Archives for category: Little Red Dot

An inordinate amount of time has passed since we left Raffles Junior College and I’ve been nursing the urge to revisit Ghim Moh and Holland Village for a while. I think it’s got a lot to do with having been away in London for the last two years and the indelible quarter-life crisis we’re all facing now.

So we got all nostalgic, pointing out the old food haunts that we ate at every single day when we were 17, mourning the joints that are no longer there. We talked and laughed about climbing school gates, the crazy things we used to do in our container classrooms, exceptionally goofy incidents that have (unfortunately for the perpetuators in question) gone down in history… But beneath it all, I felt a strange pang of sadness I couldn’t quite explain. It’s like a part of our lives that we desperately want to get back, a harkening to simpler days. But we can only look back at it all, in gentle retrospect, as best we can.


Ne me quitte pas. Je suis ici, maintenant.




May all be calm
May all be bright
As on that silent holy night
And may the peace and love born then
– In every heart, be born again.






I may be 22 flight hours away (and a full 13 hours behind) but you can be sure I’ll be poppin’ some bubbly in the name of your parties!
(Or Grey Goose, depending on what I’ve got in my cubbyhole)

I may not have had it smooth for the most part of this drama-filled life, but I know one thing I’ve got damned right. I’ve got my girls right with me – the ones I trust with my life, the ones who trust me with theirs. And just on that alone, I have got to be the luckiest girl alive.

All my love,









A parting shot: three dollops of Moët in a waiting chilled flute. We had those nights before.

In the waiting lounge there are many languages. They tell you Thank you, go right ahead to the middle and oh, have a nice flight M’am! The ladies in blue berets rip tickets and hand over stubs with clinical accuracy. Hi, Next, Hi, Next, Hi, Next?

These continental flights: breakfast, lunch, mystery meat for dinner. And then breakfast all over again. The plastic fork (thanks to 9/11) breaks itself into soggy sauce and the low rumbling purr of the jet’s engine beneath – it only whispers to me, to you: 3,200 miles. 5 hours. Your day as my night. Slippery fingers punching out unfamiliar numbers. The phone that keeps ringing. Ringing.

My parting shot is that there are none. Really, you shouldn’t be surprised. I know as well as you, that you are in the everything; the everyday.

You are in the words that spray across my crusty legal pad (London’s rain turns all uncovered sheets crusty). You are in the worn keys of my laptop, that all fit the warm groove of my fingers (and all over the space bar). You are in the spring of my step as I walk home, hands slipped into my coat pockets. You are in the rickety train with me and the man nursing Thursday night’s hangover with lukewarm Americano in a paper cup. You are in the lines of my balled fist, rubbing my eyes open in the morning. You are in every corner, every crossing, every aisle, every shelf, every room.

You will stand in the merciless snow to play out the financial forecast for the next quarter in your head. You will roll your eyes in relish at your American classmate when he says in all seriousness that Singapore is in China. You will take out your numbers and equations with practical feminism sucked up from your well-thumbed copy of Simone de Beauvoir’s offering. You will work your summers with fierce obstinacy, turning the most mundane internships into the greatest investments. One pebble at a time.

So yes, we’ve got this distance. This uncompromising, unrelenting distance that throws echoes off the highest cliffs into blind territory. This distance that etches across scratchy Skype lines and multiple calling cards in the last slot of my wallet. Best friends for five (forever) and apart for even more. But you, the girl taking the Friday morning plane to Montreal. You will make me proud.

I finally initiated L to the wonders of Nantsuttei, quite like how Z got me acquainted with this bowl of garlic-oil goodness. To date I think I’ve already consumed four bowls of Nantsuttei ramen since coming home; all the better to make up for the severe lack of any decent ramen at all in London. But what really amazed me was how we managed to talk for NINE whole hours that night, picking up just where we had left off before.

Because you know, that’s how we roll. My L and me.

So I took my grandma to the Singapore Garden Fest last Friday, thanks to tickets from the sister. Truthfully I possess no green thumbs and horticulture is hardly up my alley, so it was no surprise that the whole shindig was quite a huge bore for me. But – and there’s always a but with events like these – my grandma was like a kid in a candy store, pointing out all sorts of flowers, swearing my grandpa planted the same ones years ago and that she would go home and tell him what she saw. Oh yes, even flowers native only to South Africa – my granny told me my grandpa had the same ones in his garden at No. 10.

That alone, was enough for me. More than enough.

(The one display I found most amusing would have to be that of the Otaku desk from Japan. Because it reminded me of B and how he took O and me to visit the likes of his sort at Akihabara in Tokyo!)


Well actually, let’s make that NEW NEW HAIR. Because this is the result of a major save-my-hair operation that I went for today, after what was possibly the worst salon trip I’ve ever made in my entire life the day before. Trust me on that; the night before I looked like a little boy in a Korean drama. Something like this.

Here are a couple of things that I was trying to figure out in the emergency visit to Raymond today. I don’t know what possessed the stylist from the day before to over-layer my hair so feverishly, as if his life depended on it. I also don’t know why he chose to give me an inward perm even though I repeatedly showed him a picture of an unlayered and extremely straight hairdo. Most of all, I don’t know why I just kept quiet and bit my lip, hoping that the final unveil would not confirm my worst fears true.

Whatever it is, thank you Raymond Lee! And thank you Sue, for sharing your best tress’ed secret with me. I would never have been allowed to live it down otherwise.

So this is what I’ve been up to: Chowing down on gigantuan hunks of mozarella cheese and chugging bottles of (too sweet) ice wine while overstaying our welcome at A‘s enviable bachelor pad. Trying to play with his extremely intelligent cast and failing like the noob I should be (no broken arms for me; no thank you). (Re)discovering for ourselves – over many dinners, even more drinks and two Semi-final World Cup matches – just how extinct the species of men that B belongs to is. And all this with my unquestionably loyal partner-in-crime O.

And this is what I’ll be up to: More rest. The World Cup finals (Go Oranje!). Project Makeover for B, which means we’ll be binning that mustard shirt you see up there.

So all I’ve been doing since coming back to this sweltering little island is stuff myself. And stuff myself up good.

The most addictive ramen and broth I’ve tasted outside Tokyo. Poached eggs and smoked salmon in hollandaise sauce, pancakes and really, Jones’ brunch all day long. Kangaroo meat, Chilean seabass and duck confit at The Moomba. Masterchef Cheok’s chickenating good dinner. Exorbitantly priced sangria that really was, bad red wine. More Korean before the devastating loss that was Korea-Argentina. And the largest platter of beef horfun I’ve ever seen which B and C demolished easily before my feeble eyes.

There are bigger guts out there than mine. I’ve been myopic.