One Neighbour To Drive You Mad

Well then, looks like I have an in-office blog-centered crush. My first. Cheryl Lim Lah Moh (not her real complete name) yesterday declared that my comedic blog writing had got her hormones running. I present exhibit A on the right.

I sit next to Cheryl. In these soon-to-be 10 months of being 'neighbours' at work, we have talked, shouted, laughed, complained, been silly and driven our colleagues nuts. We are the Mr & Mrs (technically speaking 'office hubby and wife, see exhibit B, phone screen pix below) with an adulterous side dish of Gerald, who pops in randomly throughout the day to partake in or provide the hilarity. Oh dear, I hear you moan.

Now that Cheryl has declared her liking for my linguistic prowess, I am in firm stead with her other articulate admirings - Lee Hsien Loong (who now goes by the nickname of Hottie Lee) and George Yeo. Is this a sign that I will end up in politics? Will I dangle upgrading carrots to the unwieldy, sore-kneed public in dire need of lifts? Or will there be an opportunity to pull a fast one over a CCTV? I don't know.

Anyway, I digress. Cheryl would scold me for detracting from the subject at hand - her. She's an attention seeker and she knows it. Before her fortnight affair on the 'Love Boat', she bought and wore elegant dresses which she gladly paraded before me throughout the working day, accosting my personal space as she modeled her lady-like outfits, constantly asking 'Do I look nice?', 'Do I look pretty?'.

I sat next to her at our SPM's wedding and ended up taking enough pixes of Lah Moh (at her behest, I assure you) to suggest that she was the bride.

You sigh this time.

But she's a great project manager. Her love for LV, 'dog rice' and bad Mandarin gets in the way.

Check out Cheryl's blog - Exhibit C of the madness - http://weilim.blogspot.com

Le Piggy Strikes!

While the rest got to the market or cried all the way home, this little piggy made it to my office. Battery-powered, mechanical, one-swine, karaoke machine that belts out only one song - My Girl by the Temptations. $15, available at the nearest toy sty. Cute for some, but I guess we'll start ripping soft furry hog heads in about a week's time.

Ham it up - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=shQpx4-Ntl4

Flowers In The Lamps

So Cher Wee found true love and married Hwee Yen on Saturday past. I wasn’t there for the solemnization because I had to watch the rerun of LOST and take a nap after. Apparently, the bride and groom were nervous and nearly boo-booed. I got there a little past 8, when all were being ushered to wait some more at one’s respective table. Mary, Kelvin, Vincent, Boi and hubby (his name currently escapes me) and I sat at table 6. How apt.

We chatted, waited and chatted. Dinner started at about 9. We confirmed that Meixian and Huang Hui wouldn’t be there. It would be a lot of food for half a table.

The funny faces are a reaction to my camera and incessant photo-taking. And yes, there were fake, red, rose petals placed into the lamp holders – a smart, pretty touch that added a smidgen of colour to the otherwise plainly decorated restaurant.

We talked about work and stuff. A long discussion over the value and inclusion of shark’s fin in Chinese wedding dinners ensued too. I know it’s dead, but the fish wouldn’t be if we didn’t care so much about tradition and tasteless cartilage. Humans, as the highest form of life on this planet, have an obligation to take care of the other species, especially one that is so biologically-advanced and intentionally hunted for fins (and where in most cases, the bleeding shark is thrown back into the sea to die). This isn’t the circle of life, it’s the ka-ching of the cash register. I refused my bowl.

Dinner continued with consumption of beer firmly adhered to. As there were too few of us to finish the prawns, chicken, fish and ALL of the Ee-fu noodles, our hostess seemed quite taken aback the rejection of fine food. No offence but we were simply too full. But I had my bowl of orh-ni. Haha, resistance was futile.

Well, Cher Wee and Hwee Yen are off to Chiangmai as this post is being put up and edited and re-edited. Here’s wishing them all the best.

The View 5 Days A Week

Taken with my Nokia 3230 from my desk, then printed, printed again (in lighter tone this time), scribbled on, scanned and put up. No, this is not 1965 despite the b/w pix.

