Tinker, Tailor

8.13 in the morning, and I’m in a taxi wondering why the traffic is so heavy, and I have to be at the client’s place to give a presentation in another 17 minutes.

5.00 it says on the taxi meter, not counting the 35% peak hour surcharge and the $3.50 for phone booking, and, *tick*, now it says 5.20.

8.16 in the morning and I’m wondering why the taxi driver chose this route with so many traffic lights that have to turn red just as when we approach them, when he could have gone by the expressway, which might be jammed so maybe he made the right choice.

6.00 it says on the taxi meter, and I’m wondering why I have to go through such unnecessary stress. It’s one thing to go through the stress of a presentation, quite another to go through the stress of heavy traffic. 6.20. And the stress of paying such a high fare price, and still facing the prospect of being late.

8.22 and I’m still stressed because it’s only 8 minutes more before the meeting. When I finally reach, it should take me 2 minutes to pay the driver, get into the building, get into a lift and go up to the client office. This means I really have 6 no 5 more minutes in this taxi.

8.80 the meter says and 8.25 my watch says and something in me says that I’m likely to be late. Then I figure that there’s no use getting stressed over it, since it’s not going to help the traffic situation in any way.

I take a deep breath, and breathe out slowly.

I finally arrive, and I have to pay $16.45: $9.60 for the metered fare, $3.50 for the booking, and $3.35 for the 35% peak hour surcharge.

8.30am.

I walk coolly into the client office, on time.

But he’s not there yet.

After reading my last post, a friend of mine complained that I keep giving the impression that people keep checking me out.

Which reminded me of this girl I saw on the mrt.

I saw her entering the train, and quickly sitting on the seat right in front of where I was standing.

She was tall, svelte, straight and silky hair, legs that go on forever, etc etc. She wore a cute pair of glasses with a red plastic frame, and she had nice rosy cheeks thanks to her blusher. And yes, she was cute.

But she was staring into a paperback, only into the paperback, flipping the page every few minutes.

She stared at it long enough for me to figure that it was probably a romance novel. Long enough for me to find out it was a romance novel by Sandra Brown. Long enough to figure out that it’s Play Dirty by Sandra Brown. Long enough to figure out that it’s her birthday present.

Then without warning, she looked up, straight into my eyes.

Then just as quickly, she was staring back into the novel again.

She didn’t check me out at all.

Sandra Brown must be a really good writer.

A smooth mocha and a tuna sandwich awaits my consumption.

At the next table was a cute girl who glanced over a few times, twirling her locks, yet I felt no inclination to speak, but chose to simply soak in the tension.

The toddler at the next table kept looking at me.

I grinned at him.

He grinned back.

His mother smiled as well.

Then when the mother wasn’t looking, I stuck out my tongue at him.

He stuck out his tongue as well.

It was a cool February night at a cosy pizzeria.

The mother was with her friend, another mother, also with a son of the same age.

The friendly toddler eventually walked up to me. I shook his hand - it was wet with his saliva, and tickled his tummy a bit. He giggled, and his mother smiled.

Both mothers were pretty, and about the same age. Around 20.

It was St. Valentine’s Day.

I won’t be updating anymore this week, as this is a rather weird week for me. Why do you think I’m blogging at 5 plus in the morning?

For those of you who know me, I’m doing pretty great now, except that my schedule is way too packed. Why do you think I’m blogging at 5 plus in the morning?

Oh, and it’s Valentine’s Day! Sorry, I won’t be available for anyone this V day. Why do you think I’m blogging at 5 plus in the morning?

A very long painting at the Singapore Art Museum. In CNY colours.

Yes, it’s the time of the year when, if you’re Chinese and around my age and unfortunate enough to have to visit lousy relatives, you’ll be asked, usually by some aunty, the perennial question,

“When are you getting married?”

If those questions are starting to affect your sanity and peace of mind, I suggest any of the following replies. They will ensure your peace and happy CNY for many years to come.

“So, when are you getting married?”

1. “Can’t wait to stop giving me angbaos huh?”

2. “You ask this every year. So predictable. So boring.” (Stifle yawn.)

3. “You know how expensive it is to get married. You could help speed things up if you could sponsor a condo…”

4. “No idea yet. How about you and uncle? When are you getting a divorce? He obviously doesn’t like you very much…”

5. “Very soon actually. No I’m not telling - you’re not invited.”

6. “Don’t know yet. You? When are you gonna die?”

7. “Probably not. I have AIDS.”

8. “You’re obviously not asking this because you’re really concerned. You’re asking this because you have nothing else to ask me. You have nothing else to ask me because don’t really know me. You don’t really know me because you don’t really care. And don’t bother pretending that you do. (And oh you know what, your ass looks huge in this cheongsam.)”

9. “I’m waiting for my girlfriend to get her divorce first. And once she’s settled the custody of her 2 kids, things will start moving. Oh, we’re trying to figure out if she should abort, because she’s not sure if it’s mine or someone else’s.”

10. “Fuck you.”

I was shopping at People’s Park Complex yesterday evening. (No, nothing to do with CNY.)

I’m sure I’d been there eons ago when I was still a young kid, as I had this sense of deja vu when I was there, even though the place looked completely new, even foreign.

It’s nothing like the Singapore I’m familiar with.

(If you’ve never been there, do check it out. It’s a strange but interesting place.)

When I went up the main escalator, I found a small crowd of people, both young and old, around a large pillar, reading the text on it.

They were reading the horoscope for the Year of the Rat.

(Mostly with their arms folded.)

I smiled to myself, wondering what gave this horoscope on this pillar so much authority that people would bother reading it.

A deep-seated fear of the unknown to be allayed in any way possible? Or just a curiosity to be scratched even if the belief isn’t strong?

I mean, how could anyone take this seriously?

Some people did.

I used to make photographs.

To many, photography is a way of making a visual record, a documenting tool.

Not to me. It’s an art medium, a tool to manipulate the scene, light and objects and angles and time, so that you paint what you want to paint.

I used to just get out there, with no clear destination, me with my camera, and paint beauty.

Now the camera has become too heavy, my schedule has become too tight, and I’ve become lazy. And there’s probably fungus growing on my lenses.

Maybe next week I’ll make some photographs. Just maybe.

Escalator at Wheelock Place, taken 2 years ago. Not like anyone can tell.