elbow, off to some quieter corner to continue the charade.

singapore

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow

2005-10-21T09:11:00.000+08:00

How long does it take to get over a break-up?

A few general observations can be made, using a sample population which includes my close friends and casual friends (the latter defined as non-work contacts in mobile phone or email address books), and which covers relationships which are short-, medium- or long-term, straight or gay, of same or mixed ethnicities, and domestic or long-distance.

One: the longer the relationship, the longer it takes to get over it. A three- to five-year relationship may take months or even a year to get over, whereas a relationship of three months may take only days to get over.

Two: the older women get, the more time they need to get over a break-up. Perhaps women invest more in relationships as they get older. Certainly a lot of my younger female friends have a more easy-going attitude towards relationships.

Three: the older men get, the less time they need to get over a break-up. Perhaps men invest more in relationships when they are younger. Certainly my male friends tend to be more callous about relationships as they age.

Of course, these are just crude and simplistic observations based on what little I have observed. Love is complex and the number of situations that could evolve when two people meet is truly infinite. Adjustments must also be made when feelings are more intense than usual, when players are introduced to their partners’ extended families (bonus points awarded for meeting relatives who live in different time zones) or where cohabitation, marriage certificates or children are involved.

One thing that doesn’t change, though, is the fact that the break-up of every significant relationship entails a certain amount of heartache. There’s always a moment when it seems that all is lost, when everything seems bleak, when food loses its taste, when you can’t imagine how life can go on. We accept those moments, though, as part and parcel of the dating game, which itself brings flavour to our days, meaning to our actions, and joy to our lives.

singapore

Baby we were born to run...

2005-10-20T10:38:00.000+08:00

Christmas must be coming because couples are breaking up all over the place. Guys and gals are having shouting matches, slamming down phones, sending rude SMS, flushing years (or months) of good memories, happy photos and tender kisses straight down the toilet.

A friend broke up with her boyfriend of three years. Or rather, she got dumped.

The guy had moved to Hong Kong for work, met some 18 or 19 year-old student and before you knew it, he was calling her to say that he wasn't coming back next weekend and "thanks, but can you just throw out any of my stuff that's still at your place?"

A few days later I decided to text her to check that everything was alright. You'll feel better soon, you're better off without him, many more fish in the sea, etc.

Her reply came not even a minute later.

"The worst thing is that I'm turning 30 next year. I've got to find a husband or my mother is going to freak out!"

Unusual thing to say. I guess trying times can lead to revealing comments.

Swingers 1, Love 0.

singapore

The Promise

2005-10-19T09:11:00.000+08:00

Part of me is stuck in the past. In a time without worry, without stress, without people reading meaning into everything you do, or simply hating you for who they think you are. In a time when love was easier to come by. In a time when it was just easier to smile.

You never realise it when you're young, but childhood and your teenage years are the best years of your life. When the most important lessons are learnt. Lessons about love that will dictate the way you behave, forever. When unbreakable friendships are formed. Friends you will keep for the rest of your life. Friends for whom you would get on a plane to fly to their aid if ever they called you.

It seems like now we've become the people we always wanted to be when we were growing up. And yet we're not happy.

I'm sorry, but I'm just thinking of the right words to say
I know they don't sound the way I planned them to be
But if you'll wait around a while
I'll make you fall for me
I promise
I promise you I will

singapore

The End of the Innocence

2005-10-18T09:59:00.000+08:00

When I was eleven, I rode a little blue school bus each day, together with a dozen other kids. The students on the bus came from three different but adjacent schools – my all-boys primary school, an all-girls primary school and an all-boys secondary school.

Every evening after school, the primary school kids had to wait for the older boys to be let out. We usually played catch or chatek by the bus. If we had money left over from recess, we’d splurge on an ice cream. Actually, it wasn’t really an ice cream, since it was more like a flat, flavoured, coloured popsicle on a little wooden stick, in a paper wrapper with a lion printed on it.

