Late Lunch

So here I am at MOS Burger having a late lunch. It's 245pm. Had an Indian sweet and teh halia at 10am, well, not in one go but you get the idea. This after a 730am breakfast of a wheatbix, an Old Chang Kee curry puff, and half a Raffles Hotel champagne and truffle snowskin mooncake. And Milo. Too much? I tend to overboard on days I don't yoga. Is yoga a verb?

Wow, a cover of Bonnie Raitt's I Can't Make You Love Me. Sounds like recently jailed George Michael. Time to pause.

Bloody good song. Respect.

There's a poster for Hokkaido milk desserts at $2.95 a little canister staring back at me with wanton lust. No sweet-tooth I shall resist for you've had way too much sugar today. There's tomorrow. Damn the azuki looks good.


My eyes are feasting on walled imagery. My nose is bombarded by the scent of lemon scented floor wash being spread out in gentle swishes across the beige tiles. It goes stronger as the MOS Worker gets closer. Geddit? Burger, worker? Nevermind. Nauseating sensations threaten to erupt, my masticated fish and fries could find themselves on the counter instead of happily digesting in my tummy. Frenchman in the corner and too-much-makeup woman at the back have yet to succumb. I shall depart, gingerly over the wet surface.

Till we lunch again. There's so much to talk about.

It's Girl From Ipanema now. The last few bars...end. Go.