Ne me quitte pas. Je suis ici, maintenant.
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!)
When I was a kid and the Lunar New Year rolled round the corner, I went home from school every day knowing that the smell of fresh pineapple tarts baking would greet me once I walked through the door.
My grandma – whom I call Mama – would have Milo tins filled with the tarts as she baked them, never managing to fill them to the brim because our naughty fingers would push these babies into our mouths as soon as they came out of the oven.