There was a girl called Sheila who rode my bus. She was the same age as me. Sheila liked to sit in the single seat right next to the door. She looked really cute in her school uniform, which comprised a blue pinafore and white shirt. Her hair was always held in place with a clip that had a black butterfly on it. To me, at eleven, she was just perfect.

Unfortunately, I never really had the guts to talk to her. Then one day I realized that she never bought ice cream although she’d always take a bite from her schoolmates. Her parents probably gave her just enough change for recess each day.

So the next day I skipped my usual order of char kway teow and saved the money for after-school ice cream.

It was hot that day, and I was thanking my lucky stars as I handed over my coins to the ice cream seller to get a nice, frosty, orange-flavoured popsicle. I looked around and found Sheila sitting by herself.

“Here, this is for you,” I said, stretching out my hand, triumphant.

She looked up with a quizzical look, which quickly turned into a smile.

singapore

Vienna

2005-10-17T16:32:00.000+08:00

The music is weaving
Haunting notes pizzicato strings

The rhythm is calling
Alone in the night as the daylight brings a cold empty silence
The warmth of your hand and a cold grey sky

It fades to the distance

The image is gone
Only you and I

This means nothing to me

This means nothing to me

After an early lunch, your buddy wants to get coffee at the usual place. You grab a table at the side, so that you can chat in relative privacy and still observe the steady flow of people lining up to get their afternoon caffeine fix.

After twenty minutes or so, a girl and two guys head towards the table next to yours, behind your buddy and in your line of sight. The girl approaches first, looks at the plastic and metal chairs – two white and one bright yellow – and then decides on the yellow chair.

She is wearing a simple wrap dress with cap sleeves and a waist tie, in thin cotton in a pleasing shade of brown punctuated by two inch white polka dots. You absentmindedly think that this material would make a perfect sundress, with spaghetti straps or backless with a halter top. But that would probably reveal too much skin for some girls.

The two guys are dressed very differently. One of them is in standard-issue Raffles Place men’s attire. Blue long-sleeved shirt and dark blue or black pants with black shoes. Yet he looks different from you. His shirt has a button-down collar and his pants are pleated. Your crisp white shirt has cuffs and your shoes are dark brown. Small details perhaps, but somehow important to you.

The other guy wears a nice white polo shirt with no visible logo. The shirt is tucked out over a pair of blue jeans, probably regular cut Levis 505s. He sits closer to the girl and you assume that the two of them are a couple and came in from out of town to visit their old friend in Singapore, grabbing lunch and coffee.

Some minutes past before you feel the weight of a stare on you and look up past your buddy’s shoulder. (He’s yammering on about the options he’s gonna get on his new Lexus and how he’s undecided between leaving the factory wheels or stepping up for a plus-one conversion.)

The girl seems to be looking straight at you but you can’t be sure. Her smallish face, freshly-scrubbed, no make-up, looks quite familiar, but yet you can’t place her. Her shoulder-length hair is pulled back in a lazy bun, but her messy fringes sort of overflow and cover her forehead with stray strands of jet black hair. She looks like she’s about 25. She is pretty in a very conventional way, eyes slightly larger than most, lips slender but inviting, nose small and perky, skin just the right shade to look healthy. Her eyebrows look like they’ve never been plucked, but that doesn’t really matter. She is probably the prettiest girl you have seen all week. The type of girl your more cynical friends would mockingly call a classic Chinese beauty, or a flower vase.

A few minutes later you look up again, and she still seems to be staring at you but doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. She looks like she’s listening intently to the two guys talking and concentrating on what they are saying. Her eyes seem fixed in your direction but she doesn’t really seem to see you as though somehow she’s forced her eyes to lose focus. She looks like she’s thinking of something from long ago.

Your buddy’s phone rings and he needs to head back to the office. You get up from your table, chuck your empty paper cups into the nearby rubbish bin and glance over at the girl as you walk past. She’s still staring straight ahead, no longer looking at you.