Getting Old

Gerald, the beloved joker of the office, has a line that he uses occasionally. 'Must be getting old' is said when the people around him repeat themselves. Having to repeat yourself, whether as a slip of the tongue, a result of clearing the throat, a brain-tongue coordination problem or not being heard the first time, is the sign of going over the hill. The line, uttered in hush tones, brings on a cackle at meetings.

There's probably some truth in that. The older we get the less tolerant of persons not listening to us, or simply not paying us enough attention. So we repeat ourselves to make our point. Our wisdom demands to be heard, damn it!

Or maybe we relish peace. To have it we tell the yapping mouths to shut up. Just shut up. Please just stop talking. Shut up! (See, I had to repeat 'shut up' 3 times - old age kicking in)

I have a habit of repeating myself to people, the same story to the same persons. It's embarrassing:
'You know she's having a kid.'
'Yeah, you told me already'
'I did? When?'
'Monday'
'Oh, must be losing it then.'
'Yeah, getting old.'

I'm 31 and I think the synapses between the neurons in the head need a tune up. Omega 3 and 6 oil change please, and doctor, don't hold back on the salmon with gingko paste. Did I tell you I have a habit of repeating myself?

Oh Zizou, qu'avez-vous fait ?

It's always confusing watching a match on TV when there is commotion on the pitch. If it happens against the run of play, it's worse. Usually one not privy to the hoo-ha until the TV cameramen start hustling. One is blur till the opportunely-captured video footage is rewound and played for all across the world to see.

No one in TV land (all 2 billion of us) knew what was up till the cameras trained on Buffy, Buffon I mean, calling on the ref for action. Next to Buffet, Buffon I mean, was Materazzi rolling on the grass like he's an itchy dog in need of a good scratch. The referee (who looked like an older Zidane with hair) promptly stopped the game. He asked questions. Players protested. The magic of instant replay then showed the unbelievable, the impossible, the borderline-loony tunes action of one Zinedine Zidane.

Zizou head butted Matty. It looked forceful and vicious. The ref had a word with his linesman (this is like 2 minutes into the protest) and the next thing we know, he's waving the red card at Zidane. And The Monk knows he deserved it, trudging off towards the showers. He looked sad. Upset and ashamed in the realisation of his actions, like a thief who's been caught with the goods.The shot of him disappearing down the towel had him juxtaposed alongside the Jules Rimmet trophy. Sweet irony, if France won.

I lost some respect for Zidane that day. Just like I did for Luis Figo, for the same head bang on a Dutch player earlier in the competition. Middle age drove them to lunacy? Maybe. Maybe they were just pissed.

Today, 11 July, it emerged that Materazzi may have said something foul to Zizou before the apparent retaliation. Perhaps this rude Italian deserved the shove. The drama of the world cup continues.

A win nonetheless for Italy. Sorry France. Sorry French coach. Sorry Trezeguet. My money was on you.

Bee Hoon Goreng

Dinner and cost of.

Text On Taxis

Singaporeans have a love-hate relationship with taxis. We love that there are so many of them, we hate there are none around when we need them. We love them when the driver puts the pedal to metal and deftly executes F1-quality manouvres to get us to that already-late meeting, we hate it when taxis miss crashing into our cars by a hair's breadth while performing those moves. We love how taxis are so cheap, in Bangkok, and hate how pricey a 10-minute ride can be in London, Paris and New York (one reason by Singaporeans can’t be famous fashion designers).

In la-la land, prices are set to go up. Iran, Iraq, Nigeria and Osama's band of merry albeit angsty men have in one way or another had an impact on world oil prices, and in turn played havoc on stock markets, electricity prices and taxi fares. How macro to micro, sort of like the butterfly in chaos theory except in reverse. The major taxi companies have announced hikes to flag-down fares, distance rates and booking fees. Taxi drivers yelled 'It's about time' and toasted the news over mugs of Guinness Stout at coffeeshops while the public gasped with looks of shock and horror. In the back of our minds, we knew that taxi fares were going up – we just needed to make that obligatory whimper of objection.