It’s only much later in the afternoon that you realize why she looked so familiar. You met her at a wedding eight, nine years ago. Her sister was the bridesmaid and the groom was a good friend from your army days. Early that morning, you’d been part of the groom’s party doing the traditional “bargaining” and she’d been one of the girls guarding the front door of the bride’s apartment, not wanting to let the boys in.

That afternoon you engineered a chance to talk to her, this pretty, fresh-faced girl who looked absolutely adorable in a light pink floral dress. She and her sister were from somewhere in Perak, maybe Ipoh but you can’t remember. She was nineteen and had been in Singapore about six months, studying business at a local marketing institute. Why did you need to come to Singapore, you remember asking. To improve my English, you remember her saying.

At the wedding dinner, you exchanged numbers. You met up with her one or two weeks later, although the details are fuzzy now. You took her out a few times. Simple coffeeshop dinners, maybe some forgettable movie, perhaps a few glasses of red wine at a small wine bar at Robertson Quay that had been all the rage back then.

You vaguely remember the first time you kissed her in the parking lot next to some club, and how she kissed you back, hungry, excited, anxious. You remember her in your apartment late one night, seated nervously on your sofa. You remember the softness of her skin and her tentative, unsure kisses.

It all comes back in a flood now. An awkward, uncomfortable talk some weeks later as you dropped her off at the foot of her block of flats after a quick dinner, the windows of your silver coupe fogging up from the air-conditioning. Something about how she wanted more than you could give. How you didn’t think you were good enough for her. You knew then as you know now that those were only lies. And you knew then she didn’t believe you. Things were just going too far, too fast, and you just had to get out.

You feel guilty, dirty, ashamed, when you think back. You know you were a bastard, that you should never have taken what she wanted to give if you weren’t as sure of her as she was of you. You want so hard to change things but you know that you can’t.

You remember calling her a few months after that last time you saw her. She was remarkably calm yet you thought you sensed an ache in her voice as it quivered on the line. She told you that she was leaving, her business course uncompleted. Going to Hong Kong to join her sister. And try again. They spoke Cantonese at home. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay.

Every now and then, you wonder what happened to her. Your friend’s wife said that she’d lost touch with her bridesmaid, although they’d grown up together. Both families didn’t really live in Perak anymore. You wonder how she’s doing, this girl who gave you her heart, her innocence, her tender, inexperienced kisses.

The next morning when you get your coffee you ask the counter staff (whom you know pretty well) if they remember a girl in a brown polka-dotted dress from the day before. They give you a befuddled look.

As you walk away, you look at the table where she was at, and at the empty brown wood veneer tabletop.

Her bright yellow chair is still there, but the girl is gone.

singapore

Rosso Corsa

2005-10-14T11:48:00.000+08:00

So you buy your first Ferrari. A rosso corsa 355 berlinetta F1, one of the last few registered in the country. You had to persuade the previous owner to sell it to you. He's a friend of your dad's, has four or five cars, and never really used the Ferrari because he scraped the bottom of the front bumper on the driveway of some hotel years ago when he first bought the car. It's in mint condition, and he was wasn't going to do you any favours on the price. Selling it to you was already doing you a big favour, since he didn't need the cash and had turned down a bunch of offers in the past. But hey, maybe you'd put it to better use than he did, and maybe you really really wanted it since you knew all its specifications by heart and have been looking for one for over a year, before the mechanic at Hong Seh mentioned this car to you a few months ago.

You give it a coat of wax the day you take delivery, lovingly massaging every curve. You cancel lunch with clients to take long drives on the AYE to Tuas, where do a u-turn and head back to town. In the evenings when you get home from work, you wash the car with fresh water and pat it dry with a special cloth.

One evening you roll over to Thumper and park your new baby out front. The guys in the know who hang out there come out and take a look at this car that no one's seen too often for the last few years. They congratulate you on your find. You feel like nothing can top this feeling.

Your phone beeps with an SMS. This hottie you met recently is heading over. You don't know that much about her, except where she works and where she went to school. You wonder whether she'll come with a group of girlfriends, each one as cute as she is. Or whether she's headed over with a boyfriend. You never asked whether she was attached. You didn't want her to know you had a crush on her. Just like in school when the hot girls would walk into the canteen and all the guys would turn to look. You always tried to look away.