Here’s my take on making everyone happy:
- raise the flag down, from $2.40 to $5.
- forget about booking charges and surcharges. They don’t serve a purpose. They in fact make taxi drivers lazy and contribute to the whole “it’s 10pm, I’m in town, and all the taxis are ON CALL” phenomenon. Ok, maybe a dollar for getting a taxi into a off-main-road location.
- keep the same distance rates

Taxis, like women, one cable provider and air pollution, we’ll all learn to live and get by. For the time being.

Yes, Red Man Sir, I Won't Cross The Road

It was a little crazy once the alcohol started to take effect. Predictably, people got louder and their laughs heartier. Where inhibitions were concerned, no one was none the wiser. One married pair, 4 one-halves if a couple, 2 unknown relationship types made up the work group that had too much to drink at Suba. 3 and 1/2 Hoes and 1 tequila shot later, I am walking waverlingly to the train station with Gerald, a good and equally crappy mate from the office.


"Singaporeans being Singaporean being obedient", was Gerald's response at my suggestion that one could still cross Bras Basah Road at the Bras Basah - Beach Road junction after the 'man turned red'. It seemed that it wasn't enough being Singaporean the first time around but he had to impress his reasoning by doubling the SG factor to precede the bit about Singaporeans generally being obedient and compliant with rules, traffic or otherwise. Are we really? Oh dear.
Singaporean as I am, I will still put that Red Man to shame as I strut in front of all those waiting cars willing to run me over as I traverse Bras Basah Road. Only because I know, it's still ok to cross for the next 15 seconds. Knowledge over fear.

Worhld Kup

Like the sands of time, these are the world cup days of our lives. It is almost the end, and here's the victims list - the poor Aussies got the cruelest booty-licking five seconds from the end, the Americans ended up with a bloody McBride, Brazil bungled, Ghana is na-na (oh my $10), we're all crying for Argentina (to Patagonia with the bad sub keeper!), Ukried, the 2002 starry-eyed Asians floundered, the Oranjes were juiced, and in all this action (or non-action as the case may be), how many times did you see Michael Owen?

Goodness.

And in Singapore we watch matches at 11pm and 3am, after which we trudge off to the doctor’s to get sick leave.

Germany – what a job they have done. Nice stadiums, cool organization and what a team. Right from when Philip Lahm made his impression on the world with that opening goal against Costa Rica, I was impressed with what Jurgen had done. A world-class footballer training a young, energetic, passionate side had spawned a miracle of sporting miracles – transforming a boring, technical machine into a fast-paced, inventive, risk-taking troop of titans. And they delivered finely, up till Italy crashed their party. Well done Klinsmann, Ballack (though his no.13 shirt caused him a spot of bad luck in front of the net), Kloser, Podolski, Schneider, Frings, Lehman, Odonkor, Kahn, Metzelger and Lahm. I remember your names simply because I am a converted fan.

It is 2 days to the finals where France and Italy will lock horns, exchange recipes and sit down for sausage and beer. There will be tears and there will be joy. So moved the world will be after 90, maybe another 30 and perhaps an additional heart-wrenching 10-odd minutes. At the end, there’ll be a lot of clean up. Memorabilia prices will come down and we all will get on with life.

In August, we applaud the return of the EPL. Go Liverpool go.

A Blogger? Me? No.

Like the first attempt at anything major, I am finding it difficult to write the virgin sentences of my blog. When in doubt, throw the trump card - in this case, it applies to writing about the current, the present and the now. Easy fake eh?

This spattering of words come late. I am 31 going on 32 soon, working in the Internet services line for 4 years and am now walking the baby steps into bloghood, where so many other have already tread. It is also late in the night, 11pm plus. What is worse, I am at work. And what will keep me back further is continuing with paragraph 2.

I am sorry paragraph 2, sudden death unintended. Here is paragraph 3 to bring up the rear. Three is such a nice number to end off with. Three-layer fudge cake. Mmmm. Three beers. Mmmm. Three is a crowd, and you're ess likely to run out of conversation. 3M made post-its. Sticky...mmmm.