Some time later you see another Ferrari pull up, also rosso corsa but it's much newer and more expensive than yours, a 360 modena. The passenger door pops open and Miss Hottie emerges, long stockinged legs ending in black calf leather boots. The car pulls away.

You are crushed but you do not know why. It shouldn't matter that she got dropped off in a 360. After all, it might have been her dad, or her brother, or just a friend. You don't know and you're too scared to ask.

You look up and she sees you. She heads over to say hi. Through the crowd, your eyes focus on her face as she draws closer. You feel a lump in your throat.

"Hi!"

You smile a sheepish smile. You're still at a loss for words.

Out front, the valet has put a velvet rope around your 355.

singapore

How To Date SQ Girls - Part 1

2005-10-13T09:48:00.000+08:00

Like any good Singaporean boy, I believed, growing up, that the SQ girl represented the epitome of Singapore beauty. The mythic quality of the sarong kebaya did not escape me. I watched dutifully and hungrily each time there was a Singapore Airlines ad on TV, bathed in soft warm light with SQ girls turning their heads in slow motion (or at least it seemed like slow motion in my memory) to face the camera and smile their signature smiles. Warm, friendly, inviting, caring, attentive to your every need. Singapore Girl, you're a great way to fly.

And like any good Singaporean boy, once I got old enough, I started to seek out SQ girls for dates/ movies/ dinners/ long-term relationships/ short-term relationships. But more of that some other time.

Fast forward to this week. On Monday evening I took an SQ flight to Hong Kong. Over three hours or so, I had the delicious opportunity to interact with a most captivating example of the SQ girl genre.

Let's call her WW. Early 20s, petite and slim, she was just under 1.6 metres tall, with short straight hair that curled inwards slightly as it descended past her jawline, oval-shaped face, thin lips, nice double eyelids, light makeup, regulation silver-and-gold Rolex (no diamonds).

Over the years, my SQ stewardess friends have told me that the most annoying thing on a flight is the guys in Raffles Class who hit on them. Without fail, there'd be two or three business cards and "call me"s on each medium- to long-haul flight. So for the past few years, I've never really tried to "pick up" any SQ girls whilst on a flight (did it once when I was younger; it was fun; more on that some other time). And so with WW, when we landed in Hong Kong, I said my "thank-you", collected my jacket from her and slowly shuffled off the plane and into the cool China night.

So WW remained a pleasant memory to help while away the minutes between meetings in IFC and other parts of Central on Tuesday. Even over dinner and drinks with an old friend that night, my mind wandered and I asked myself if I would ever see WW again. Perhaps on another, longer, flight, where we might have time to talk about her favourite foods and favourite destinations. Or perhaps via a chance meeting through a mutual friend, maybe six to nine months down the road. Whatever it may be, I was sure I would remember her.

Wednesday morning started with an early meeting, after which I went shopping at Pacific Place and got a bite to eat, before taking the train from IFC to the airport. Surprise surprise but who do I see on my flight but WW. I don't think she really recognised me but I was so happy to see her again. Thoroughout the flight I agonised on whether to really talk to her, and even scribbled out a few opening lines on the back of my menu. Time and time again, I kept hearing my friends complaining about guys hitting on them on flights. In the end, I just shuffled off the plane again, without saying "hello, didn't you fly this route on Monday?", and entered the humid Singapore air.

There's always a tinge of regret when you realise you missed an opportunity. On the way home I realised that this was probably the first time in all these years that I had seen the same SQ girl on both my outbound and inbound flights. And I seldom hear of my SQ friends doing two turnarounds to the same city in a matter of days. Rare but not impossible, I know. So maybe this had been some sort of sign.

Or maybe it's better this way. Never talk to her, so never get rejected. Never meet her for dinner, so never find out she doesn't like you in the end. Never hold her hand, so never get your heart truly broken.

Singapore Girl, you're a great way to fly.

singapore

Maybe we ought to think twice, before we start something nice...

2005-10-10T13:36:00.000+08:00

Friday night with the boys was spent at Bala again, from around 9 pm til late. I'll be glad when Velvet reopens in ten days or so. At least there'll be somewhere else to go after midnight.

At one point, a friend of mine joined us for an hour or so, whilst she waited for her new doctor boyfriend to get done at his clinic/hospital/wherever. She had on a dark grey business suit. Her skinny legs were pale, almost white and looked positively soft to the touch. Whenever she leaned over to say something over the loud music, the faint whiff of her perfume wafted past.

Later in the night, a group of four girls standing next to our table started dancing to some deep house, clutching their half-drunk bottled Heinekens, moving provocatively.

The cutest of the bunch (big eyes, rosy cheeks, light makeup, shoulder length hair, black choker, light green silky-looking halter top, tight Levis, colourful braided leather belt, 3 inch black heels) kept smiling in our general direction so it was decided that one of the boys had to go and say hi.

He was back a few minutes later.

"Guess what. I think she's 17."

Not surprised. If you walk past Phuture often enough, nothing really surprises you anymore.

"JC girl, man."

The girls had stopped gyrating and were grouped together, probably trading stories like we were doing. They laughed loudly and a couple of them flipped their long hair at the same time, as though it'd been planned.

My friend looked at them from the corner of his eye.

"Too young, man. Too naive. Too easily impressed."

His eyes began to wonder around the room again, settling on a couple of (slightly older) girls who'd just reached the bar. One was leaning over to order drinks and the ang mor guy standing behind her was staring at her raised butt.

Truth be told, my friend was saving himself. From grief. From Miss Light Green Halter Top whose biggest worry was probably General Paper. Because the male ego is a fragile thing and needs to be protected. Because they'd probably go out a couple of times. And then she'd get bored with him because he's an old fogey who doesn't text fast enough and doesn't use enough hip abbreviations. And then she'd dump him.

And I know he wouldn't be able to deal...

singapore

Girl, you know it's true...

2005-10-10T10:28:00.000+08:00

She: "So what are you doing back?"

He: "Well, I sat back and thought about the things we used to do. It really mean a lot to me. You mean a lot to me."

She: "I really mean that much to you?"

He: "Girl, you know it's true..."

Some of us remember the tail end of the wicked '80s and the lip-synching fraudsters from Germany called Milli Vanilli. (They were stripped of their Grammy award after it was revealed that the duo were just a couple of actors hired to lip-synch in public performances and to front interviews and photoshoots; wrecked by failure, one of them would later end up overdosed in a hotel room.)

Despite the controversy, perhaps we should thank them for the opening lines of their first hit, which revealed yet another thing that all women suspect and few men admit.

All men lie. It's just the extent of the lies that's different.

From "I promise I won't tell" to "I promise I'll call" to "I promise I'll leave her", if you had a penny for every lie told by a man to a woman (or to another man, for that matter), you'd be rich beyond your wildest dreams.

singapore

Life is not complete without shopping

2005-10-07T11:38:00.000+08:00

Met up with a friend who wanted to chat about New York. She's heading over for a week's vacation.

Over slightly overcooked spaghetti aglio olio (she had squid ink pasta - nb: not good if you're trying to impress a date because it makes all your teeth go greyish black), I dutifully listed out what I thought were New York's highlights - its walks, parks, theatre, nightlife, good food haunts and some choice museums.

"I'm not interested in museums. I want to go shopping."

Right... maybe just one museum?

"No lah. I heard the shopping there is the best. Jeans from Citizens, Earl, BlueCult and PaperDenim. The latest Manolos and Jimmy Choos..."

But can't you get that here at Palais or Taka?

"It's different there. Range is so much better. Even the Prada is different, you know! Got stuff there that you can't even get in Italy!"

But how about something cultural? Just for a few hours?

"Hello, I don't read books, okay? I never liked museums. Waste of time. I'm not cultured, okay? I just want to shop."

Well, at least she was being honest.

singapore